Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

Barbara” sat on the corner of Frank Dixon Close. It was neo-Georgian in style: perfectly balanced, large, brick, trimmed in white, with freshly painted black gutters, rainheads, and downspouts. A neatly trimmed and weedless lawn fronted it, broken into two sections by a flagstone path leading to the front door. On either side of this, garden lights illuminated flowerbeds. Inside the house itself, a faux candle stood in every window as acknowledgement of the holiday season.
    Barbara parked, and she and Azhar stared at the place. She finally said, “Looks like someone’s not hurting for lolly,” and she gazed round at the neighbourhood. Every house that she could see in the street suggested buckets of cash had been spent upon it. If nothing else, Frank Dixon Close was a burglar’s wet dream.
    When they knocked on the door, no one came to answer. They excavated for a bell and found it beneath a swag of holiday holly. They had more success when they pressed upon this, for within the house a voice called out, “Humphrey, can you get that, darling?” In short order a succession of deadlocks went from bolted to un-, the door swung open, and Barbara and Azhar were looking at the father of Angelina Upman.
    Azhar had told her that Humphrey Upman was managing director of a bank and his wife was a child psychologist. What he hadn’t mentioned was the fact that the man was a racist, but that became clear in very short order. His expression gave him away. It was of the order of “there goes the neighbourhood,” all flared nostrils and pursed lips, and he moved sharply to block the doorway lest Azhar launch himself inside the house with a gunny sack at the ready to clear the place of the family silver.
    When he said, “And you want . . . ?” however, it was also clear that he knew quite well who Azhar was, even if he was still in the dark as to Barbara’s identity.
    She took up the reins by bringing out her warrant card. “Conversation is what we want, Mr. Upman,” she told him as he scrutinised her identification.
    “What would the Metropolitan police have to do with me?” He handed the ID back, but he made no move to open the door any wider than the width of his own body.
    “Let us inside and I’ll be happy to tell you,” Barbara replied.
    He considered this and said, “He remains out here,” in reference to Azhar.
    “A bloody fascinating imperative, that, but it’s not the best start to our conversation.”
    “I have nothing at all to say to him.”
    “That’s good since you’re not required to.”
    Barbara was wondering how much longer she was going to have to keep up the repartee with the man when, from behind him, his wife said, “Humphrey? What’s . . .” Her voice dropped off when she looked over her husband’s shoulder and saw Azhar.
    Azhar said to her, “Angelina has disappeared. She’s been gone for a month. We are trying—”
    “We’ve been made very much aware that she’s gone,” Humphrey Upman cut in. “Let me say this so that you both will understand it perfectly: If our daughter were dead—if our daughter
is
dead—it could not matter less at this point.”
    Barbara wanted to ask the man if he’d always been filled with such paternal goodwill, but she didn’t have the opportunity. His wife said, “Let them in, Humphrey,” to which he replied without a glance in her direction, “Filth has no place in this house.”
    Barbara thought of the expression as it was used by villains, but she knew Upman wasn’t making reference to her. It was Azhar he intended to insult.
    She said, “Mr. Upman, if you say another word in that direction—”
    His wife interrupted. “If you’re concerned about contamination, Humphrey, then take yourself to another room. Let. Them. In.”
    Upman waited just long enough to suggest that his wife would be paying later for her remarks. Then he turned on his heel and left her to swing open the door and allow them entrance. She led the way into a living room, beautifully decorated but without a sign of personal taste other than that of an interior designer. It looked out upon the back garden of the property, and through its French windows, landscaping lights illuminated paths, a fountain, statuary, dormant flowerbeds, and lawn.
    In a corner of the room, a Christmas tree stood. It was yet to be decorated, but the fact that they’d interrupted Ruth-Jane Upman in the midst of handling this holiday chore was evident by a string of lights that had been