“She dropped out of law college?”
“That's how it looks.” Nicola Maiden, he told her, had apparently dropped out of law college on the first of May, approaching exam time. She'd done it responsibly, making appointments to see all the appropriate instructors and administrators before leaving. Several of them had tried to talk her out of it—she'd been near the top of her class and they'd considered it madness to leave when her successful future in law was assured—but she'd been politely adamant. And she'd disappeared.
“Muffed her exams?” Barbara asked.
“Didn't ever take them. Left before she laid eyes on them.”
“Was she scared? Developing nerves like her dad? Getting ulcers? Losing sleep? Realising she'd have to swot and wasn't up to the challenge?”
“Decided she just didn't fancy the law, was what she told her personal tutor.”
She'd been working for eight months part-time at a firm in Not-ting Hill called MKR Financial Management, Nkata went on. Most of the law students did that sort of thing: worked part-time during the day to support themselves, taking instruction at the college in the late afternoons and at night. She'd been offered a full-time placement at the Notting Hill firm, and as she liked the work, she decided to take it. “And that was that,” Nkata said. “No one at the college heard a word from her since.”
“So what was she doing in Derbyshire if she'd taken a full-time position in Notting Hill?” Barbara asked. “Was she having a holiday first?”
“Not 'ccording to the guv, and this is where it starts getting dodgy. She was working for a solicitor on a summer job, getting ready for the future and all that bit. That's why he put me onto the College of Law in the first place.”
“So she's employed in finance in London but takes a summer job doing law in Derbyshire?” Barbara clarified. “That's a new one on me. Does the inspector know she left law college?”
“Haven't rung him yet. I wanted to have a chat with you first.”
Barbara felt a rush of pleasure at this remark. She shot Nkata a look. As always, his face was ingenuous, pleasant, and perfectly professional. “Should we ring him, then? The inspector, I mean.”
“Let's chew on it a bit.”
“Right. Okay. Well, forget what she was doing in Derbyshire for the moment. The London bit at MKR Financial Management must've brought her some decent dosh, right? Because she wouldn't have been hurting for it at the end of the day had she stayed in law, so why drop out of law college unless there was some decent—and immediate—lolly involved? How does all that sound?”
“I'll go with it for now.”
“Okay. So did she need cash quick? And if so, why? Was she making a big purchase? Paying off a debt? Taking a trip? Wanting to live an easier life?” Barbara thought about Terry Cole and added with a snap of her fingers, “Ah. How about being blackmailed by someone? By a London someone who zipped up to Derbyshire wanting to know why her payment was late?”
Nkata flipped his hand back and forth, his who-knows gesture. “Could just be that the MKR gig looked more exciting than a life of wig-wearing at the Old Bailey. Not to mention more profitable in the long run.”
“What did she do for MKR, exactly?”
Nkata referred to his notes. “Money management trainee,” he said.
“Trainee? Come on, Winston. She couldn't've dropped out of law college for that.”
“Trainee's where she started round October last year. I'm not saying that's where she ended up.”
“But then, what was she doing in Derbyshire working for a solicitor? Had she changed her mind about the law? Was she going to go back to it?”
“If she did, she never told the college.”
“Hmm. That's odd.” As she considered the apparent contradictions in the dead girl's behaviour, Barbara reached for her packet of Players, saying, “Mind if I do a fag, Winnie?”
“Not in my breathing zone.”
She sighed and settled for a stick of Juicy Fruit, which she found in her shoulder bag adhered to a stub from her local cinema. She picked off the thin shreds of cardboard and folded the gum into her mouth. “Right. So what else do we know?”
“She left her digs.”
“Why wouldn't she, if she was up in Derbyshire for the summer?”
“I mean she left them permanently. Just like she left the college.”
“Okay. But that doesn't sound like news from the burning bush.”
“Hang on, then.” Nkata reached in his pocket and brought forth another Opal Fruit. He unwrapped it and tucked the sweet into the pocket of his cheek. “The college had her address—this is the old one—so I went there and had a chat with the landlady. In Islington. She had a bed-sit.”
“And?” Barbara encouraged him.
“She moved house—the girl, not the landlady—when she left law college. This was on the tenth of May. No notice given. Just packed her belongings, left behind an address in Fulham to send the post on, and vanished. Landlady wasn't happy about that. She wasn't happy about the row either.” Nkata smiled as he offered this last bit of information.
Barbara acknowledged the manner in which her colleague had played out the bits and pieces he'd gathered by cocking a finger at him and saying, “You rat. Give me the rest, Winston.”
