Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [153]
She said numbly, “There’s no danger here. You know that, Tommy.”
“If murder’s involved, there’s always danger.”
He’d said all he would say on the topic. He left them, then, and left her with Simon there in the car park.
Simon had said to her, “I’m sorry, Deborah. I know that you want to help.”
She’d said bitterly, “Oh you know that, do you? Let’s not pretend this isn’t about punishing me.”
“For what?” He sounded so bloody surprised.
“For saying no to David. For not solving our problem with one little word: yes. That’s what you wanted, an instant solution. Without once considering how it would feel to me with an entire second family hovering out there, watching my every move, evaluating what sort of mummy I’d be…” She was close to tears. This infuriated her.
Simon said, “This has nothing to do with your phoning David. If you’ve made up your mind, I accept it. What else can I do? I might have other wishes, but— ”
“And that’s what counts. That’s what always counts. Your wishes. Not mine. Because should my wishes be granted in any matter, the power shifts, doesn’t it, and you don’t want that.”
He reached towards her, but she backed away. She said, “Just go about your business. We’ve said enough at this point.”
He waited for a moment. He was watching her, but she couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at his eyes and see the pain and know how far back into his past it reached.
He finally said, “We’ll talk later,” and he went to his car. Another moment and he’d driven away, out of the car park and about his business. Whatever it was. It didn’t matter to Deborah.
She left the car park herself. She went towards the front door of the inn. She’d got just inside when she heard someone say, “Hang on. You and I need to talk,” and she turned to see that, of all people, the red-headed giant was coming in the entrance. Before she had a chance to say anything, he continued. “Your cover’s been blown. It can be on the front page of The Source tomorrow or you and I can strike a deal.”
“What sort of deal?” Deborah asked him.
“The kind that gets us both what we want.”
GREAT URSWICK
CUMBRIA
Lynley knew that Simon was right about Deborah: She needed to stay clear of things from this point forward. They didn’t know exactly what they were dealing with and anything that might put her into danger was unacceptable on so many levels that most of them didn’t bear talking about.
He’d been wrong to bring them into this. It had seemed a simple enough job that he could sort through with their help in a day or so. That wasn’t turning out to be the case, and he needed to finish things before Deborah did something that he, she, and Simon would regret.
When he left them in Milnthorpe, he headed north, then east. Then he took the road that coursed down the spatulate landmass at whose tip sat Barrow-in-Furness. Barrow wasn’t his destination, however. He wanted to speak to Manette Fairclough privately, and that meant a trip to Great Urswick.
The route he followed took him through the hilly Victorian sea town of Grange-over-Sands, along the estuary where wintering birds formed a living landscape across the mudflats, establishing hierarchies in the search for food. It was abundant here, replenished daily by the tides from Morecambe Bay.
After Grange-over-Sands, the road opened to grey water, deceptive in its calm, along one side of the car and pastures on the other side, broken by the occasional line of cottages where seaside holiday makers came in better weather. This was far south in Cumbria, not the land of the lakes so treasured by John Ruskin and William Wordsworth and his daffodils. Here most people got down to the serious hand-to-mouth of daily living, which comprised generations of fishermen out on the shifting sands of the bay, first with horses and carts and now with tractors and always within inches of losing