Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

belly up.” And to Hugo Ward, “You’ve already mentioned the time, Mr. Ward. And I don’t have a hell of a lot of it to waste. So if you’ll fetch your wife . . . ? Tell her it’s Sergeant Havers, here to share a morning cuppa with her. She knows who I am. Tell her it’s about her trip to Italy last November.”
    “She didn’t go to Italy last November.”
    “Well someone did. And on her passport.”
    “That’s not possible.”
    “Believe me, Mr. Ward. In my line of work, you suss out pretty fast that anything’s possible.”
    He looked disturbed by the information. That was good. It meant he would be inclined to cooperate. His glance went from Barbara to the corridor behind him. They stood in the small square entry of the flat, where a mirror on one wall reflected a pricey-looking piece of modern art on the other. It was all lines and squiggles suggestive of nothing. But even at that, it did look as if the painter had known what he was doing, although Barbara couldn’t reckon why this should be the case.
    She said, “Mr. Ward . . . ? I’m short on time here. D’you want to rouse her from her beauty whatevers, or do you want me to do the honours?”
    He said, “Just a moment, then,” and told her to wait in the sitting room, which he called the reception room like some estate agent getting ready to sell the place. This was just off the corridor and like the entry, it was hung with a plethora of modern paintings and decorated with furniture that bore the look of Bathsheba’s distinctive design style. On tables here and there were framed photographs, and Barbara sauntered over to give them the eye as Hugo Ward disappeared to fetch his wife.
    She saw that the pictures were of the happy, extended Ward family: the two adult children and their spouses, a winsome grandchild, the beaming paterfamilias, the devoted second wife hanging upon him. They were in various poses on various occasions, and they all reminded Barbara of a quotation that she couldn’t identify but knew that Lynley could have: Someone was protesting too much. In this case it was all about Aren’t we a happy, handsome group? She gave a snort, turned away, and saw that Hugo Ward had come to the reception room’s door.
    “She’ll see you when she’s dressed and had her coffee,” he said.
    “I don’t think so,” Barbara told him. “Where is she?” She crossed the room and went into the corridor, heading towards three closed doors. “Bedroom’s this way?” she said. “Since it’s just us girls, she won’t be showing me anything I don’t own myself.”
    “You bloody hang on!” Ward demanded.
    “Love to but you know the situation with time and tide. Is it this door?”
    She opened the first that she came to as Hugo Ward blustered behind her, protesting every inch of the way. The first room was a study, beautifully appointed. She gave it a look, clocked more paintings and even more family photos, and went on to the second door, which she opened, singing out, “It’s wakey-wakey time. Early bird, the worm, and you know the rest.”
    Bathsheba was sitting up in bed, a cup of coffee on the table next to her, and three newspapers spread out across the covers. So much for her having been asleep, Barbara thought. She eyed Hugo Ward and said, “Naughty, naughty. It’s not nice to lie to the rozzers, you know. Gets right up our noses, that does.”
    He said, “Sorry,” to Bathsheba. “She charged in, darling.”
    “I can see that,” Bathsheba replied tartly. “Honestly, Hugo. Would it have been too difficult . . . ?” She tossed a paper to one side and reached for her dressing gown.
    Barbara said to Hugo Ward, “It’ll be just us girls, like I said,” and closed the door in his face. She could hear him engaged in more blustering on the other side.
    Bathsheba rose from the bed and worked her way into her dressing gown. She said to Barbara, “I’ve told you what I know, which is absolutely nothing. The fact that you’ve come to my home before dawn—”
    “Open the curtains, Bathsheba, and have a surprise. Sun’s up, birds are twittering, and the worms are dead worried.”
    “Very amusing. And you know what I mean. You’ve come at a deliberately ungodly hour to rattle me and there’s nothing to rattle. This might be how the London police are used to operating, but it is
not
how I am used to operating, and believe me, I’ll be talking to someone about you and your methods the moment you leave.”
    “Fine. I