In the Presence of the Enemy

by Elizabeth George

  “That’s not quite it, Tommy.” Webberly raised his head. “They did try to get help. They brought someone in immediately. Last Wednesday night. It just wasn’t the police.”

  The expression on Webberly’s face made Lynley tense. He had the distinct impression that, Hillier’s acknowledgement of his expertise aside, he was about to discover why he of all people had been assigned to this case. “Who was it?” he asked.

  Webberly heaved a sigh and shoved his cigar into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m afraid this is where things get dicey,” he said.

  Lynley powered the Bentley in the direction of the Thames. He gripped the steering wheel hard. He didn’t know what to think about what he’d just learned, and he was trying like the devil to keep from reacting. Just get there, he told himself reasonably. Get there in one piece and ask your questions so you can understand.

  Havers had followed him as he strode across the underground car park. She’d said, “Sir, listen to me,” and had finally hooked on to his arm when he’d continued on his way without reply, deep in thought. She hadn’t been able to stop him, however, so she had resorted to planting her chunky body in his path. She’d said, “Listen. You’d better not go over there now. Cool off first. Talk to Eve Bowen. Get the story from her.”

  He’d gazed at the sergeant, nonplussed by her behaviour. He’d said, “I’m perfectly cool, Havers. Head out to Wiltshire. Do your part. Let me do mine.”

  She said, “Perfectly cool? What bullshit. You’re about to go off at half-cock, and you know it. If Bowen hired him to look for her daughter—and Webberly said not fifteen minutes ago that she did—then Simon’s activities from that moment on were professional activities.”

  “Agreed. So, I’d like to gather the facts from him. It seems a logical place to begin.”

  “Stop lying to yourself. You’re not after facts. You’re after vengeance. It’s written all over you.”

  Clearly, Lynley realised, the woman was mad. He said, “Don’t be absurd. Vengeance for what?”

  “You know what. You ought to have seen your face when Webberly said what everyone’s been up to since Wednesday. You went white to the lips and you haven’t recovered.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Is it? Look. I know Simon. So do you. What do you think he was doing? Do you imagine he sat on his thumbs just waiting for this girl to be found dead in the countryside? Is that what you think happened?”

  “What happened,” he said reasonably, “is the death of a child. And I think you’ll agree that death might have been prevented had Simon, not to mention Helen, had the foresight to involve the police from the first.”

  Havers settled her hips. Her expression said Gotcha. Her words were, “And that’s it, isn’t it? That’s at the root of what’s bothering you.”

  “Bothering me?”

  “It’s Helen. Not Simon. Not even this death. Helen was into things up to her eighteen-carat-gold earrings and you didn’t know. Right? Well? Am I right, Inspector? And that’s why you’re heading to Simon’s house.”

  “Havers,” Lynley said, “I’ve got things to do. Please get out of my way. Because if you don’t remove yourself from my path immediately, you’re going to find yourself assigned to another case.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Lie to yourself. And while you’re at it, pull rank and have done with it.”

  “I believe I just have done. And since this is your first opportunity to be at the head of at least one arm of an investigation, I suggest you consider your options wisely before you force my hand.”

  Her upper lip curled. She shook her head. “Holy hell,” she said. “You can be a real prick.” She turned on the heel of her high-top trainer and set off for her own car, slinging the strap of her canvas bag to her shoulder.

  Lynley got into the Bentley. He fired it up with a gratifying but unnecessary roar. Within a minute, he was out of the underground car park and speeding in the direction of Victoria Street. His mind was trying to deal with the process of setting up an investigation. But it was doing battle with his heart which, as Havers had shrewdly assessed—blast her intuition—was fixed on Helen. Because Helen had deliberately lied to him last Wednesday night. All her insouciant chatter about nerves, about marriage, about their future together, was merely a blind, constructed to conceal her activities with Simon. And the result of that lie and of those activities was a little girl’s death.

