Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [146]
“Ask Azhar,” Lynley said, and he added, “if that doesn’t put you in a difficult position.”
“Why would that put me in a difficult position, sir?” Barbara’s tone was suspicious and with good reason.
Lynley didn’t reply. There were things between them that they didn’t discuss. Her relationship with Taymullah Azhar was one of them. “Anything else?” he asked her.
“Bernard Fairclough. He’s got a set of keys to the flat of a woman called Vivienne Tully. I’ve been there but so far no luck in seeing her. Picture of her that I tracked down makes her youngish, trendy clothes, good skin, good figure, edgy hairstyle. Another woman’s basic nightmare, essentially. All I know about her is that she once worked for him, she now works in London, and she likes ballet because that’s where she was yesterday. Either at a dance class or watching a performance. Her housekeeper didn’t speak English, so we did it with sign language. Lots of moving body parts if you know what I mean. Bloody hell, sir, have you noticed how few people actually do speak English in London these days? Have you noticed, Simon? I feel like I’m living in the bloody lobby of the bloody United Nations.”
“Fairclough has a key to her flat?”
“Sounds cosy, eh? I’ve another trip to Kensington on the agenda. I reckon she bears a little arm twisting. I haven’t got onto the Cresswell will yet— ”
No matter, Lynley told her. She could verify details, but they had that information in hand. They’d learned there was insurance that the ex-wife had come into. And according to the partner, the farm had been left to him in Cresswell’s will. What she could do, though, was confirm these details. The date of the will might be helpful, too. Could she see to that?
Could and would, she told him. “What about the kids?”
“Apparently, Cresswell assumed the insurance money would also benefit them. That doesn’t appear to be the case, however.”
Havers whistled. “Always good to follow the money.”
“Isn’t it just.”
“Which reminds me,” she said, “that bloke from The Source? Have you run into him yet?”
“Not yet,” Lynley said. “Why?”
“Because there’s more to him than meets the eye as well. Turns out he was up there for three days directly before Ian Cresswell drowned. With him needing to beef up his story for the paper, seems like murder’s a good way to do it.”
“We’ll take that on board,” Lynley told her, “but he’d have had to get onto the Fairclough property, get down to the boathouse, fiddle with the dock, and get off the property, all unseen. You mentioned he was a big bloke, didn’t you?”
“Nearly seven feet tall. A non-starter, then?”
“It’s doubtful, but at this point, anything’s possible.” Lynley thought about the likelihood of a seven-foot-tall redheaded reporter managing to escape the notice of Mignon Fairclough. Only in the dead of a very dark night could this have happened, he reckoned.
He said, “We’ve our work cut out, one way or the other.” It signaled an end to their conversation and he knew the sergeant would take it that way. But before she could do so, he had to know, even if he didn’t want to understand why he had to know. He said, “Are you carrying this off without the superintendent’s knowledge? She still thinks you’re on holiday? You’ve not run into her at the Met, have you?”
There was a silence. In it, he knew what the answer was. He avoided St. James’s glance as he said, “Damn. That’s going to make things difficult. For you, I mean. I’m sorry, Barbara.”
She said airily, “Truth to tell, the guv’s a bit tense, Inspector. But you know me. I’m used to tense.”
MILNTHORPE
CUMBRIA
Deborah hated being at odds with her husband. This was due in part to the disparity in their ages and due in part to his disability and all the baggage attendant upon that. But most of all, it was due to the differences in their characters, which defined how each of them looked at life. Simon went at things logically and with remarkable disinterest, making it nearly impossible to argue with him because