Savidge said, “Oh my God. Is it…”
“I hope it isn’t,” Lynley said, although he knew it was. He took the other man’s arm to give him support. There were questions he was going to have to ask Savidge eventually, but at the moment there was nothing more to say.
ULRIKE MANAGED to cool her heels in her office till Jack Veness closed down the phones and tidied up the reception room for the day. Once she’d acknowledged his good night and heard the outer door slam behind him, she went in search of Griff.
She found Robbie Kilfoyle instead. He was in the entry corridor, emptying two rubbish bags of Colossus T-shirts and sweatshirts into the storage cupboard beneath the display case of goods for sale. At least, she saw, Griff had told the truth in this. He had spent several hours at his silk-screening business today.
She’d doubted that. When they’d met at the Charlie Chaplin, the first thing she’d said was, “Where’ve you been all day, Griffin?,” and then winced at the tone of her voice because she knew what she sounded like and he knew she knew, which was why he’d said, “Don’t,” before he told her. A piece of equipment had needed repair at the silk-screening shop and he’d seen to it, he said. “I told you I’d be going by the business on my way in. You wanted me to bring more shirts, remember?” That was a quintessential Griffin reply. I was doing what you asked, he implied.
Ulrike said to Robbie Kilfoyle, “Have you seen Griff? I need a word with him.”
Squatting on the floor, Robbie rested back on his heels and tipped his cap to the back of his head. He said, “He’s helping take that new group of assessment kids onto the river. They went off in the vans…round two hours ago?” Robbie’s expression told her he thought she—as director—ought to be aware of this piece of information. He said, “He left this stuff”—with a nod at the rubbish bags—“back in the kit room. I reckoned it was best to pack it all in here. C’n I help you with something?”
“Help me?”
“Well, if you want Griff and Griff’s not here, I might be able to…” He shrugged.
“I said I wanted a word with him, Robbie.” Ulrike was at once aware of how curt she sounded. She said, “Sorry. That was rude of me. I’m frazzled. The police. First Kimmo. Now…”
“Sean,” Robbie said. “Yeah. I know. He’s not dead, though, is he? Sean Lavery?”
Ulrike looked at him sharply. “I didn’t say his name. How d’you know about Sean?”
Robbie seemed taken aback. “That cop asked if I knew him, Ulrike. That woman cop. She came by the kit room. She said Sean was in one of the computer courses, so when I had a chance, I asked Neil what was going on. He said Sean Lavery didn’t turn up today. That was it.” Then he added, “Okay, Ulrike?,” as an afterthought, but he didn’t sound deferential when he said it.
She couldn’t blame him. She said, “I’m…Look, I didn’t mean to sound so…I don’t know…so suspicious. I’m on edge. First Kimmo. Now Sean. And the police. D’you know what time Griff and the kids will be back?”
Robbie took a moment, seeming to evaluate her apology, before he replied. This, she decided, was a wee bit much. He was, after all, only a volunteer. He said, “I don’t know. They’ll probably stop for a coffee afterwards. Half seven p’rhaps? Eight? He’s got his own keys to the place, right?”
True, she thought. He could come and go as he liked, which had been convenient in the past when they’d wanted to have a political powwow. Planning strategies before staff meetings and after hours. Here’s where I stand on an issue, Griffin. What about you?
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “They could be gone hours.”
“Not too late, though. The dark and all that. And it must be cold as hell on the river. Between you and me, I can’t think why assessment chose kayaking at all for their group activity this time round. Seems a hike would’ve been better. A footpath in the Cotswolds or something. Going between villages. They could’ve stopped for a meal at the end.” He went back to stowing the T-shirts and sweatshirts away in the cupboard.
“Is that what you would have done?” she asked him. “Taken them on a hike? Somewhere safe?”
He looked over his shoulder. “It’s probably nothing, you know.”
“What?”
“Sean Lavery. They bunk off sometimes, these kids.”
