Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

of having it off with three blokes at once, she had to admit that anything was possible. She herself would worry about mistakenly shrieking the wrong name in the height of passion. On the other hand, heights of passion weren’t regular occurrences in her life.
    She said to Castro, “How long did your affair with Angelina last?”
    “Is that important?”
    “Matter of curiosity, I suppose.”
    He glanced at her and then away. “I don’t know. A few years? Two or three? It was always off and on.”
    “How often did you meet when it was ‘on’?”
    “Generally twice a week. Sometimes three.”
    “Where?”
    Another glance. He gave her a speculative head to toe. “What does it matter?”
    “Another point of curiosity. Love to know how the other half lives, if you wouldn’t mind telling me.”
    He looked away, his gaze settling across the room where he was reflected in the mirror. “Anywhere,” he said. “In the back of cars, in a taxi, here in the studio, backstage in a West End theatre, at my place, at her place, at a particular lap dancing club.”
    “That must have been interesting,” Barbara commented.
    “She liked risk. Once we did it in the pedestrian tunnel to Greenwich. She was creative, and I liked that about her. Passion drives her. And what drives passion is excitement and secrecy. That’s who she is. That’s how she is.”
    “Seems to me that she’s the sort of woman a bloke would want to hang on to, then,” Barbara noted. “You know what I mean, I expect. Any time, any place, dressed, undressed, standing, sitting, kneeling, whatever. Don’t blokes get off on that kind of thing?”
    “Some do.”
    “And are you ‘some’?”
    “I’m Latin, Sergeant. What do you think?”
    “I think it would be tough to replace her,” Barbara pointed out, “once she was gone. Could have been a real heartbreaker for you.”
    “No one replaces Angelina,” he said. “And like I told you, I expect her to be back.”
    “Even now?”
    “With her in Italy?”
    “With her living with Lorenzo Mura.”
    “I don’t know.” He looked at his watch and got to his feet, ready to resume rehearsal. “I suppose I should be glad it lasted as long as it did,” he added. “Come to think of it, so should Mura.”

24 April
    HOXTON
    LONDON
    B athsheba Ward was next on Barbara’s list. Since the wily cow had lied to her about her sister—and this was looking more and more like a bloody family trait, wasn’t it?—Barbara was determined to show her no pity. She was also determined to give DI Stewart and Detective Superintendent Ardery no further ammunition to fire upon her. For both of these reasons, she rose in what for her were the wee hours of the morning and headed to Hoxton. She bought a takeaway coffee on her way and used it to wash down a gratifyingly extra-large bacon butty. She was more than ready to take on the world when she arrived in Nuttall Street, where Bathsheba and her husband Hugo Ward lived in a flat on a very nicely kept estate of buildings fashioned from London brick.
    No one was up and about on the estate when Barbara arrived, but that was no surprise as it was a quarter past six. She found the Ward flat with no trouble at all, and she leaned on the external bell for as long as it took until a man’s voice demanded, “What in God’s name do you want? Do you know what time it is?”
    “New Scotland Yard,” Barbara told him. “I need a word. Now.”
    This was greeted by silence as the man—presumably Hugo Ward—thought this one over. She gave him five seconds and then rang the bell a second time. He buzzed her inside the place without another word, and she made her way to the flat on the second floor.
    Before she could knock, he had the door open. Despite the hour, he was dressed for the day in complete business regalia: three-piece suit, crisp shirt—although hideously two-toned with white collar and blue body—striped tie, and professionally polished shoes. He said, “
You’re
the police?” in apparent confusion. Barbara reckoned it was her trainers, which apparently were causing him undue concern. She showed him her police identification. He admitted her into the flat.
    “What’s this about?” he asked, not unreasonably.
    “A word with your wife,” Barbara told him.
    “She’s asleep.”
    “Wake her up.”
    “Are you aware of the time?”
    She wore a wristwatch, and she shook it next to her ear and squinted at it.
    “Damn,” she said. “Mickey’s gone