In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(161)

“Hey!” Reeve protested. “What the hell do you think you're—”

“Tell me about Vi Nevin,” Lynley demanded, wrenching his arm.

“Hey! If you think you can barge in here and—” Another wrench. Reeve howled. “Fuck you!”

“Not even in your dreams.” Lynley pressed up against him and jerked his arm upwards. He spoke into his ear. “Tell me about your afternoon and your evening, Mr. Reeve. Give me every detail. I'm done in and I need a fairy tale before I go to bed. Oblige me. Please.”

“Are you out of your f*cking mind?” Reeve twisted his head towards the stairs. He shouted, “Trish … Tricia … Trish! Phone the cops.”

“Nice try,” Lynley said, “but the cops have arrived. Come along, Mr. Reeve. Let's talk in here.” He shoved the smaller man in front of him. Inside the reception office he threw Reeve into a chair and switched on a light.

“You'd better have an eighteen karat reason for this,” Reeve snarled. “Because if you don't, you can anticipate a lawsuit the likes of which you've never seen in this country.”

“Spare me the threats,” Lynley replied. “They might work in America, but they're not going to get you a cup of coffee here.”

Reeve massaged his arm. “We'll see about that.”

“I'll count the moments till we do. Where were you this afternoon? This evening as well? What happened to your face?”

“What?” The word was spoken incredulously. “D'you think I'll answer those questions?”

“If you don't want this building boarded up by the vice squad, I expect you'll give me chapter and verse. And don't push me, Mr. Reeve. I've had a long day, and I'm not a reasonable man when I'm tired.”

“Fuck you.” Reeve turned his head to the door and shouted, “Tricia! Get your ass down here. Phone Polmanteer. I'm not paying through the nose for his sorry butt—”

Lynley grabbed a heavy ashtray from the reception desk and hurled it at Reeve. It skimmed past his head and slammed into a mirror, shattering it.

“Jesus!” Reeve shouted. “What the hell—”

“Afternoon and evening. I want the answers. Now.”

When Reeve didn't reply, Lynley advanced on him, grabbed the collar of his pyjama top, yanked him backwards into the chair, and twisted the collar till it was tight round his neck. “Tell me who scratched you, Mr. Reeve. Tell me why.”

Reeve made a choking sound. Lynley found that he liked it.

“Or shall I fill in the blanks myself? I dare say I know the dramatis personae.” Another twist with each name as he said, “Vi Nevin. Nicola Maiden. Terry Cole. Shelly Platt as well, if we come down to it.

Reeve gasped, “F … king … out … of … mind.” His hands clawed his throat.

At which Lynley released him, flinging him forward like a discarded rag. “You're trying my patience. I'm beginning to think a phone call to the local station isn't a bad idea. A few nights with the boys in the Ladbroke Grove lock-up might be just what we need to oil your tongue.”

“Your ass is history. I know enough people who'll—”

“I've no doubt of that. You probably know people from here to Istanbul. And while every one of them would happily rise to your defence were you brought up on charges of pandering, you're going to find that assaulting women doesn't go down such a treat among the big public profiles. Not when you think of the fodder they'd be giving the tabloids if word got out that they came to your aid. As it is, they're going to find it a delicate enough business lending you a hand once I run you in as a pimp. To expect more from them … I wouldn't be so unwise, Mr. Reeve. Now answer the question. What happened to your face?”

Reeve was silent, but Lynley could see his mind working. The other man would be assessing what facts the police had. He hadn't lived on the periphery of the law for as long as he had without acquiring some knowledge about the law's application to his own life. He would know that had Lynley possessed anything solid—like an eyewitness or the signed statement of his victim—he would have made an immediate arrest. But he would also know that living outside the law as he did, he had fewer options when caught up in a dicey situation.

Reeve said, “All right. It's Tricia. She's on the shit. I came home from looking in on two of my girls whose work's fallen off. She was smacked out. I lost it. Jesus. I thought she was dead. I got physical with her, slapped her around, part fear and part anger. And I found out she wasn't as out of it as I'd thought. She got physical back.”

Lynley didn't believe a word. He said, “You're trying to tell me that your wife—strung out on drugs—did that to your face?”

“She was upstairs in a nod, the worst she's been in months. I couldn't deal with it on top of the girls and their troubles. I can't be everyone's daddy. So I lost it.”

“What troubles?”

“What?”

“The girls. Their troubles.”

Reeve looked towards the reception desk and upon it the display of brochures that ostensibly advertised MKR's financial services. “I know you know about the business. But you probably don't know what lengths I go to to keep them healthy. Blood tests every four months, drug screening, physical exams, balanced diet, exercise …”