Ulrike wanted to ask him why he thought he knew the kids at Colossus better than she. But the truth was, he likely did know them better because she’d been distracted for months on end. Kids had come into and gone from Colossus, but her mind had been elsewhere.
Which could cost her her job, if it came down to the board of directors looking for someone culpable for what was going on…if something was going on. All those hours, days, weeks, months, and years given to this organisation: down the toilet in one hardy flush. She’d be able to get another job somewhere, but it wouldn’t be at a place like Colossus, with all of Colossus’s potential to do exactly what she so fervently believed needed to be done in England: to make change at a grass-roots level, which was at the level of the individual child’s psyche.
Where had it all gone? She’d come into her job at Colossus believing that she could make a difference and she had done just that, right up till the time Griffin Charles Strong had planted his CV on her desk and his mesmerising dark eyes on her face. And even then she’d managed to maintain an air of cool professionalism for months on end, knowing full well the dangers represented by becoming involved with anyone at her place of employment.
Her resolve had weakened over time. Perhaps just to touch him, she’d thought. The gorgeous head of hair, wavy and thick. Or the broad oarsman’s shoulders beneath the fisherman’s sweater he favoured. Or the lower arm whose wrist was banded by a leather plait. Touching him had eventually become such an obsession that the only way possible to rid herself of the preoccupation with her hand grazing some part of his body was simply to do it. Just reach across the conference table and grasp his wrist to emphasise her agreement with some remark he’d made during a staff meeting and then feel the rush of surprise when he briefly closed his other hand over hers and squeezed. She told herself it was merely a sign that he appreciated her support of his ideas. Except there were signs…and then there were signs.
She said to Robbie Kilfoyle, “When you’re finished here, make sure the doors are locked, won’t you?”
“Will do,” he said, and she felt his gaze fixed on her speculatively as she returned to her office.
There, she went to the filing cabinet. She squatted in front of the bottom drawer that she’d opened before, in the presence of the detectives. She fingered through the manila folders and brought out the one she needed, which she shoved into the canvas book bag she used as a briefcase. That done, she grabbed up her bicycle clothing and went to change for the long ride home.
She did her changing in the ladies’ toilet, taking her time and all the while listening for the hopeful sounds of Griff Strong and the assessment kids returning from the river. But the only thing she heard was Robbie Kilfoyle leaving, and then she herself was alone at Colossus.
She couldn’t risk Griff’s mobile this time round, not when she knew he was with a group. There was nothing left but to write him a note. Rather than deposit it on his desk, however, where he could use the excuse of not having seen it, she took it outside to the carpark and shoved it beneath the windscreen wiper of his vehicle. On the driver’s side. She even took a piece of Sellotape to make sure the note didn’t blow away. Then she went for her bike, unlocked it, and headed for St. George’s Road, the first part of the crisscrossing route that would take her from Elephant and Castle up to Paddington.
The ride took her nearly an hour in the bitter cold. Her mask prevented her from breathing the worst of the traffic fumes, but there was nothing to protect her from the constant noise. She reached Gloucester Terrace more exhausted than usual, but at least grateful that the ride itself—and the need to be on guard against traffic—had kept her mind occupied.
She ch
ained her bicycle to the railing in front of number 258, where she unlocked the front door to the usual cooking smells emanating from the ground-floor flat. Cumin, sesame oil, fish. Overcooked sprouts. Rotting onions. She held her breath and went for the stairs. She was up five of them when behind her, the front-door buzzer sounded sharply. The door had a rectangle of glass on top, and through it she saw the shape of his head. She descended quickly.
“I rang your mobile.” Griff sounded irritated. “Why didn’t you answer? Fuck it, Ulrike. If you’re going to leave me a note like that—”
“I was on my bike,” she told him. “I can hardly answer it when I’m riding home. I turn it off. You know that.” She held the door open and turned from it. He would have no choice but to follow her upstairs.