  He stepped hard onto the accelerator. He was in the middle of eight tour coaches all simultaneously trying to escape the immediate environs of Westminster Abbey before he realised that, given the time of day, he should have taken a different route to the river. As it was, he had plenty of time to question his friends’ incomprehensible behaviour and plenty of time to consider where that behaviour had led them when he finally negotiated the rush hour congestion round Parliament Square and headed south towards Chelsea.

  Traffic was heavy. He vied for position with taxis and buses. At the rising cables and slender towers of Albert Bridge, he made the turn into the narrow crescent of Cheyne Walk, from there to Cheyne Row. He squeezed the Bentley into a space towards the top of the cramped little street, and he took up the case file on Charlotte Bowen’s death. He strode back in the direction of the river, to the tall, umber-hued brick house at the corner of Cheyne Row and Lordship Place. It was utterly quiet in the neighbourhood, and he found that the silence was a momentary balm to him. In it, he took a steadying breath. All right, he thought, maintain control. You’re here to get facts and that’s all. This is the most logical place to begin and nothing you’re doing could possibly be described as flying off at half-cock. His sergeant’s recommendation that he see Eve Bowen first was merely a reflection of her inexperience. There was no point to seeing Eve Bowen first when here in this house was the information he needed to set his investigation in motion. That was the truth of it. Any claims that he was seeking vengeance and lying to himself were completely off the mark. Right? Right.

  He used the door knocker. After a moment, he also used the bell. He heard the dog barking, then the telephone ringing. Deborah’s voice said, “Good grief. Everything at once,” and called to someone, “I’m getting the door. Can you catch the phone?”

  A bolt was released. Deborah stood there, barefooted and barelegged in jeans cut off at the thigh, with flour on her hands and more of it liberally dusting her black T-shirt. Her face brightened when she saw him. She said, “Tommy! Good heavens. We were talking about you not five minutes ago.”

  He said, “I need to see Helen and Simon.”

  Her smile faltered. She knew him well enough. She could hear from his tone—despite his effort at dispassion—that something wasn’t right. “In the kitchen. In the lab. I mean, Helen’s in the kitchen and Simon’s in the lab. Dad and I were just showing her…Tommy, has something…? Is anything wrong?”

  “Will you fetch Simon?”

  He left her climbing hurriedly towards the top floor of the house. He himself went to the back. Here stairs led down to the basement kitchen. Rising from there, he could hear Helen’s laughter and Joseph Cotter’s voice. Cotter was saying, “Now, egg whites’s the secret. That’s what makes them brown proper and get nice ‘n’ glossy on top. But you separate the eggs first, see. Make a nice firm crack ’long the shell like this. Use the shell ’affs thisways to scoop the yolk back and forth till you got the whites separate.”

  “Is that honestly all there is to it?” Helen was saying in reply. “Lord, it’s perfectly simple. Even an idiot could do it. Even I could do it.”

  “Simple it is,” he said. “You give it a try.”

  Lynley descended the stairs. Cotter and Helen were on either side of the worktable at the centre of the kitchen, Helen wrapped in an enormous white apron, Cotter in shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Spread out between them were mixing bowls, baking pans, boxes of currants, bags of flour, and assorted other ingredients. Into one of the smaller bowls, Helen was in the process of separating her egg. The baking
pans held the fruits of their labour: circular mounds of currant-spotted dough the circumference of teacups.

  The St. Jameses’ small dachshund spotted Lynley first. She had been busily licking the flour dust from the floor round Helen, but perhaps sensing his presence, she raised her head, saw him, and gave a sharp bark.

  Helen looked up, each hand holding the half of an eggshell. Like Deborah’s earlier, her face brightened with her smile. She said, “Tommy! Hello. Imagine the impossible. I’ve actually made scones.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I can’t at the moment. I’m about to be shown how to put the final touch on my masterwork, just as soon as I finish separating this egg. Which I do believe I’m rather excelling at, as Cotter will no doubt agree.”

  Cotter, however, had apparently read Lynley more accurately. He said, “I c’n finish up here. Quick as a wink. Nothing much to it. You go with Lord Asherton.”

