Careless In Red (17 page)

“Kids,” Hannaford said. “They think they’re invincible.”

“This one wasn’t. Anyway, the extent of the injuries suggests he fell the moment he began the abseil.”

“Which itself suggests the sling broke the instant it took his full weight.”

“I’d agree with that.”

“What about the black eye? It was healing, yes? What’s it consistent with?”

“A bloody good punch. Someone gave him a decent one that likely floored him. You can still see the impression of the knuckles.”

Hannaford nodded. She gave a glance at Lynley, who’d been listening and simultaneously wondering why Hannaford was making him part of this. It was more than irregular. It was foolhardy of her, considering his position in the case, and she didn’t seem like a foolhardy woman. She had a plan of some sort. He would have laid a wager on that.

“When?” Hannaford asked.

“The punch?” Lisle said. “I’d say a week ago.”

“Does it look like he was in a fight?”

Lisle shook his head.

“Why not?”

“No other marks on him of a similar age,” Lynley put in. “Someone got one good blow in and that was that.”

Hannaford looked at him, quite as if she’d forgotten she’d brought him. Lisle said, “I’d agree. Someone snapped or someone was giving him discipline of some sort. It either resolved things, knocked him flat, or he wasn’t the type to be provoked, even by a punch in the face.”

“What about sadomasochism?” Hannaford asked.

Lisle looked thoughtful, and Lynley said, “I’m not sure sadomasochists like being punched in the face.”

“Hmm. Yes,” Lisle said. “I’d think your common S and M freak would be looking to have himself tweaked round his privates. Spanked as well. Maybe whipped for good measure. And we’ve got nothing on the body consistent with that.” All three of them stood for a moment, staring at the chart of the skeletal system. Lisle finally said to Hannaford, “How’s the dating coming along? Internet made your dreams come true yet?”

“Daily,” she told him. “You must try it again, Gordie. You gave up far too soon.”

He shook his head. “I’m finished there. Case of looking for love in all the wrong places, if I might coin a phrase.” He gazed mournfully round the mortuary. “Puts them right off, this does, and no getting round it. No dolling it up. I spill the beans and there you have it.”

“What d’you mean?”

He gestured to the room. Another corpse was waiting nearby, a sheet covering its body, a tag on its toe. “When they learn what I do. No one fancies it much.”

Hannaford patted him on the shoulder. “Well, no matter there, Gordie. You fancy it and that’s what counts.”

“You want to give us a try, then?” He looked at her differently, assessing and weighing.

“Don’t tempt me, dear. You’re far too young, and anyway I’m a sinner at heart. I’ll need the paperwork on this”—using her chin to indicate the trolley that had been washed off—“as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll sweet-talk someone,” Lisle said.

They left him. Hannaford examined a hospital plan nearby and ushered Lynley to the cafeteria. He couldn’t think she intended to have a meal after their visit to the morgue, and he found he was correct in this assessment of matters. Hannaford paused in the doorway and looked round the room till she spied a man at a table alone, reading a newspaper. She led Lynley to him.

It was the man, Lynley saw, who’d come to Daidre Trahair’s cottage on the previous night, the same man who’d asked him about New Scotland Yard. He hadn’t been identified then, but Hannaford did the honours now. This was ACC Ray Hannaford from Middlemore, she told him. The assistant chief constable stood and courteously offered his hand.

“Yes,” DI Hannaford then said to Lynley.

“Yes?” Lynley asked.

“He’s a relation.”

“Former,” Ray Hannaford said. “Regrettably.”

“You flatter me, darling,” DI Hannaford said.

Neither of them elucidated further, although the word former spoke a volume or two. More than one cop in the immediate family, Lynley concluded. It couldn’t have been easy.

Ray Hannaford picked up a manila envelope that had been sitting on the table. “Here it is,” he said to his former wife. “Next time you insist on a courier, do tell them where you are for delivery, Beatrice.”

“I did tell them,” the DI replied. “Obviously, whoever the sod was who brought this down from London, he didn’t want the bother of going all the way to Holsworthy or the Casvelyn station. Or,” she asked shrewdly, “did you put in a call for this as well?” She gestured with the manila envelope.

“I didn’t,” he said. “But we’re going to have to talk about a quid pro quo. The account’s growing. The drive from Exeter was bloody murder. You owe me on two fronts now.”

