Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

So he used her nerves to press a point. “You’ve been saved in any number of ways. I saw Corsico’s article about the kidnapping.”
    “Right,” she said. “Well, that’s Corsico for you. He goes his own way.”
    “For a price. Barbara, what do you owe him?”
    She looked at him. He noted how drawn her face was . . . She looked broken, he thought, and he knew this had everything to do with Taymullah Azhar. She claimed they’d parted at the airport in Pisa. He wanted a few days with Hadiyyah, she said. Just the two of them, she said, to recover from everything that had happened in Italy. That was all she knew, she claimed.
    As far as Mitchell Corsico was concerned, she reckoned he’d raise his Stetson-covered head when next he wanted a hot bit of information. She would, of course, be his contact of choice. She would hold him off. What else could she do? Of course, she went on, she could apply for a transfer. Mitchell would hardly want her as a source if she changed her circumstances so as to become gainfully employed in . . . say . . . Berwick-upon-Tweed. If it came to that, that’s what she would do, she told him. Isabelle knew that. Indeed, the paperwork that was necessary to requesting a transfer had already been filled out, signed, sealed, and placed carefully away in the superintendent’s desk.
    “So she’s got me by the nipple hairs, and don’t I know I deserve it?” Barbara said.
    He couldn’t deny the truth of this statement. Still, he watched her trudge up the driveway in the direction of her bungalow, and he regretted the disconsolate set of her shoulders. He wished for her a different sort of life. He did not know how she was going to achieve it.
    When he rang the appropriate buzzer next to the door, indicating Flat One, Daidre came personally to open it. Flat One was just to the right of the entry. She smiled, said, “Terrible traffic?” and he sighed, “London,” and kissed her.
    She led him inside Flat One and shut the door behind him. He heard the
snick
of the lock and was reassured by this. Then he told himself that Daidre Trahair could take care of herself very well, thank you. Truth to tell, though, when he saw what her accommodation was, he had his doubts.
    It was a terrible place, with a shotgun arrangement of rooms, each more horrible than the one preceding it. They began in the sitting room, which was painted the pink of a newborn’s tongue with a radiator done up in a less-than-compelling shade of blue. The floor was hardwood that had sometime in the past been painted lavender. There was no furniture, and he couldn’t help thinking that was for the best.
    A corridor ran the length of the place, narrow and sided by the walled-up stairway that had once made the building a family home. Off of this opened a single bedroom wallpapered in stripes of the bright vintage associated with the 1960s, Carnaby Street, and the heavy use of psychedelic drugs. The room would have no need of curtains upon its single window. It was painted over. Red had been the choice.
    The next room contained the toilet, a washbowl, and the tub. The tub looked like a host for every sort of deadly bug. The window here was painted blue.
    The kitchen came last, such as it was. There was room for a table and chairs, but neither a cooker nor a refrigerator stood in place. One knew it was a kitchen by virtue of a large sink. That there were no taps was merely a compelling detail.
    Beyond the kitchen was, as Daidre explained to him, the finest feature which made the flat a true must-have. This was the garden, accessible only to her. When she had it cleared of the rubbish, the weeds, and especially the cooker and the refrigerator that lay on their sides with broom blooming through their cracks and crannies, it would be lovely. Didn’t he think so?
    He turned to her. “Daidre . . . darling . . .” He stopped himself. Then he couldn’t keep from saying, “What on earth are you thinking? You can’t live here.”
    She laughed. “I’m very handy, Tommy. It’s all cosmetic . . . well, aside from the kitchen plumbing, which will require someone with more expertise than I have. But other than that, one must look at the bones of a place.”
    “I’m thinking osteoporosis.”
    She laughed again. “I like a challenge. You know that.”
    “You haven’t bought it,” he said. And then hopefully, “Have you?”
    “Can’t, I’m afraid. Not until my place sells in Bristol. But I
do
have an option. I’m quite