  “Nonsense,” she said.

  “Helen,” Lynley said.

  “I can’t leave my creation at the climactic moment. I’ve come this far with it and I want to see it through to the end. Tommy will wait for me. Won’t you, darling?”

  The endearment grated against his nerves. He said, “Charlotte Bowen is dead.”

  Helen’s hands were suspended, still holding the eggshells. She lowered them. She said, “Oh God.”

  Cotter, making an obvious gauge of the atmosphere between them, scooped up the little dachshund and took her lead from a hook that hung near the back door. He was gone without a word. In a moment, the gate on Lordship Place creaked open, then closed.

  “What did you think you were doing?” Lynley asked her. “Tell me, Helen. Please.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I just told you what’s happened. The girl’s dead.”

  “How? When?”

  “It doesn’t matter how or when. What matters is that she might have been saved. This might never have happened. She might have been back with her family right now had you possessed enough sense to inform the police what was going on.”

  She recoiled slightly. Her next words were faint. “That isn’t fair. We were asked to help. They didn’t want the police.”

  “Helen, I don’t care what you were asked. I don’t care who did the asking. A child’s life was at risk and that life is gone. Over. Dead. She’s not coming back. She drowned at the Kennet and Avon Canal and her body was left to rot in the reeds. So was it—”

  “Tommy.” St. James spoke sharply from the stairs above him. Deborah stood behind him. “We’ve got the point.”

  “Have you any idea what’s happened?” Lynley asked.

  “Barbara Havers just phoned me.” He made his awkward way down the stairs to the kitchen. Deborah followed. Her face was the colour of the flour on her T-shirt. She and St. James took up positions with Helen, on the other side of the worktable from Lynley. “I’m sorry,” St. James said quietly. “I wouldn’t have had it end this way. I think you know that.”

  “Then why didn’t you do something to prevent it?”

  “I tried.”

  “Tried what?”

  “To talk to them both, the mother and the father. To make them see reason. To get them to phone the police.”

  “But not to walk away. Not to force their hand. You didn’t try that.”

  “Initially, no. I didn’t. I admit to that. We none of us walked away at first.”

  “None of…?” Lynley’s eyes went to Deborah. She was twisting her hands in the bottom of her T-shirt. She looked perfectly wretched. He realised what St. James’s words had just told him, compounding their sin a hundred thousand times. He said, “Deborah? Deborah took part in this mess? Jesus Christ, have you all completely lost your minds? If I force myself, I can understand Helen’s involvement because at least she has a modicum of experience working with you. But Deborah? Deborah? She has as much business embroiling herself in a kidnapping investigation as the family dog has.”

  “Tommy,” Helen said.

  “Who else?” Lynley asked. “Who else took part? What about Cotter? Did he get involved? Or was it just you three cretins killing off Charlotte Bowen?”

  “Tommy, you’ve said enough,” St. James said.

  “No. I haven’t. And I doubt I ever will. You’re responsible, the three of you, and I’d like you to see exactly what you’re responsible for.” He opened the case folder he’d brought from the car.

  St. James said, “Not here.”

  “No? Rather not see how things turned out?” Lynley flipped a photograph onto the table. It landed squarely in front of Deborah. “Have a look,” he said. “You might want to memorise it just in case you decide to kill any more children.”

  Deborah’s fist went to her mouth, but it wasn’t sufficient to cut off her cry. Roughly, St. James pulled her away from the table. He said to Lynley, “Clear out of here, Tommy.”

  “It won’t be that easy.”

  “Tommy!” Helen extended a hand towards him.

  “I want to know what you know,” he said to St. James. “I want every piece of information you have. I want every detail, and God help you, Simon, if you forget to include a single fact.”

  St. James had taken his wife into his arms. He said slowly, “Not now. I mean it. Leave.”

  “Not until I’ve got what I came for.”

  “I believe you’ve just got that,” St. James said.

  “Tell him,” Deborah said against her husband’s shoulder. “Please, Simon. Just tell him. Please.”