On the first floor, she switched on the timed light and went for the door of her flat. Inside, she dumped her canvas holdall on the lumpy sofa and turned on a single lamp. She said, “Wait here,” and went into her bedroom, where she took off her bike-riding clothes, sniffed her armpits, and found them wanting. A damp flannel took care of that problem, after which she examined herself in the mirror and was satisfied with the heightened colour the ride across London had brought to her cheeks. She slid into a dressing gown and tied its belt. She returned to the sitting room.
Griff had turned on the brighter overhead lights. She chose to ignore that. She went to the kitchen where the fridge held a chilled bottle of white Burgundy. She took out two glasses and fetched the corkscrew.
Seeing this, Griff said, “Ulrike, I’ve just got off the river. I’m knackered and there’s just no way—”
She turned round. “That wouldn’t have stopped you a month ago. Anytime, anywhere. Man the torpedoes and damn the consequences. You can’t have forgotten.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good.” She poured the wine and carried a glass over to him. “I like to think of you as eternally ready.” She hooked her arm round his neck and drew him to her. An instant of resistance and then his mouth was on hers. Tongues, more tongues, a lengthy caress, and after a moment his hand sliding from her waist to the side of her breast. Fingers reaching for her nipple. Squeezing. Coaxing her to groan. Heat shooting into her genitals. Yes. Very nice stuff, Griff. She released him abruptly and moved away.
He had the grace to look flustered. He went to a chair—not the sofa—and sat. He said, “You said this was urgent. Emergency. Twenty-five-line whip. Crisis. Chaos. That’s why I came. This is exactly the opposite direction from home, by the way, which means I’ll not even get home now till God knows what time.”
“How unfortunate,” she said. “With duty calling you and all that. And I’m fully aware of your address, Griffin. As you well know.”
“I don’t want a row. Have you brought me here for a row?”
“Why would you think that? Where were you all day?”
He raised his head to the ceiling, one of those martyred male looks of the sort one saw in paintings of dying early Christian saints. He said, “Ulrike, you know my situation. You’ve always known it. You can’t have…What would you have me do? Now or then? Walk out on Arabella when she was five months pregnant? While she was in labour? Now she’s got an infant to contend with? I never gave you the slightest indication—”
“You’re right.” She produced a brittle smile. She could actually feel how frangible it was, and she loathed herself for reacting to him. She saluted him with her wineglass in a mock toast. “You never did. Bully for you. Everything always in the open and on the up-and-up. Don’t ask anyone to wear a blindfold. That’s a very good way to sidestep responsibility.”
He put his wineglass on the table, its contents untouched. He said, “All right. I surrender. White flag. Whatever you want. Why am I here?”
“What did she want?”
“Look, I was late today because I went to the silk-screening shop. I told you that. Not that it’s actually any of your business what Arabella and I—”
Ulrike laughed, although it was somewhat forced, a bad actress on an overlit stage. “I have a fine idea of what Arabella wanted and what you probably gave her…all seven and a half inches of it. But I’m not talking about you and the darling wife. I’m talking about the policewoman. Constable Whatsername with the broken teeth and bad hair.”
“Are you trying to back me into a corner?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your whole approach. I protest, I call a halt to the way you’re behaving just now, I say enough, I tell you to fuck off, and you’ve got what you want.”
“Which is?”
“My head on a bloody charger, no dancing and no seven veils required.”
“Is that what you think? Is that why you actually think I’ve asked you to come here?” She drained her glass of wine and felt the effect of it almost immediately.
“Are you saying you wouldn’t sack me, given half the chance?”
“In an instant,” she replied. “But that’s not why we’re talking.”
“Then why…?”
“What did she talk to you about?”
“Exactly what you thought she’d talk to me about.”
“And?”
“And?”
“And what did you tell her?”
“What d’you think I told her? Kimmo was Kimmo. Sean was Sean. One was a free-spirit transvestite with the personality of a vaudeville queen, a kid no one in his right mind would want to harm. The other looked like someone who wanted to chew screws for breakfast. I let you know when Kimmo missed a day of assessment. Sean was out of my orbit and on to something else, so I wouldn’t have known if he stopped turning up.”
