In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(182)

She greeted Helen and went into the drawing room, where she plopped onto a sofa and spilled the contents of her envelope onto a coffee table. “This is what he was after,” she said obscurely. “He spent over an hour at Terry Cole's flat pretending to look at Cilia's paintings. She thought he was in love with her work.” Havers ruffled her hair energetically, the signature gesture of her excitement. “But he was alone in that flat, Inspector, and he had plenty of time to search it stem to stern. He couldn't find what he wanted though. Because Terry had given it to Mrs. Baden when he'd realised he wasn't going to be able to flog it at a Bowers auction. And Mrs. Baden just gave it to me. Here. Have a look.”

Lynley stayed where he was, by the door to the drawing room. Helen joined Barbara and glanced through the numerous sheets of paper that she'd dumped from the envelope.

“It's music,” Barbara told him. “A whole slew of music. A whole bloody slew of Michael Chandler music. Neil Sitwell at Bowers told me he sent Terry Cole to King-Ryder Productions to get the name of the Chandler solicitors. But Matthew King-Ryder denied the whole thing. He said Terry came to get an artistic grant from him. So why the hell has no one we've talked to said a single word about Terry and a grant?”

“You tell me,” Lynley said evenly.

Havers ignored—or didn't notice—the tone. “Because King-Ryder is lying his head off. He followed him. He trailed Terry Cole round London everywhere he went, trying to get his mitts on this music.”

“Why?”

“Because the milk cow's dead.” Havers sounded triumphant. “And King-Ryder's only hope of keeping the ship floating for a few more years was to be able to produce another hit show.”

“You're mixing your metaphors,” Lynley remarked.

“Tommy.” Helen's expression carried an unspoken entreaty. She knew him better than anyone after all, and unlike Havers, she'd noted his tone. She'd also noted his unchanged position at the door to the room, and she knew what that meant.

Oblivious, Havers continued with a grin. “Right. Sorry. Anyway. King-Ryder told me that his dad's will leaves all the profits from his current productions to a special fund that supports theatre types. Actors, writers, designers. That sort. His last wife gets a bequest, but she's the sole beneficiary. Not a penny goes to Matthew or his sister. He'll have some sort of position as chairman or leader or whatever of the Fund, but how can that compare to the lolly he'd be gathering if he mounted another of his dad's productions? A new production, Inspector. A posthumous production. A production not governed by the terms of the will. There's your motive. He had to get his maulers on this music and eliminate the only person who knew Michael Chandler—and not David King-Ryder—had written it.”

“And Vi Nevin?” Lynley enquired. “How does she fit into the picture, Havers?”

Her face grew even brighter. “King-Ryder thought Vi had the music. He hadn't found it at the flat. He hadn't found it when he followed Terry Cole and offed him and tore that camp site apart looking for it. So he came back to London and paid a call on Vi Nevin's flat when she was out. He was tearing it apart looking for that music when she surprised him.”

“That flat was destroyed. It wasn't searched, Havers.”

“No way, Inspector. The pictures show a search. Look at them again. Things're flung round and opened up and shoved onto the floor. But if someone wanted to put Vi out of business, he'd spray-paint the walls. He'd slice up the furniture and cut up the carpets and punch holes in the doors.”

“And he'd batter her face in,” Lynley injected. “Which is what Reeve did.”

“King-Ryder did it. She'd seen him. Or at least he thought she'd seen him. And he couldn't take a chance that she hadn't. For all he knew, she was wise to the music's existence too. because she knew Terry as well. At any rate, what does it matter? Let's haul him in and hold his feet to the flame.” For the first time, she seemed to see the suitcase that stood in the doorway. She said, “Where're you going anyway?”

“To make an arrest. Because while you were larking round London, DC Nkata—in compliance with orders—was doing the footwork he'd been assigned to in Islington. And what he's uncovered has sod all to do with Matthew King-Ryder or anyone else with that surname.”

Havers blanched. Next to her Helen set a sheet of music, which she'd been inspecting, onto the pile. She raised a cautionary hand, resting it at the base of her throat. Lynley recognised the gesture but ignored it.

He said to Havers, “You were given an assignment.”

“I got the warrant, Inspector. I set up a team for the search, and I met them. I told them what they—”

“You were directed to be a part of that team, Havers.”

“But the thing is that I believed … I had this gut feeling—”

“No. There is no thing. There is no gut feeling. Not in your position.”

Helen said, “Tommy …”

He said, “No. Forget it. It's done. You've defied me every inch of the way, Havers. You're off the case.”

“But—”

“Do you want chapter and verse?”

“Tommy.” Helen reached in his direction. He could see that she wanted to intercede between them. She so hated his anger. For her sake, he did his best to control it.