  Lynley watched St. James carefully weigh the alternatives. He finally said to Helen, “Take Deborah upstairs.”

  “Leave her here,” Lynley said.

  “Helen,” St. James said.

  An instant passed before Helen chose. She said, “Come with me, Deborah,” and to Lynley, “Or would you like to stop us? You’re big enough to do so, and frankly I’m wondering if you draw the line at striking women these days. Since you apparently draw no other lines.”

  She swept past him, her arm across Deborah’s shoulders. They climbed the stairs and shut the door behind them.

  St. James was looking at the photograph. Lynley could see a muscle working furiously in his jaw. Outside at a distance, he could hear the dog barking. He could hear Cotter’s shout. Then, finally, St. James looked up.

  “That was particularly unforgivable,” he said.

  Although Lynley knew what St. James was referring to, he deliberately chose to misunderstand. “Agreed,” he said evenly. “It was unforgivable. Now tell me what you know.”

  They observed each other across the worktable. A long moment passed during which Lynley wondered if his friend was going to cooperate with information or to retaliate with silence. Nearly thirty seconds went by before he had his answer, and St. James began to speak.

  He told his story tersely without looking up. He took Lynley through each day that had passed since Charlotte Bowen had disappeared. He delineated his facts. He listed his evidence. He explained the steps he had taken and why. And when he was through, with his attention still fixed firmly to the photograph, he said, “There’s nothing more. Leave us, Tommy.”

  Lynley knew it was time to relent. He said, “Simon—”

  But St. James cut him off. “Go,” he said.

  Lynley obliged.

  The study door was closed. It had been open when Deborah had admitted him into the house, so Lynley knew that’s where Helen had taken her. He turned the knob without knocking.

  Deborah was sitting on the ottoman, arms clasped round her stomach and shoulders hunched. Helen sat opposite her, on the sofa. She held a glass in her hand. She was saying, “Have a bit more, Deborah,” to which Deborah was replying, “I don’t think I can.”

  Lynley said Helen’s name. In response, Deborah’s body pivoted away from the door. Helen set the glass on the sofa’s side table, touched Deborah’s knee lightly, and came to Lynley. She stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind her.

&nb
sp; Lynley said, “I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

  She offered a brittle smile. “No, you’re not sorry. But I trust you’re satisfied. I hope you’ve managed to leave no stone of spleen-venting unturned.”

  “Damn it, Helen. Listen to me.”

  Tell me this. Is there anything else for which you’d like to excoriate us before you leave? Because I’d hate to see you be on your way without having fulfilled your desire to castigate, humiliate, and pontificate.”

  “You have no right to any outrage, Helen.”

  “Just as you had no right to adjudication.”

  “Someone’s dead.”

  “It isn’t our fault. And I refuse, Tommy. I refuse to bow my head, bend my knees, and beg for your sanctimonious pardon. I’ve done nothing wrong in this situation. Neither has Simon. Neither has Deborah.”

  “Aside from your lies.”

  “Lies?”

  “You could have told me the truth last Wednesday night. I asked. You lied.”

  Her hand climbed to her throat. In the dim light of the corridor, her dark eyes seemed to grow even darker. “My God,” she said. “You rotten little pharisee. I can’t even believe…” Her fingers tightened to a fist. “This isn’t about Charlotte Bowen, is it? This has nothing to do with Charlotte Bowen at all. You’ve come here and spewed like a broken sewer pipe because of me. Because I chose to keep something private in my life. Because I didn’t tell you something that you had no right to know in the first place.”

  “Are you out of your mind? A child is dead—dead, Helen, and I think I can safely assume you know what that means—so what are you doing talking to me about rights? No one but the person in danger has any rights at all when a life is at risk.”

  “Except you,” she said. “Except Thomas Lynley. Except silver-spoon-in-his-mouth Lord Asherton. That’s what you’re getting at: your God almighty rights, and in this particular case, the right to know. But not to know about Charlotte because she’s just the symptom. She’s not the disease.”

  “Don’t twist this into a reflection on us.”