“Two? What’s the other?”

“Fetching Pete last night. Without complaint, as I recall.”

“Did I drag you from the arms of a twenty-year-old?”

“I believe she was at least twenty-three.”

Bea Hannaford chuckled. She opened the envelope and peered inside. She said, “Ah yes. I take it you’ve had a look yourself, Ray?”

“Guilty as suspected.”

She brought the contents out. At once Lynley recognised his own police identification from New Scotland Yard.

He said, “I handed that in. It should have been…What do they do to those things when someone quits? They must destroy them.”

Ray Hannaford was the one who replied. “Apparently, they weren’t willing to destroy yours.”

“Premature was the word they used,” Bea Hannaford added. “A hasty decision made at a bad time.” She offered the Scotland Yard ID to Lynley.

He didn’t take it. Instead he said, “My identification is on its way from my home. I did tell you that. My wallet, along with everything in it, will be here by tomorrow. This”—he indicated his warrant card—“was unnecessary.”

“On the contrary,” DI Hannaford said, “it was entirely necessary. Phony IDs, as you well know, are as easy to get as the clap. For all I know, you’ve spent the morning scouring the streets for the goods.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“I expect you can work that out for yourself, Superintendent Lynley. Or do you prefer the aristo title? And what the hell is someone like you doing working for the Bill?”

“I’m not,” he said. “Not any longer.”

“Tell that to the Yard. You didn’t answer. Which are you called? Which d’you prefer? Personal or professional title?”

“I prefer Thomas. And now that you know I am who I said I was last night—which I suspect you knew already or why else would you have allowed me into the mortuary with you—may I presume I’m free to resume my walk on the coast?”

“That’s the very last thing you may presume. You’re not going anywhere till I tell you otherwise. And if you’re thinking of scurrying off in the dark of night, think again. You’ve a usefulness now I have the proof you are who you claimed to be.”

“Usefulness as a policeman or as a private citizen?” Lynley asked her.

“As whatever works, Detective.”

“Works for what?”

“For our good doctor.”

“Who?”

“The vet. Dr. Trahair. You and I both know she’s lying through those pretty white teeth of hers. Your job is to find out why.”

“You can’t possibly require me—”

Hannaford’s mobile rang. She held up a hand and cut him off. She dug the phone from her bag and walked off a few paces, saying, “Tell me,” into the mobile as she flipped it open. She bent her head as she listened. She tapped her foot.

“She lives for this,” Ray Hannaford said. “She didn’t, at the beginning. But now, it’s what makes her alive. Foolish, isn’t it?”

“That death would make someone alive?”

“No. That I let her go. She wanted one thing; I wanted another.”

“That happens.”

“Not if I’d had my head on straight.”

Lynley looked at Hannaford. Earlier, he’d said regrettably about his status as the inspector’s former husband. “You could tell her,” Lynley said.

“Could and did. But sometimes when you demean yourself in another’s eyes, you can’t recover. I’d like to turn back time, though.”

“Yes,” Lynley said. “Wouldn’t we both.”

The DI returned to them then. Her jaw was set. She gestured with her mobile and said to the ACC, “It’s murder. Ray, I want that incident room in Casvelyn. I don’t care what you have to do to get it and I don’t care what the quid pro quo is going to be either. I want HOLMES set up, an MCIT in place, and an evidence officer assigned. All right?”

“You don’t ask for much, Beatrice, do you?”

“On the contrary, Raymond,” she replied levelly. “As you well know.”

“WE’LL SORT OUT A car for you,” Bea Hannaford said to Lynley. “You’re going to need one.”

They stood outside the entrance to Royal Cornwall Hospital. Ray had gone on his way, after telling Bea that he couldn’t promise her anything and after hearing her retort of “how true,” which she knew was an unfair dig but which she used anyway because she’d long ago learned that when it came to murder, the end of charging someone with a homicide justified any means one employed to get there.

Lynley replied with what sounded to Bea like care. “I don’t believe you can ask this of me.”

“Because you outrank me? That’s not going to count for much out here in the hinterlands, Superintendent.”

“Acting, only.”

“What?”

“Acting superintendent. I was never promoted permanently. I was just stepping in to fill a need.”