At which Nkata chuckled. “Some bloke and her. They went at it like paddies in the peace talks, landlady said. This was on the ninth.”
“The day before she moved house?”
“Right.”
“Violence?”
“No, just shouting. And some nasty language.”
“Anything we can use?”
“Bloke said, ‘I won't have it. I'll see you dead before I'll let you do it.’”
“Now, that's a nice bit. Dare I hope we have a description of the bloke?” Nkata's expression told her. “Damn.”
He said, “But it's something to note.”
“P'rhaps. Or not.” Barbara considered what he'd told her earlier. She said, “But if she moved house right after the threat, why'd the murder come along so much later?”
“If she moved house to Fulham and then left town, he'd have to track her down,” Nkata pointed out. Then he said, “What'd you get at this end?”
Barbara told him what she'd gathered from her conversations with Mrs. Baden and Cilia Thompson. She concentrated on Terry's source of income and on the contrasting descriptions of him as provided by his flatmate and his landlady. “Cilia says he never sold a thing and wasn't likely to, and I wouldn't disagree. So then, how did he support himself?”
Nkata thought about this, moving his sweet from one side of his mouth to the other. He finally said, “Let's phone the guv,” and he went to Lynley's desk, where he punched in the number. In a moment the connection went through and he had Lynley on the inspector's mobile. He said, “Hang on,” and punched another button on the phone. Over the speaker, Barbara heard Lynley's pleasant baritone saying, “What'Ve we got so far, Winnie?”
Just the sort of thing he would have said to her. She got up and strode to the window. There was nothing to see but Tower Block, of course. It was just something to do.
Winston quickly brought Lynley up to speed on Nicola Maiden's abrupt departure from the College of Law, on her employment at MKR Financial Management, on her moving house without giving notice, on the row that preceded her moving house, and on the particular threat to her life that had been overheard.
“There's apparently a lover in London,” Lynley said in reply. “Upman's given us that. But not a word about her having left law college.”
“Why'd she keep it a secret?”
“Because of the lover, perhaps.” Barbara could tell from Lynley's voice that he was chewing this over mentally. “Because of plans they had.”
“Some married bloke, then?”
“Check out the financial management firm. He could be there.” Lynley related his own information. He concluded with “If the lover in London is a married chap who'd set Nicola up as a permanent mistress
in Fulham, it's not the sort of thing she'd want to broadcast in Derbyshire. I can't see her parents feeling pleased with the news. And Britton would have been cut up as well.”
“But what was she doing in Derbyshire in the first place?” Barbara whispered to Nkata. “Her actions are contradicting themselves all over the map. Tell him, Winston.”
Nkata nodded and raised his hand to indicate that he'd heard her. He didn't argue with the inspector's points, however. Instead, he took notes. At the conclusion of Lynley's remarks, he offered the details about Terry Cole. Considering the scope of them in conjunction with the brevity of time Nkata had been back in town, Lynley's comment upon the constable's conclusion was “Good God, Winnie. How have you managed all this? Are you working telepathically?”
Barbara turned from the window to get Nkata's attention, but she didn't manage it before he spoke. He said, “Barb's on to the boy. She did Battersea this morning. She talked to—”
“Havers?” Lynley's voice sharpened. “Is she with you, then?”
Barbara's shoulders sagged.
“Yeah. She's writing—”
Lynley cut in. “Didn't you tell me she was going through Maiden's past arrests?”
“She was doing, yeah.”
“Have you completed that search, Havers?” Lynley asked.
Barbara blew out a breath. Lie or truth? she wondered. A lie would serve her immediate purposes, but it would sink her ship at the end of the day. “Winston suggested I trek out to Battersea,” she told Lynley. “I was just about to go back to CRIS, when he showed up with the information on the girl. I was thinking, sir, that her working for Upman doesn't make sense when you look at the fact that she'd dropped out of law college and had another job in London that she'd apparendy taken leave from for some reason, if she even had another job at all, because we've yet to check that out. And anyway, if there's a lover, as you've said, and if she was getting herself ready to be supported by him, why the hell would she be spending a summer working in the Peaks?”
“You need to get back on CRIS” was Lynley's reply. “I've had a word with Maiden and he's given us some possibilities to look into from his time with SO 10. Take down these names and deal with them, Havers.” He began reciting, spelling when necessary. There were fifteen names in all.
When she had them, Barbara said, “But, sir, don't you think that this Terry Cole business—”
What he thought, Lynley interrupted, was that as an SO 10 officer, Andrew Maiden would have overturned rocks and uncovered slugs, worms, and insects from all walks of life. He could have struck up an acquaintance during his time in undercover who had proved fatal years later. Thus, once Barbara was done looking for the obvious vengeance seekers, she was to read the files again for a more subtle connection: like a disappointed snout whose efforts hadn't been sufficiently rewarded by the police.
