Payment in Blood (Inspector Lynley, #2)(121)

“Indeed,” Lynley replied. “Well, at least I can be grateful that I do have choices. I’m exerting one of them now.”

Webberly’s face flooded with angry colour. But his voice stayed calm. “You’re not thinking straight, lad. Consider a few things before your righteous indignation carries you nobly towards professional martyrdom. I didn’t know a thing about Stinhurst. I still don’t know, so if you care to tell me, I’d be delighted to hear it. All I can tell you is that once Hillier came to me with the order that you were to have the case and no one else, I smelled a dead rat floating in somebody’s soup.”

“Yet you assigned me anyway.”

“Damn you for a fool! I wasn’t given a choice in the matter! But see it for what it was, at least. I assigned Havers as well. You didn’t want her, did you? You fought me on it, didn’t you? So why the hell do you think I insisted she be on the case? Because of all people, I knew Havers would stick to Stinhurst like a tick on a dog if it came down to it. And it came to that, didn’t it? Blast you, answer me! Didn’t it?”

“It did.”

Webberly drove a thick fist into his open palm. “Those sods! I knew they were trying to protect him. I just didn’t know from what.” He fired Lynley a dark look. “But you don’t believe me, I dare say.”

“You’re right. I don’t. You’re not that powerless, sir. You never have been.”

“You’re wrong, lad. I am, when it comes to my job. I do as I’m told. It’s easy to be a man of inflexible rectitude when you’ve the freedom to walk out of here anytime you smell something a little unpleasant. But I don’t have that kind of freedom. No independent source of wealth, no country estate. This job isn’t a lark. It’s my bread and butter. And when I’m given an order, I follow it. As unpleasant as that may seem to you.”

“And if Stinhurst had been the killer? If I’d closed the case without making an arrest?”

“You didn’t do that, did you? I trusted Havers to see that you wouldn’t. And I trusted you. I knew that your instincts would take you to the killer eventually.”

“But they didn’t,” Lynley said. The words cost him dearly in pride, and he wondered why it mattered so much to him that he had been such a fool.

Webberly studied his face. When he spoke, his voice was kind yet still keen with perception. “And that’s why you’re tossing it in, isn’t it, laddie? Not because of me and not because of Stinhurst. And not because some higher-ups saw you as a man they could use to meet their own ends. You’re tossing it in because you made a mistake. You lost your objectivity on this one, didn’t you? You went after the wrong man. So. Welcome to the club, Inspector. You’re not perfect any longer.”

Webberly reached for the warrant card, fingered it for a moment before taking it to Lynley. Without formality, he shoved it into the breast pocket of his coat.

“I’m sorry the Stinhurst situation happened,” he said. “I can’t tell you it won’t happen again. But if it does, I should guess you won’t need Sergeant Havers there to remind you that you’re more of a policeman than you ever were a bloody peer.” He turned back to his desk and surveyed its mess. “You’re due time off, Lynley. So take it. Don’t report in till Tuesday.” And then, having said that, he looked up. His words were quiet. “Learning to forgive yourself is part of the job, lad. It’s the only part you’ve never quite mastered.”



HE HEARD the muted shout as he drove up the ramp from the underground car park and pulled onto Broadway. It was fast growing dark. Braking, he looked in the direction of St. James’ Park Station, and among the pedestrians he saw Jeremy Vinney loping down the pavement, topcoat flapping round his knees like the wings of an ungainly bird. As he ran, he waved a spiral notebook. Pages, covered with writing, fluttered in the wind. Lynley lowered the window as Vinney reached the car.

“I’ve done the story on Geoffrey Rintoul,” the journalist panted, managing a smile. “Jesus, what a piece of luck to catch you! I need you to be the source. Off the record. Just to confirm. That’s all.”

Lynley watched a flurry of snow blow across the street. He recognised a group of secretaries making their end-of-day dash from the Yard to the train, their laughter like music rising into the air.

“There’s no story,” he said.

Vinney’s expression altered. That momentary sharing of confidence was gone. “But you’ve spoken to Stinhurst! You can’t tell me he didn’t confirm every detail of his brother’s past! How could he deny it? With Willingate in the inquest pictures and Joy’s play alluding to everything else? You can’t tell me he talked his way out of that!”

“There’s no story, Mr. Vinney. I’m sorry.” Lynley began to raise the window but stopped when Vinney hooked his fingers over the glass.

“She wanted it!” His voice was a plea. “You know Joy wanted me to follow the story. You know that’s why I was there. She wanted everything about the Rintouls to come to light.”

The case was closed. Her murderer had been found. Yet Vinney pursued his original quest. There was no possibility of a journalistic coup involved for him since the government would quash his story without a thought. Here was loyalty far beyond the call of friendship. Once again, Lynley wondered what lay at its heart, what debt of honour Vinney owed Joy Sinclair.