“How good of you. The very sort of bloke I’m looking for. You can step in to fill another rather burning need now.” She felt him glance her way as they proceeded towards her car, and she laughed outright. “Not that need,” she said, “though I expect you offer a decent shag when a woman puts a gun to your head. How old are you?”

“The Yard didn’t tell you?”

“Humour me.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Star sign?”

“What?”

“Gemini, Taurus, Virgo, what?”

“Is this somehow important?”

“As I said, humour me. Going along with the moment is so inexpensive, Thomas.”

He sighed. “Pisces, as it happens.”

“Well, there you have it. It would never work between us. Besides, I’m twenty years older than you and while I fancy them younger than myself, I don’t fancy them that young. So you’re entirely safe in my company.”

“Somehow that’s not a soothing thought.”

She laughed again and unlocked the car. They both climbed in, but she didn’t insert the ignition key at once. Instead, she looked at him seriously. “I need you to do this for me,” she told him. “She wants to protect you.”

“Who?”

“You know who. Dr. Trahair.”

“She hardly wants that. I broke into her house. She wants me around to pay for the damage. And I owe her money for the clothing.”

“Don’t be obtuse. She jumped to your defence earlier, and there’s a reason for that. She’s got a vulnerable spot. It may have to do with you. Or it may not. I don’t know where it is or why it is, but you’re going to find it.”

“Why?”

“Because you can. Because this is a murder investigation, and all the nice social rules fly out of the window when we start looking for a killer. And that’s something you know as well as I do.”

Lynley shook his head, but it seemed to Bea Hannaford that this movement wasn’t one of refusal so much as one that acknowledged a regretful understanding and acceptance of a single immutable fact: She had him by the short and curlies. If he did a runner, she’d fetch him back and he knew it.

He said at last, “Was the sling cut, then?”

“What?”

“The phone call you received. You came away from it calling the situation murder. So I’m wondering if the sling was cut or if they’ve dug up something else at forensics.”

Bea thought about whether to answer the question and what it would signal to him if she did so. She knew little enough about the man, but she also knew when a leap of faith was needed simply for what a leap of faith meant. She said, “It was cut.”

“Obviously so?”

“Microscopic examination helped push the decision—if you will—over the edge.”

“So not terribly obvious, at least to the naked eye. Why do you think it’s murder?”

“And not…what?”

“Suicide played out to look like an accident to spare the family additional pain.”

“What do we know so far that could possibly lead you there?”

“He was hit. Punched.”

“And…?”

“It’s stretching, but perhaps he wasn’t in a position to defend himself. He wanted to but couldn’t. Who knows why. He felt unable or at least unwilling, which resulted in a sense of uselessness. He projects that uselessness onto the rest of his life, onto all his relationships, no matter how illogical the projection is…”

“And Bob’s your mother’s you-know-what? I don’t think so and neither do you.” Bea shoved her car key into the ignition and thought about what these remarks suggested, not so much about the victim but about Thomas Lynley himself. She gave him a wary look and wondered if she’d been wrong in her assessment of him. “D’you know what a chock stone is?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Should I? What is it?”

“It’s what makes this a murder investigation,” she said.

THE RAIN STOPPED IN CASVELYN NOT LONG AFTER MIDDAY, and for this Cadan Angarrack was grateful. He’d been painting radiators in the guest rooms of Adventures Unlimited since his arrival that morning, and the fumes were causing his head to pound. He couldn’t sort out why they had him painting radiators anyway. Who was going to notice them? Who ever noticed whether radiators were painted when they were in a hotel? No one except perhaps a hotel inspector and what did it amount to if a hotel inspector noticed a bit of rust in the ironwork? Nothing. Abso-bloody-lutely nothing. And anyway, it wasn’t like the decrepit Promontory King George Hotel was being taken back to its former glory, was it? It was merely being made habitable for the hordes interested in a holiday package on the sea that consisted of fun, frolic, food, and some kind of instruction in an outdoor activity. And that lot didn’t care where they stayed at night, as long as it was clean, served chips, and stayed within the budget.

So when the skies cleared, Cadan decided that a bit of fresh air was just the ticket. He would have a look at the crazy golf course, future location of the BMX trails, future site of the BMX lessons that Cadan was certain would be requested of him once he had a chance to show his stuff to…That was the problem of the moment. He wasn’t quite sure to whom he would be showing anything.