In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(30)

His wife had moved towards him then, coming to grasp one of the posts at the end of their bed. She said, “I don't understand this. How can you be so unforgiving? She'd be the first person to forgive you anything.”

“In the same circumstances, I wouldn't expect it. She shouldn't have expected as much of me.”

“You've bent the rules before. You've told me so.”

“You can't think attempted murder is bending the rules, Helen. It's a criminal act. For which, by the way, most people go to prison.”

“And for which, in this case, you've decided to be the judge, the jury, and the executioner. I see.”

“Do you?” He was beginning to get angry and he should have held his tongue. Why was it, he wondered, that Helen could push his buttons in ways no one else ever could? “Then I'll ask you to see this as well. Barbara Havers doesn't concern you. Her behaviour in Essex, the subsequent investigation, and whatever medicine she's asked to swallow as a result of that behaviour and investigation are none of your business. If you're finding your life so circumscribed these days that you need to champion a cause to keep yourself busy, you might consider aligning yourself with me. To be honest, I'd appreciate coming home to support and not to subversion.”

She was as quick to anger as was he and just as capable of expressing it. “I'm not that sort of woman. I'm not that sort of wife. If you wanted an obsequious sycophant to marry—”

“That's tautology,” he said.

And that terse statement finished their argument. Helen had snapped, “You swine,” and left him to gather the rest of his belongings. When he had done so and had gone in search of her to say goodbye, she was nowhere to be found. He'd cursed: her, himself, and Barbara Havers for being the source of a disagreement with Helen. But the drive to Derbyshire had given him time to cool off as well as time to reflect upon how often he hit below the belt. This contretemps with Helen was one of those times, and he had to admit it.

Now, standing on the pavement in front of Buxton police station with Winston Nkata, Lynley saw that there was a way to make amends to his wife. Nkata would be waiting for him to assign another officer to accompany him on any rounds he might have to make in London, and both of them knew who the logical selection was. Yet Lynley found himself temporising by turning the Bentley over to his subordinate officer. He couldn't commandeer a car from the Buxton police for his DC to drive all the way to London, he explained to Nkata, and the only alternative to having him take the Bentley was directing him to return to London by plane from Manchester or by train. But by the time he got himself to the airport and caught a flight or waited for a train and changed from one line to another in God only knew how many towns between Buxton and London, he could have driven the distance.

Lynley hoped Nkata had more finesse behind the wheel than Barbara Havers had employed the last time she happily ran over an old milestone and threw out the car's front suspension. He informed the younger man that he was to drive the Bentley as if he had a litre of ni-troglycerin in the boot.

Nkata grinned. “Don't think I know how to treat a motor this fine?”

“I'd just prefer it to survive its adventure with you unscathed.” Lynley disarmed the car's security system and handed over his keys.

Nkata cocked his head at the front of the station. “Think he'll play our game? Or're we playing his?”

“It's too soon to tell. He's unhappy about our begin here, but I would be as well, in his position. We'll need to tread softly.” Lynley glanced at his watch. It was nearly five. The post-mortems had been scheduled for early that afternoon. With any luck, they would be completed by now and the pathologist would be available to share his preliminary findings.

“What d'you think of his thinking?” Nkata reached into his jacket pocket and brought out two Opal Fruits, his vice of choice. He examined their wrappers, made his flavour selection, and passed the other over to Lynley.

“How Hanken sees the case?” Lynley unwrapped the sweet. “He's willing to talk. That's a good sign. He seems able to shift gears. That's good too.”

“Something edgy about him though,” Nkata said. “Makes me wonder what's eating at him.”

“We all have private concerns, Winnie. It's our job not to let them get in the way.”

Nkata adroitly tagged a final question onto Lynley's thought. “D'you want me working with someone back in town?”

Still, Lynley avoided. “You can call in help if you think you need it.”

“Sh'll I make the choice, or d'you want to do it yourself?”

Lynley regarded the other man. Nkata had made the queries so casually that it was impossible to read into them anything other than a request for direction. And the request was perfectly reasonable considering the fact that Nkata might well have to return to Derbyshire shortly after his arrival in London, bringing someone North with the purpose of identifying the second body. If that happened, someone else in London would be needed to look into Terence Cole's background and business in town.

Here was the moment, then. In front of Lynley was the opportunity to take the decision that Helen would approve of. But he didn't take it. Instead, he said, “I'm not up to date on who's available. I'll leave it up to you.”