Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [168]
“I’ll need another route,” Lynley finished for him. “Or I can close this up and head back myself.”
“Unless Barbara Havers gives you something, I daresay that’s the case. It’s not a bad result, though, is it? It’s just a result.”
“It is.”
They stood silently looking out at the lake. A rowingboat was approaching them with a woman skillfully at the oars. Valerie Fairclough was dressed for fishing but she’d evidently had no luck. When she neared them, she showed her empty bucket and called out cheerfully, “It’s good we’re not starving round here. I’ve become rather hopeless in the last few days.”
“There are more loose stones on the dock inside,” Lynley called back. “We’ve made several a bit worse. Have a care. We’ll help you.”
They went back inside. She glided in silently and docked the rowingboat in the exact spot where the stones were loose. Lynley said, “You’ve managed to choose the very worst spot. Was this where you set out?”
“It was,” Valerie said. “I hadn’t noticed. Are they bad?”
“Over time they’ll give way.”
“Like the others?”
“Like the others.”
Her face relaxed. She didn’t smile but her relief was palpable. St. James took note of this and he knew Lynley did likewise as Valerie Fairclough handed her fishing gear over to him. Lynley set this to one side, then extended his hand and helped Valerie Fairclough from the boat. He made the introductions between the woman and St. James.
St. James said, “You found Ian Cresswell’s body, as I understand.”
“I did, yes.” Valerie removed the hat she’d been wearing, a baseball cap that covered her fine grey hair. This was youthfully styled and she ran her fingers through it.
“You phoned for the police as well,” St. James said.
“That’s correct.”
“I’m rather wondering about that,” St. James said. “Are you heading to the house? May we walk with you?”
Valerie glanced at Lynley. She didn’t look wary. She had far too much control for that. But she’d be wondering why Lynley’s friend the expert witness from London wanted to have a chat, and she’d know quite well the topic wasn’t going to be her momentary lack of success as an angler. She said graciously, “Of course you may,” but that quick movement at the corners of her blue eyes told a different story about how she actually felt.
They set off up the path. St. James said to her, “Had you been fishing that day?”
“When I found him? No.”
“What took you out to the boathouse?”
“I was having a walk. I do that in the afternoons, generally. Once the weather gets bad with the winter, I’m rather more confined than I like to be, as we all are, so I try to get out as much as I can while the days are still fine.”
“Around the property? Into the woods? On the fells?”
“I’ve lived here all my life, Mr. St. James. I walk wherever my fancy takes me.”
“On that day?”
Valerie Fairclough glanced at Lynley. She said to him, “Would you like to clarify?” which was, naturally, a well-bred way of asking why she was being grilled by his friend.
St. James said, “This is my interest, rather than Tommy’s. I’ve spoken to Constable Schlicht about the day Ian Cresswell was found. He told me two curious things about the phone call to nine-nine-nine, and I’ve been trying to understand them ever since. Well, actually, only one of the things he told me was about the phone call. The other was about you.”
Now the wariness was plain to see. Valerie Fairclough stopped on the path. She ran her hands down the sides of her trousers, a movement that St. James could tell was meant to settle her nerves. He knew Lynley was aware of this from the look Lynley cast him, which was one that told him to go on in order to get what he could from her.
“And what did the constable tell you?” Valerie said.
“He’d had a conversation with the bloke at dispatch. This would be the person who took the nine-nine-nine call about Ian Cresswell’s drowning.