In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(178)

“Thanks. And … ?”

“And when he said he wanted to take his time having a good long look at the paintings, I decided to go ahead with my practise. I'd been at it—not very successfully, I'm afraid—for an hour and ten minutes when he knocked at my door a second time. He had a painting under his arm, and he asked would I tell Cilia that he'd be sending her a cheque in the post. Oh my goodness.” Mrs. Baden suddenly straightened, one hand at her throat, where a quadruple-strand choker of knobby beads circled her crepey neck. “Did he not send Cilia that cheque, my dear?”

“He sent the cheque.”

The hand dropped. “Thank heavens. I'm so relieved to know it. Granted, I was terribly preoccupied with my music that day because I wanted to play at least one piece for dear Terry by the end of the week. After all, it was a sweet present. Not my birthday or Mothering Sunday or anything and there he was … Not that I'd expect something on Mothering Sunday from a boy not my son, mind you, but he was a dear and always so generous, and I felt I ought to show him how much I appreciated his generosity by being able to play it. But it hadn't been going well at all—my practise, that is—because my eyes aren't what they used to be and reading music that's been handwritten is rather a problem. So I was quite preoccupied, you see. But the young man—Mr. King-Ryder, this is—seemed honest and truthful, so when it came to taking his word about a cheque, why, I didn't once think that he might be untruthful. And I'm glad to know that he wasn't.”

Barbara only half heard her final comments. She was transfixed, instead, by the woman's earlier words. She said, “Mrs. Baden,” quite slowly, drawing in a breath carefully, as if to do it with too much energy might frighten away the facts which she believed she was about to coax from the older woman. “Are you telling me that Terry Cole gave you some piano music?”

“Certainly, my dear. But I believe I mentioned that the other day when you were here. Such a lovely boy, Terry. Such a good boy, really. He was always willing to do the odd job or two round the house if I needed him. He fed my little birds if I was out as well. And he loved to wash windows and hoover the rugs. At least that's what he always said.” She smiled gently.

Barbara dragged the old woman away from her carpets and back to the topic. “Mrs. Baden, do you still have that music?” she asked.

“Well, certainly, I do. I have it right here.”

Lynley had Martin Reeve delivered to one of the Yard's interview rooms. He'd refused to talk to him on the phone when DC Steve Budde from the search warrant team had placed a call to the Yard from the pimp's Notting Hill home, relaying Reeve's offer to strike a deal. Reeve, Budde said, wished to produce information that might be valuable to the police in exchange for the opportunity to emigrate to Melbourne, a city that Reeve appeared newly eager to embrace. What did DI Lynley want done about the matter? Scotland Yard, Lynley said, didn't make deals with killers. He told DC Budde to relay that message and to bring the pimp in.

As Lynley had hoped, Reeve arrived without his solicitor in tow. He was haggard, unshaven, and wearing jeans and a boxy Hawaiian shirt. This gaped open on a pallid chest, the sanguinolent path of someone's fingernails still fresh upon it.

“Call off your goons,” Reeve said without preamble when Lynley joined him. “This dickhead's pals”—with a jerk of his head at DC Budde—“are still trashing my house. I want them out of there pronto or I'm not cooperating.”

Lynley nodded Constable Budde into a seat against the wall, where he assumed a watchful position. The DC was the size of Bigfoot, and the metal chair creaked beneath him.

Lynley and Reeve took places at the table, where Lynley said, “You're not in a position to make demands, Mr. Reeve.”

“The f*ck I'm not. I am if you want information. Get those *s out of my house, Lynley.”

In response, Lynley put a fresh cassette into the tape player, pushed the record button, and gave the date, the time, and the names of everyone present. He recited the formal caution for Reeve's benefit, saying, “Are you waiving your right to a solicitor?”

“Jesus. What is this? D'you guys want the truth or a tap dance?”

“Just answer me, please.”

“I don't need a solicitor for what I'm here for.”

“The suspect waives his right to legal representation,” Lynley said for the record. “Mr. Reeve, were you acquainted with Nicola Maiden?”

“Let's cut to the chase, all right? You know I knew her. You know she worked for me. She and Vi Nevin quit last spring, and I haven't seen either one of them since. End of story. But that's not what I'm here to talk—”

“How long was it after their departure before Shelly Platt informed you that the Maiden girl and Vi Nevin had set themselves up privately in prostitution?”

Reeve's eyes became hooded. “Who? Shelly what?”

“Shelly Platt. You can't be denying that you know her. According to my man at the hospital, she recognised you the moment she saw you this morning.”

“Lots of people recognise me. I get around. So does Tricia. Our faces must be in the papers once a week.”

“Shelly Platt states that she told you about the two girls' going into business for themselves. You can't have liked that. It can't have done much to enhance your reputation as a man with his stable under control.”