Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

She had to take the bitter medicine Isabelle would then dole out to her. But he knew that Havers would never do it.
    His mobile rang. For a moment he allowed himself to think that Barbara had seen sense. She’d thought rationally as she’d finished her coffee, and here she was to announce that she’d reconsidered.
    But a glance at his phone told him it wasn’t Barbara phoning at all. It was Daidre Trahair.
    “This is a pleasant surprise,” he told her in answering the mobile’s ring.
    “Where are you?”
    “Ringing for the lift as it happens.”
    “Does that mean a lift in Italy or somewhere else?”
    “It means London.”
    “Ah. Lovely. You’re back.”
    “Only just now. I flew in from Pisa late this morning and came directly to the Met.”
    “How is it that you coppers put things, then? Did you have a ‘good result’?”
    “We did.” The lift doors opened, but he waved it off, not wanting to chance losing the signal. He gave Daidre a few details about Hadiyyah’s safe return to the arms of her parents. He didn’t tell her about SO12, Pakistan, or Barbara’s perilous situation.
    She said, “You must be enormously relieved to have it turn out so well. She’s safe, she’s healthy, her parents are . . . what?”
    “Certainly not reconciled to each other, but in acceptance of the reality that they must share her. Admittedly, it’s not the best situation for a nine-year-old, shuttling between parents in two different countries, but it’s how things must be.”
    “This is how it is for so many children, isn’t it, Tommy? I mean, going between two parents.”
    “You’re right, of course. More and more, it’s the way of the world.”
    “You sound . . . not quite as relieved as I’d think you’d be.”
    He smiled at this. She had read him astutely, and he found, unexpectedly, that he liked that fact. He said, “I suppose that I’m not. Or perhaps I’m merely tired.”
    “Too tired for a glass of wine?”
    His eyes widened. “Where are you? Are you not phoning from Bristol?”
    “I’m not.”
    “Dare I hope . . . ?”
    She laughed. “You sound like Mr. Darcy.”
    “I thought women liked that. Along with those tight trousers.”
    She laughed again. “As it happens, they do.”
    “And . . . ?”
    “I’m in London. On business, of course—”
    “Of the Kickarse Electra kind?”
    “Alas, no. This is business of the veterinarian kind.”
    “Might I ask what a large animal veterinarian is doing in London? Have we a camel at the zoo in need of your expert ministrations?”
    “That brings us back to the glass of wine. If you’ve time this evening, I’ll explain it to you. Have you the time?”
    “Name the place and I’m there.”
    She did so.
    BELSIZE PARK
    LONDON
    The wine bar she suggested was in Regent’s Park Road, north of both Regent’s Park and Primrose Hill. It was situated rather unceremoniously between a newsagent’s and a kitchen shop, but its exterior position was deceptive. Inside, all was candlelight, velvet-draped windows, and linen-covered tables for two.
    As the hour was still early and the place largely unoccupied, he saw Daidre at once. She was seated at a table tucked into a corner, where a painting on the wall either featured a modern look-alike to William Morris’s wife—God, what was her name? he wondered—or there was a Pre-Raphaelite extant that he wasn’t aware of. A light shone brightly upon the piece, giving Daidre sufficient illumination to inspect a set of papers she’d spread on the table. She was also speaking to someone on her mobile.
    He paused before crossing the wine bar to join her, aware of experiencing a decided rush of pleasure at seeing Daidre again. He took a rare opportunity to study her without her knowledge, noting that she was wearing new spectacles—rimless and virtually unnoticeable—and that she was dressed for business in a tailored suit. The scarf she wore bore a mixture of colours that matched her sandy hair and, it was likely, her eyes as well, and it came to him that he and she could actually pass for brother and sister, so similar was their colouring.
    As he approached, he saw other details. She was wearing a simple pendant necklace: its decoration a gold depiction of the wheelhouse of one of the Cornish mines from the area of her birth. She had gold studs in her ears as well, but they and the necklace comprised her only jewellery. Her hair was slightly longer now, reaching below her shoulders, and she was