“But don't you think—”
“I've told you what I think, Barbara. I've given you an assignment. I'd like you to get on with it.”
Barbara got the message. She said, “Sir,” in reply, a polite affirmative. She nodded to Nkata and left the office. But she took no more than two steps from the doorway,
“Get on to the financial management firm” Lynley said. “I'm going to have a look at the girl's car. If we can find that pager and if the lover's phoned in, the number will put us on to him.”
“Right,” Winston said, and rang off.
Barbara slid back into Lynley's office, sidling along the wall casually as if she'd never had an order to do anything else. “So who is it who told her in Islington that he'd see her dead before he'd let her do it? The lover? Her dad? Britton? Cole? Upman? Or someone we haven't got on to yet? And what's the it anyway, when it's at home? Settling in to be some heavy punter's fluffy bit on the side? Going for the dosh with a bit of blackmail against the lover—that's always nice, isn't it? Having it off with more than one man? What d'you think?”
Nkata looked up from his notebook as she spoke. His glance went beyond her to the corridor, where she'd remained in mild defiance of Lynley's instructions to her. He said, “Barb …” in a monitory fashion. You heard the guv's order remained unsaid.
Barbara said breezily, “There may even be more at MKR Financial Management. Nicola could have been a bird who fancied a regular bonk when she wasn't getting it from the boyfriend in the Peaks and when the London lover was taken up with his wife. But I don't think we want to go at that angle directly at MKR, do you, what with sexual harassment all the rage.”
Nkata didn't miss the plural pronoun. He said, a model of patience and delicacy, “Barb, the guv did say you're to get back on to CRIS.”
“Bollocks to CRIS. Don't tell me you think some lag on the loose squared it with Maiden by taking the cosh to his daughter. That's stupid, Winston. It's a waste of time.”
“Might be. But when the 'spector tells you what road to take, you'd be a wise bird to take it. Right?” And when she didn't reply, “Right, Barb?”
“Okay, okay.” Barbara sighed. She knew that she'd been given a second chance with Lynley through the good graces of Winston Nkata. She just didn't want the second chance to materialise as a lengthy assignment to sit at a computer. She tried a compromise. “What about this, then? Let me go with you to Notting Hill, let me work it with you, and I'll do the computer business on my own time. I promise. I give you my word of honour.”
“The guv's not going to go for that, Barb. And he'll be bloody cheesed off when he twigs what you're doing. And then where'll you be?”
“He won't know about it. I won't tell him. You won't tell him. Look, Winston, I've got a feeling about this. The information we've got is all knotted up, and it wants unknotting, and I'm good at that. You need my input. You'll need it more once you get more details from this MKR place. I'm promising to do the computer slog—I'm swearing to do it—so just let me have a bigger piece of the case.”
Nkata frowned. Barbara waited. She chewed her gum more vigorously.
Nkata said, “When'll you do it, then? Early morning? Night? Weekends? When?”
“Whenever,” she replied. “I'll squeeze it in between tea dancing engagements at the Ritz. My social life's a real whirl, as you know, but I think I can carve out an hour here and there to obey an order.”
“He'll be checking to see you're doing what he says,” Nkata pointed out.
“And I'll be doing it. Wearing bells, if necessary. But in the meantime, don't waste my brain and experience by advising me to spend the next twelve hours at a computer terminal. Let me be part of this while the scent's still fresh. You know how important that is, Winston.”
Nkata slid the notebook into his pocket and observed her evenly. “You're a pit bull sometimes,” he said, defeated.
“It's one of my finer attributes,” she replied.
CHAPTER 10
ynley pulled into the car park in front of Buxton police station, untangled his lengthy frame from the small police vehicle, and examined the convex brick facade of the building. He was still astounded at Barbara Havers.
He had suspected that Nkata might put Havers on to the task of tracing Andy Maiden's investigations via computer. He knew the black man was fond of her. And he hadn't forbade it because, in part, he was willing to see if—after her demotion and disgrace—she would complete a simple assignment that she was sure not to like. True to form, she'd gone her own way in it, proving once again what her commanding officer believed to be the case: She had no more respect for a chain of command than a bull had respect for Wedgwood china. No matter that Winston had asked her to see to the Battersea end of things, she'd been given a prior assignment and she very well knew she was supposed to complete it before taking on something else. Christ. When would the woman learn?
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 do
ne 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.
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