“That’s all you told her?” She studied him as she asked the question, wondering about what kind of trust could possibly exist between two people who’d betrayed a third.
His eyes had narrowed. He said only, “We agreed.” And as she openly evaluated him, he added, “Or don’t you trust me?”
She didn’t, of course. How could she trust someone who lived by betrayal? But there was a way to test him, and not only that, but a way to fix him in position so that he had to maintain the pretence of cooperation with her, if it was a pretence in the first place.
She went to her canvas holdall. From it, she took the file she’d removed from her office. She handed this over to him.
She watched as his gaze dropped to it, as his eyes took in the label at the top. He looked up at her once he’d read it. “I did what you asked. What am I supposed to do with this, then?”
“What you have to,” she said. “I think you know what I mean.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN DETECTIVE CONSTABLE BARBARA HAVERS PULLED into the underground carpark at New Scotland Yard the next morning, she was already on her fourth cigarette, not counting the one she’d lit up and sucked down as she made her way from bed to shower. She’d been smoking steadily since leaving her digs, and the always maddening trip from North London had done nothing to improve either her nerves or her mood.
She was used to rows. She’d had run-ins with everyone she’d ever worked with, and she’d even gone so far as to shoot at a superior officer, in the truly advanced row that had cost her her rank and very nearly her job. But nothing that had gone before in her patchy career—not to mention in her life—had affected her as she’d been affected in five minutes of conversation with her neighbour.
She hadn’t intended to take on Taymullah Azhar. Her objective had been to extend a simple invitation to his daughter. Careful research—well, what went for careful research on her part, which was to buy a copy of What’s On, like a tourist come to see the Queen—had informed her that a place called the Jeffrye Museum offered glimpses into social history via models of sitting rooms through the centuries. Wouldn’t it be brilliant for Hadiyyah to accompany Barbara there in order to feed her eager little mind with something other than considerations of the belly rings currently being worn by female pop singers? It would be a journey fr
om North to East London. It would, in short, be edu-bloody-cational. How could Azhar, a sophisticated educator himself, object to that?
Quite easily, as it turned out. When Barbara knocked him up on her way out to her car, he opened the door and he listened politely, as was his habit, with the fragrance of a well-balanced and nutritional breakfast floating out from the flat behind him like an accusation against Barbara’s own morning ritual of Pop-Tart and Players.
“Sort of a double whammy, you could call it,” Barbara finished the invitation, and even as she said it, she wondered where the hell double whammy had come from. “I mean, the museum’s built in a row of old almshouses, so there’s historical and social architecture involved as well. The sort of thing kids pass without knowing what they’re passing, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I thought it might be…” What, she asked herself? A good idea? An opportunity for Hadiyyah? An escape from further punishment?
That last was it, of course. Barbara had passed Hadiyyah’s solemn little gated face in the window one time too many. Enough was bleeding enough, she’d thought. Azhar had made his point. He didn’t need to beat the poor kid over the head with it.
“This is very kind of you, Barbara,” Azhar had said with his usual grave courtesy. “However, in the circumstance in which Hadiyyah and I find ourselves…”
She’d appeared behind him then, having apparently heard their voices. She cried, “Barbara! Hello, hello,” and she peered round her father’s slender body. She said, “Dad, can Barbara not come in? We’re having our breakfast, Barbara. Dad’s made French toast and scrambled eggs. That’s what I’m having. With syrup. He’s having yogurt.” She wrinkled her nose, but not evidently at her father’s choice of food because she went on to say, “Barbara, have you been smoking already? Dad, can Barbara not come in?”
“Can’t, kiddo,” Barbara said hastily so Azhar wouldn’t have to issue an invitation he might not want to issue. “I’m on my way to work. Keeping London safe for women, children, and small furry animals. You know the drill.”
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