Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

is”—with a gesture to acknowledge the room itself and its art collection—“quite obviously profitable, it leads me in the direction of believing that it also violates any number of laws.”
    Unaccountably, then, and contrary to Lynley’s expectations of him, Smythe muttered, “Jesus
Bloody
Christ.”
    Lynley raised an eyebrow expectantly. Calling upon the Saviour wasn’t the reaction he’d thought he might get. Nor was what came next from the man.
    “I don’t know who you are, but let’s get this straight. I don’t bribe cops, no matter what you think.”
    “How very good to know,” Lynley replied, “as I’m not here to be bribed. But I expect you see how the suggestion on your part doesn’t actually clarify your connection to Mr. Doughty, although it does leap in the direction of admitting you’re operating something here that’s illegal.”
    Smythe seemed to be evaluating this for some reason. The reason became marginally clear when he said, “Did she give you my name?”
    “She?”
    “We both know who I mean. You’re from the Met. You’re a cop. So is she. And I’m not stupid.”
    Not entirely, Lynley thought. He had to be speaking about Havers, so another connection was made. He said, “Mr. Smythe, what I know is that an officer of the Met came to see you and, after her call upon you, went directly to the office of a private investigator called Dwayne Doughty who was—earlier in the year—engaged in a search for a British child kidnapped in Italy. This same Mr. Doughty has been named by a man under arrest in Italy for his own involvement in the kidnapping. Now, the Smythe-to-Doughty business asks for conclusions to be drawn, and that’s my job. It also asks whether there might be Smythe-to-Doughty-to-bloke-under-arrest-in-Italy conclusions to be drawn as well, which is also my job. I can happily draw those conclusions or you can clarify. Frankly, I don’t know what we have here unless you tell me.” And when Smythe’s expression bordered on the complacent at the end of these remarks, Lynley added, “So I suggest you enlighten me lest the report I give to my guv indicates that a more thorough investigation of you is necessary.”
    “I’ve told you. I work for Doughty occasionally. The work’s confidential.”
    “A broad idea would be fine.”
    “I compile information on cases he’s working on. I pass the information to him.”
    “What’s the nature of the information?”
    “Confidential. He’s an investigator. He investigates. He investigates people. I follow trails that they leave and I . . . Let’s say I map those trails, all right?”
    Trails
suggested only one thing in this day and age. “Using the Web?” Lynley said.
    Smythe said, “Confidential, I’m afraid.”
    Lynley smiled thinly. “You’re a bit like a priest, then.”
    “Not a bad analogy.”
    “And for Barbara Havers? Are you her priest as well?”
    He looked confused. Clearly, he had not expected the river to course in this direction. “What about her? Obviously, she’s the cop who came to see me and she went from me to Doughty. You already know that. And as to what I told her or what sent her there . . . If I don’t keep my work confidential, Inspector . . . What did you say your name was?”
    “Thomas Lynley.”
    “Inspector Lynley. If I don’t keep my work confidential, I’m out of business. I’m sure you get that, eh? It’s a bit like your own work when you think about it.”
    “As it happens, I’m not interested in what you told her, Mr. Smythe. At least not at present. I’m interested in why she showed up on your doorstep.”
    “Because of Doughty.”
    “He sent her to you?”
    “Hardly.”
    “She came on her own, then. For information, I daresay, since—if you work for Doughty—supplying information is your business. We seem to have come full circle in our conversation and what’s left is for me to repeat the obvious: Gathering information appears to be paying you quite well. From that and the look of your home, I expect what you’re doing can lead you to trouble.”
    “You’ve said this.”
    “As I noted. But your world, Mr. Smythe”—he glanced round the large room—“is about to undergo a seismic shift. Unlike Barbara Havers, I’m not here on my own behest. I’ve been sent, and I expect you can put the pieces together and come up with the reason why. You’re on the Met’s radar. You’re not going to be happy to be there. To use an analogy that I’m