Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [152]
“God, Deborah.” Simon rubbed his forehead while Tommy shifted his feet on the ground.
Inanely, Deborah thought how Tommy always wore Lobb’s shoes. They must have cost a fortune, she reckoned, but of course they would last forever and the pair he had on he’d probably had since he was twenty-five years old. They weren’t scuffed, of course. Tommy’s man Charlie Denton— valet, butler, man Friday, equerry, whatever in Tommy’s life— would never have allowed scuff marks on Tommy’s shoes. But they were worn and comfortable, rather like friends, and—
Simon was speaking and she realised she’d deliberately plugged her ears to his words. He would think that all this had to do with her, with them, with this stupid open adoption business, which, of course, he had no idea she’d put a stop to, so she decided to tell him then and there.
“I phoned David,” she said. “I told him no. Definitely not. I can’t cope with it, Simon.”
Simon’s jaw moved. That was all.
Hurriedly, Deborah said to Tommy, “So let’s say Ian Cresswell found out about all of this. He protests. He says that their children— his and Niamh’s— are already putting up with just about enough in their lives and they can’t be asked to cope with their mother carrying a baby for his cousin’s wife. There’s too much confusion. He puts his foot down.”
“They’re divorced,” Tommy pointed out gently.
“Since when did divorce mean people stop trying to control each other if they can get away with it? Let’s say he goes to Nicholas. He appeals to him. Nicholas knows what’s going on or he doesn’t know but in either case, the appeal goes nowhere so Ian says he’s going to have to talk to Nicholas’s father about it. The last thing anyone wants is to have Bernard Fairclough drawn into this. He’s already spent most of Nicholas’s life believing he’s a wastrel. And now this, this terrible division in the family— ”
“Enough,” Simon said. “Really. I do mean it. Enough.”
The paternal tone behind his words was an electric shock, thirty thousand volts running through her body. Deborah said, “What did you say to me?”
Simon said, “It doesn’t take a Freudian to know where this is coming from, Deborah.”
The electric shock turned in an instant to fury. Deborah began to speak. Simon cut her off.
“This is a flight of fancy. It’s time for both of us to get back to London. I’ve done what I can here”— this to Tommy— “and unless we want another go at the boathouse, I daresay what appears to be the case about Ian Cresswell’s death is indeed the case.”
That he would actually dismiss her like this … Deborah had never wanted to strike her husband, but she wanted it badly in that moment. Temper, Deb, temper, her father would have said, but never had her father been taken so lightly by this man who stood implacably before her. God, he was insufferable, she thought. He was pompous. He was so bloody self-righteous. He was always so sure, so certain, so 100 percent full of his sodding scientific knowledge, but some things had nothing to do with science, some things had to do with the heart, some things weren’t about forensics, microscopes, bloodstains, computer analyses, graphs, charts, amazing machinery that would take a single thread and connect it to a manufacturer, a skein of wool, the sheep it had come from, and the farm on the Hebrides where that sheep had been born …She wanted to scream. She wanted to scratch out his eyes. She wanted—
“She does have a point, Simon,” Tommy said.
Simon looked at him and his expression asked his old friend if he’d entirely lost his mind.
Tommy said, “I don’t doubt there was bad blood between Nicholas and his cousin. Something’s not right with Bernard as well.”
“Granted,” Simon said, “but a scenario in which Ian’s former wife…” He waved off the entire idea.
Tommy then said, “But it’s too dangerous, Deb, if what you’re saying is true.”
“But— ”
“You’ve done good work up here, but Simon’s right about going back to London. I’ll take it from here. I can’t let you put yourself in harm’s way. You know that.”
He meant more