In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(73)

He strode inside the building and asked for the officer in charge of evidence from the crime scene. After speaking to Andy Maiden, he'd tracked down Nicola's Saab at the pound, where he'd spent a fruitless fifty minutes doing himself what had already been done with exemplary efficiency by Hanken's team: going over every inch of the car, inside and out, stem to stern. The object of his search had been the pager. He'd come up empty-handed. So if Nicola Maiden had indeed left it in the Saab when she'd set off across the moors, the only place remaining to look for it would be among whatever evidence had been taken from her car.

The officer in question was called DC Mott, and he presided over the cardboard boxes, paper bags, plastic containers, clipboards, and record books that constituted the evidence so far linked to the investigation. He gave Lynley the wariest of welcomes into his lair. He was in the middle of tucking into an enormous jam tart onto which he'd just poured a liberal helping of custard and—spoon in hand—he didn't look like a man who wished to be disturbed in the midst of indulging in one of his vices. Munching happily away, Mott leaned back in a metal folding chair and asked Lynley exactly what he wanted to “mess about with.”

Lynley told the constable what he was looking for. Then, hedging his bets, he went on to add that while the pager might well have been left in Nicola Maiden's car, it might also have been left at the crime scene itself, in which case he wouldn't want to limit his search to evidence taken from the Saab. Would Mott mind his having a look through everything?

“Pager, you say?” Mott spoke with the spoon wedged into his cheek. “Didn't come across nowt like that, 'm afraid.” And he dipped his head to the tart with devotion. “Best you have a look through the records book first, sir. No sense sifting through everything till you see what we've got Usted, is there?”

Fully aware of the degree to which he was treading on another man's patch, Lynley sought the most cooperative route. He found a vacant spot to lean against a metal-topped barrel, and he skimmed through the lists in the records book while Mott's spoon clicked energetically against his bowl.

Nothing in the records book came close to resembling a pager, so Lynley asked if he might have a look through the evidence for himself. Taking time to polish off tart and custard with gusto—Lynley half expected the man to lick the sides of the bowl—Mott reluctantly gave Lynley permission to look through the evidence. Once Lynley managed to obtain a pair of latex gloves from the DC, he started with the bags marked Saab. He got only as far as the second bag, however, when DI Hanken came charging into the evidence room.

“Upman's lied to us, the sod,” he announced, flipping Mott a cursory nod. “Not that I'm surprised. Smarmy bastard.”

Lynley went on to the third bag from the Saab. He set it on the top of the barrel, but he didn't open it, saying, “Lied about what?”

“About Friday night. About his supposed”—heavy irony on the word—“guv-to-subordinate relationship with our girl.” Hanken scrambled in his jacket and brought out his Marlboros, at which Constable Mott said, “Not in here, sir. Fire hazard.”

To which Hanken said, “Hell,” and shoved them back into his pocket. He went on. “They were in the Chequers, all right. I even had a word with their waitress, a girl called Margery, who remembered them at once. Seems our Upman's taken more than one dolly bird to the Chequers in the past, and when he does, he asks that Margery serve them. Likes her, she says. And tips like an American. Bloody fool.”

Lynley said, “The lie? Did they ask for a room?”

“Oh no. They left, like Upman said. What he failed to tell us was where they went afterwards.” Hanken smiled thinly, clearly delighted at having caught the solicitor out. “They went from the Chequers to chez Upman,” he announced, “where the Maiden girl checked in for a lengthy visit.”

Hanken warmed to his story. Having learned never to believe the first thing a lawyer said, he'd done a little more scavenging once he'd spoken to Margery. A brief stint in the solicitor's neighbourhood had been enough to unearth the truth. Upman and Nicola Maiden had apparently arrived at the solicitor's house round eleven forty-five, seen by a neighbour who was taking Rover out for his last-of-the-evening. Ana they'd been friendly enough with each other to suggest that a little more existed between them than the employer-employee relationship depicted by Mr. Upman.

“Tongues on the porch,” Hanken said crudely. “Our Will was examining her dental work closely.”

“Ah.” Lynley opened the evidence bag and lifted its contents onto the barrel top. “And do we know it was Nicola Maiden Upman was with? What about the divorcee girlfriend? Joyce?”

“It was Nicola all right,” Hanken said. “When she left—this was at half past four the next morning—the bloke next door was taking a piss. He heard voices, had a look out the window, and got a fine glimpse of her when the light went on in Upman's car. So”—and here he took out his Marlboros once more—“what d'you think they were up to for five hours?”

Mott said again, “Not in here, sir.”

Hanken said, “Shit,” and returned the Marlboros to their place.

“Another talk with Mr. Upman appears to be in order,” Lyn-ley said.

The expression on Hanken's face said that he couldn't wait.