Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

behind, which I reckon is plentiful. Now, do we climb into the boat and plug its holes and float it together, mate, or do we let it sink on its bloody own?”
    Doughty examined her before he shoved his chair back and opened the drawer in which he kept his own fail-safe memory stick.
    “You and your sodding metaphors,” he replied.
    VICTORIA
    LONDON
    Lynley wasn’t sure what his preoccupation actually meant. He’d come into the Yard early upon Isabelle’s request, he’d been buttonholed by John Stewart for an extended and unpleasant conversation about Barbara Havers’s tendency towards insubordination, he’d finally managed to wrest himself away from the other DI, and now as he waited in Isabelle’s office, he realised that he hadn’t taken in whatever it was that Stewart had been implying about Barbara’s performance while on his team.
    The reason was Daidre Trahair. They’d had a fine dinner together at her hotel, conversation flowing easily between them until the moment that he’d finally got up the nerve to ask her who Mark was—“That bloke you were speaking to on your mobile when I came into the wine bar?” he said to her when she looked utterly puzzled by the question—and he’d been unaccountably relieved to learn that Mark was her solicitor in Bristol. He would be looking over the contract that London Zoo had offered Daidre because, as she put it, “I’m hopeless when it comes to the ‘party of the first part’ and ‘pursuant to Clause One,’ and that sort of thing, Thomas. Why do you ask about Mark?”
    That was certainly the question, he admitted. Why did he ask? He hadn’t been this preoccupied by a woman since before his marriage to Helen. And what was puzzling to him was that Daidre Trahair was absolutely nothing like Helen. He couldn’t quite work out what it meant: that the first woman to interest him seriously was someone completely different from his dead wife. So he had to ask himself if he was truly interested in Daidre or merely interested in making Daidre interested in him.
    He’d said to her, “The answer to that question. It’s something I’m working on. Not very adeptly, I’m afraid.”
    “Ah,” she said.
    “Ah, indeed. Like you, I’m a bit at sixes and sevens.”
    “I’m not entirely sure I want to know what you mean.”
    “Believe me, I understand,” he’d said.
    At the end of their meal, she walked with him through the lobby of the hotel to the front door of the place. It was a large hotel, part of an American chain, the kind of place where businessmen and -women stayed and their comings and goings went largely ignored by the staff. This meant all sorts of things, among which was the fact that when someone went to someone else’s room, no one took note of that unless observation of the CCTV films became necessary later. He found himself acutely aware of this. He felt a sudden need to get out of the place unscathed. And what did
that
mean? he asked himself. What was bloody wrong with him?
    She walked out onto the pavement in his company. There, the night was inordinately pleasant. She said, “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
    He said, “Will you tell me when you’ve decided about the job?”
    “Of course I will.”
    Then they looked at each other, and when he kissed her, it seemed like a natural thing to do. He fingered a piece of her sandy hair that had come loose from the slide at the back of her head, and she reached up and caught his fingers and squeezed them lightly. She said, “You’re a lovely man, Thomas. I would be every way the fool if I didn’t see that.”
    He moved his hand to her cheek—he could feel her blush, although in the dim light he couldn’t see it—and he bent to kiss her. He held her briefly and breathed in the scent of her and acknowledged that her scent was not the citrus of Helen that he’d so loved and realised that this was not a bad thing. He said, “Ring me, please.”
    “As you recall, I did. And will do again.”
    “I’m glad of that, Daidre,” he told her and then he left.
    There was no question of his going to her room. He didn’t want to. And what, he wondered, did
that
mean, Thomas?
    “Are you listening to me, Tommy?” Isabelle asked. “Because if you are, I’d expect at some point you’d grunt or nod or look reflective or, for God’s sake, something.”
    “Sorry,” he said. “Late night and not enough coffee this morning.”
    “Shall I have Dee bring you a cup?”
    He shook his head.