In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(78)

“Look,” Barbara said. “The College of Law told us that she came to work for you last autumn on a part-time basis that turned to full-time in May. We take it she'd gone on leave for the summer. Is that right?”

Tricia glanced towards a closed door behind the reception desk. “You'll need to speak to Martin.” She went to the door, knocked once, entered, and shut it behind her without another word.

Barbara looked at Nkata. “I'm panting for your analysis, son.”

“She's pilled-up like a pharmacist's cupboard” was his succinct reply.

“She's flying, all right. What d'you reckon it is?”

He flipped his hand. “It's keeping her sweet, whatever she's on.”

It was nearly five minutes before Tricia reappeared. During this time, the phones continued to ring, the calls continued to be routed, and the low murmur of voices came from behind the heavy closed door. When it opened at last, a man stood before them. It was Angel Hair from the photographs, decked out in a well-tailored charcoal suit and waistcoat with the heavy gold chain of a pocket watch slung across his middle. He introduced himself as Martin Reeve. He was Tricia's husband, he told them, managing director of MKR.

He invited Barbara and Nkata into his office. His wife was on her way out to tea, he explained. Would the police be needing her? Because as head of fund raising for Children in Need, she had an obligation to her committee to be present at their Autumn Harvest Tea at the Dorchester. It began the season, and had Tricia not been the chairman—“Sorry, darling, chairperson—” of the event, her presence wouldn't be so crucial. As it was, she happened to have the guest list in the boot of her car. And without that list, the seating assignments for the tea couldn't be made. Reeve hoped the police would understand …. He flashed a mouth of perfect teeth in their direction: Straight, white, and capped, they were a testimony to one man's triumph over the vicissitudes of dental genetics.

“Absolutely,” Barbara agreed. “We can't have Sharon Whosis sitting next to the Countess of Crumpets. As long as Mrs. Reeve is available later should we need to talk to her …”

Reeve assured them that both he and his wife understood the gravity of the situation. “Darling … ?” He nodded Tricia on her way. She'd been standing hesitantly next to his desk, a massive affair of mahogany and brass with burgundy leather inlaid in the top. At his nod, she made her exit, but not before he stopped her for a goodbye kiss. She was forced to bend to accommodate him. With stilettos on, she was a good eight inches above his height.

That didn't cause them any difficulty, however. The kiss lingered just a bit too long.

Barbara watched them, thinking what a clever move it was on their part. The Reeves were no amateurs when it came to gaining the upper hand. The only question was: Why did they want it?

She could see that Nkata was growing as uncomfortable as they wanted him to be with their unexpected, extended display of affection. Her colleague shifted from one foot to the other as, arms crossed in front of him, he tried to decide where he was supposed to look. Barbara grinned. Because of his impressive height and his equally impressive wardrobe and despite his adolescence spent as chief war counsel with Brixton's most notorious street gang, she sometimes forgot that Winston Nkata was in fact a twenty-five-year-old kid who still lived at home with his mum and his dad. She cleared her throat quietly and he glanced her way She gave a nod to the wall behind the desk where two diplomas hung. He joined her there.

“Love's a beautiful thing,” she murmured quietly. “We must show it respect.”

The Reeves eased up on their mouth-to-mouth suction. “See you later, darling,” Martin Reeve murmured.

Barbara rolled her eyes at Nkata and inspected the two diplomas hanging on the wall. Stanford University and London School of Economics. Both were made out to Martin Reeve. Barbara eyed him with new interest and more than a little respect. It was vulgar to display them—not that Reeve would ever stoop to vulgarity, she thought sardonically—but the bloke was clearly no slouch when it came to brains.

Reeve sent his wife on her way. From his pocket he took a snowy linen handkerchief, which he used to wipe from his face the leavings of her pale pink lipstick.

“Sorry,” he said with a boyish smile. “Twenty years of marriage and the fires're still burning. You've got to admit that's not too bad for two middle-agers with a sixteen-year-old son. Here he is, by the way. Names William. Favours his mom, doesn't he?”

The appellation told Barbara what the Stanford diploma, the antiques, the silver frames, and the careful mid-Atlantic pronunciation had only suggested. “You're an American?” she said to Reeve.

“By birth. But I haven't been back for years.” Reeve nodded at the photo. “What d'you think of our William?”

Barbara glanced at the picture and saw a spotty-faced boy with his mother's height and his father's hair. But she also saw what she was meant to see: the unmistakable cutaway and striped trousers of a pupil at Eton. La-dee-dah-dah, Barbara thought, and handed the picture off to Nkata. “Eton,” she said with what she hoped was the right degree of awe. “He must have brains by the bucketful.”

Reeve looked pleased. “He's a whiz. Please. Sit down. Coffee? Or a drink? But I suppose you don't while you're working, do you? Drink, that is.”