In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(171)

“That's what?”

“Don't you see?” She shook one of the pictures in her excitement. “Sir, don't you see? You're thinking of Martin Reeve because his motive's been established and it's so bloody obvious that any other motive is small beans in comparison. And because his motive's so out there for you, everything you come across ends up getting attached to it, whether it belongs attached or not. But if you forget about Reeve for a moment, you can see in these pictures that—”

“Havers.” Lynley fought against the tide of his own incredulity. The woman was unquashable, unsinkable, and ungovernable. For the first time, he wondered how he'd ever managed to work with her at all. “I'm not going to repeat your assignment after this. I'm going to give it to you. And you're going to do it.”

“But I only want you to see that—”

“No! God damn it! Enough. Get the warrant. I don't care what you have to do to get it. But get it. Put together a team from CID. Go to that house. Tear it apart. Bring me shoes with hexagonal markings on the sole and evidence of the escort service. Better yet, bring me a weapon that could have been used on Terry Cole. Is that clear? Now, go.”

She stared at him. For a moment he believed she would actually defy him. And in that moment he knew how DO Barlow must have felt out on the North Sea in pursuit of a suspect and having her every decision second-guessed by a subordinate who was incapable of keeping her opinions to herself. Havers was damned lucky Barlow hadn't been the officer with the gun in that boat. Had the DO been armed, that North Sea chase might have come to a very different conclusion.

Havers rose. Carefully, she placed the photographs of Vi Nevin's maisonette on his desk. She said, “A warrant, a search. A team of four officers. I'll see to it, Inspector.”

Her tone was measured. It was utterly polite, deeply respectful, and completely proper.

Lynley chose to ignore what all of that meant.

Martin Reeve's palms itched. He pressed his fingernails into them. They began to burn. Tricia had backed him when he needed her to back him with that butthole of a cop, but he couldn't depend on her to hold to the story. If someone promised her enough of the beast at a moment when her stash was low and she wanted to crank up, she'd say or do anything. All the cops had to do was to get her alone, get her away from the house, and she'd be butter on their toast in less than two hours. And he couldn't watch over her every frigging minute of every God damn day for the rest of their lives to make sure that didn't happen.

Whattaya wanna know? Gimme the stuff.

Just sign on the line, Mrs. Reeve, and you'll have it.

And it would be done. No. Better. He would be done. So he had to firm up his story.

On the one hand, he could muscle a lie from someone who already knew firsthand what could come from refusing his request. On the other hand, he could demand the truth from someone else who might take an appeal for common veracity as a sign of weakness. Go the first way, and he ended up owing a favour, which handed the reins of his life to someone else. Go the second way, and he looked like a pantywaist who could be dissed without fear of reprisal.

So the situation was a basic no-winner: Caught between a rock and a hard place, Martin wanted to find enough dynamite to blast a passageway while keeping the damage from falling stones to a minimum.

He went to Fulham. All his current troubles had their genesis there, and it was there that he was determined to find the solutions as well.

He got into the building on Rostrevor Road the easy way: He rang each bell in rapid succession and waited for the fool who would buzz him inside without asking him to identify himself over the intercom.

He dashed up the stairs, but at the landing he paused. A sign was affixed to the maisonette's door, and even from where he stood, he could read it. Crime Scene, it announced. Do Not Enter.

“Shit,” Martin said.

And he heard the cop's low, terse voice once again, as clearly as if he were on the landing as well. “Tell me about Vi Nevin.”

“Fuck,” Martin said. Was she dead?

He dug up the answer by descending the stairs and knocking up the residents of the flat directly beneath Vi Nevin's front door. They'd been giving a party on the night before, but they hadn't been too occupied with their guests—or too smashed—to take note of the arrival of an ambulance. Much had been done by the paramedics to shield the shrouded form they carried out of the building, but the haste with which they removed her and the subsequent appearance of what had seemed like a score of policemen who began asking questions throughout the building suggested that she'd been the victim of a crime.

[page]“Dead?” Martin grabbed onto the young man's arm when he would have turned back into his flat to catch up on more of the sleep of which Martin's appearance at his door had robbed him. “Wait. Damn it. Was she dead?”

“She wasn't in a body bag” was the indifferent reply. “But she might've popped her clogs in hospital during the night.”

Martin cursed his luck and, back in his car, got out his London Streetfinder. The nearest hospital was the Chelsea and Westminster on the Fulham Road, and he drove there directly If she was dead, he was done for.

The nurse in casualty informed him that Miss Nevin had been moved. Was he a relative?

An old friend, Martin told her. He'd been to her home and discovered there'd been an accident … some sort of trouble … ? If he could see Vi and set his mind at rest that she was all right … So that he in turn could let their mutual friends and her relatives know … ? He should have shaved, he thought. He should have worn the Armani jacket. He should have prepared for an eventuality beyond the simple knocking on a door, gaining admittance, and coercing cooperation.