Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [99]
“Would you consider Nicholas?”
“That would be madness, with his history. But he’s trying to prove himself to me.”
“What did Ian think about that?”
“He reckoned Nick would fail. But as Nick had promised me that he was a changed man once and for all, I wanted to give him a chance to demonstrate it. He’s working his way up from the bottom at the business. I rather admire him for that.”
“Is that the deal you struck with him?”
“Not at all. It was his idea. I expect it’s what Alatea advised him to do.”
“So it’s possible he could take over the company?”
“Anything’s possible,” Fairclough said. “As I said, it’s not been decided.”
“But you must have given thought to it at one point or another, else why have me come up here and look into Nicholas?”
Fairclough was silent. It was answer enough. Nicholas was, after all, the son. And the son, not the meek, was generally the one to inherit the earth.
Lynley went on. “Anyone else with a motive to be rid of Ian? Anyone you can think of with an ax to grind, a secret to keep, an issue to clear?”
“No one at all, as far as I know.” Fairclough sipped his sherry, but his eyes stayed on Lynley’s over the rim of the glass.
Lynley knew he was lying, but he didn’t know why. He also felt they hadn’t got to the bottom of why he himself was there in the first place: at Ireleth Hall, investigating something that had already been resolved in a way that should have relieved the man. Lynley said, “Bernard, no one is actually in the clear on this except those who had no access to the boathouse. You’ve a decision to make if you want the truth, whatever it is.”
“What sort of decision?”
“If you actually do want to get to the bottom of the matter, you’re going to have to agree to let me be who I am.”
“And that is?”
“A cop.”
FLEET STREET
CITY OF LONDON
Barbara Havers chose a pub near Fleet Street, one of the watering holes that had long ago been a gathering place for journalists in the heyday of the newspaper business when nearly every tabloid and broadsheet had its headquarters in the immediate vicinity. Things had changed, with property in the Canary Wharf area luring more than one news organisation to the east end of the city. But not all had heeded that siren call of lower rents, and one in particular had stubbornly remained, determined to be close to the action. That was The Source, and Barbara was waiting for her source at The Source to show up. She’d phoned and asked him for a meeting. He’d been reluctant till she let him set the time and offered lunch. He’d still been reluctant till she mentioned Lynley. That got his attention. He asked, “How is he?” and Barbara could tell the reporter was hoping for something suitable to whet the readers’ appetite in the Recovery from Personal Tragedy department. It wouldn’t make the front page, but he could hope for page 3 plus photos, if the details were good.
She’d said, “I’m not prepared to say a word about a word over the phone. C’n you meet?”
That had done the trick. She hated to use Lynley that way— she hated to use him any way if it came down to it— but as he himself was the one who was asking her for information, she reckoned she was on the safe side of what was appropriate between friends.
Isabelle Ardery had been more difficult to deal with. When Barbara phoned to ask for the time off that she was owed, Ardery had been at once suspicious, as her questions of “Why? Where are you going?” indicated. Barbara had known the acting detective superintendent was probably going to be the difficult nail to pound into the board, so she’d had her excuse ready.
“Haircut,” she said. “Or perhaps I should say hairstyle. I’ve found a place in Knightsbridge.”
“So you just need the day,