A Banquet of Consequences (56 page)

Havers went on, words tumbling one over the other as she sought to explain what she and Nkata had discovered, how they had interpreted it, and what it all had to mean about the death of Clare Abbott. Their conclusions were remarkably similar to those he himself had reached with Rory Statham during their conversation on the previous day. And she had something powerful with which to back them up: the book on adultery, kept only on a memory stick and nowhere else, carefully hidden from Caroline Goldacre.

Still, Lynley said at the end of Havers’ recitation, “But why give the Goldacre woman such moral support all along? If, as you said, Clare was trying to find something compelling to hold over her head . . .”

“She wouldn’t want her to know that till she had it, sir. She
had
to hide from her that she was delving into her life at the same time she had to make it look like she was cooperating with everything Caroline wanted. If Caroline dropped a few hints about needing fifty quid
or—say—wanting a nice bloody memorial for her son, Clare knew better than to ignore them. Caroline had complete control over Clare’s life once she knew about the Just4Fun blokes. Clare had to get that control back somehow. She found a way and it was huge and, because of that, she had to die. Believe me, it’s the only explanation for Clare encouraging the crazy-arse messages she was getting from the woman on her email practically every day. She needed some significant goods on her and she was trying to get them any way she could.”

“And the goods are . . . ?”

“We don’t know.”

Lynley blew out a frustrated breath. “Christ, Barbara. Then where are we? Precisely nowhere, wouldn’t you agree? Or at least back where we were yesterday.”

“I’m on it, sir. I’m going to find them. The goods. Whatever. There’s something. It’s here. It’s somewhere. Just look at what was going on. Caroline’s completely bonkers. She sends email after email to a woman she sees every day and Clare keeps replying with ‘tell me more, darling’ and never with ‘put a sock in it’ which any other person—believe me—would have done in a tick. And Caroline? She never notices this. Not once. Clare could’ve said, ‘Hang on, you’re contradicting yourself here because last time you said Alastair is a giraffe and now you’re saying the man’s a mongoose.’ Because that’s what’s in Caroline’s emails, sir. She says this, she forgets, then she says that. She rants, she raves, she wails, she whines. And all Clare ever says in return is along the lines of ‘oh me, oh my, do tell.’ Because she’s
looking
for something and by God she bloody found it. So what I want to know is can we get a search warrant because if there’s sodium azide anywhere, you ask me, it’s going to be at Caroline’s house.”

“We’re not at the point of a search warrant,” Lynley told her. “Not with this. Not in any sense.”

“We are. We have to be.”

Lynley could hear the desperation in her voice, and he knew very well where that might take her. He said, “Barbara, get control of yourself. Even if everything you’re conjecturing is true, doesn’t it stand to reason that Caroline would be rid of whatever sodium azide was left over once she had the toothpaste tube loaded with it?”

“She would do if Clare was the only person in her life she wanted to off. But think of what else is going on: Her hubby’s bonking a woman who works for him. She stands to lose a bundle if they divorce. D’you think she’d let that go when the poisoning bit worked so well the first time round?”

“But it didn’t, Sergeant. It was found out.”

“Right. But she didn’t know that would be the case. And it wasn’t found out at first and wouldn’t have been had Rory Statham not made an issue of it. Look, the stuff might not be there. I’ll give you that. It’s prob’ly not. But we need that warrant because her house and that bakery . . . ? They’re a
t
that wants crossing and with me and Winnie trying to work out all this alone—”

“Barbara, it’s just not on. There’s not enough.”

“There bloody well
has
to be.”

“Calm down and you’ll see that there isn’t. What I suggest—if you’re intent on pursuing this—is that you use one of your many charms upon Mr. MacKerron. He might well let you have a look round the premises without a warrant. And—perhaps this is even more important—while you’re there you can question him about the contents of some of Caroline’s emails to Clare. I mean the facts of them. Her former husband and her mother have both suggested she’s quite a liar. You might well get something from Alastair that confirms it.”

“What good’s that going to do? It’s his word, her word. And their words, her word. We’ve got enough of that. We need the evidence that—”

“I have no argument there. But I know you’ll agree that where there’s this much smoke—”

“It’s time to circle the wagons,” she finished. “Yeah. I see it.”

“Not to mix a metaphor, but yes. Frankly? I doubt you’ll get more than mere conversation with the man. I can’t see a canister of sodium azide left lying around by
anyone
for future use. And there’s the question of how she could have come by it in the first place. But I admit that everything must be checked out.”

“Well, thank God for small blessings,” Barbara said. “Ta, sir. As to the warrant, will you—”

“No. Go to the house another time. But
when
you go there, for
God’s sake be careful. Go by the book. Because
if
we need a warrant later—”

“Can you at least
start
the paperwork on that? It’ll help if me and Winnie don’t have to come up with it.”

What would it hurt to do that much? Lynley asked himself. He said, “I will,” and when they rang off, he decided to set about it. But he’d not even begun when his mobile rang. Assuming it was Havers, he answered with, “Sergeant, if this is—” only to be cut off by a soft voice.

It was Sumalee Goldacre, to his surprise. Francis, she said, had not told her at first why someone from New Scotland Yard had come to call upon him. But while he had been speaking to her on the previous evening via Skype from the work he was doing in India, they’d got onto the subject of Lynley’s visit and he’d explained. That, she said, was why she was ringing Lynley now.

“Is there something you’d like to add to what your husband told me?” Lynley asked her.

There was, she said. She would have a break in an hour at St. Charles Hospital. Could he come up to her there? They were about to scrub for surgery at the moment, but it was due to be quick and afterwards she’d be free.

Lynley looked at his watch. North Kensington, he thought, nearly to Kensal Rise. He intended to keep his promise to Havers, but this sounded important. He would be there, he told her.

NORTH KENSINGTON

LONDON

There was a small car park stretching the length of the hospital’s several buildings, but it was full. So he did a bit of a drive-around and found a space among the residents’ parking in St. Charles Square between a skip being used for a home renovation and a pile of three rusting bicycles that looked rather like a piece of modern art. He left the Healey Elliott here and walked back to the hospital, a complex of purpose-built London brick structures divided by a leafy central lane,
becoming bright with autumn colours. It looked more like a city university than a hospital, and it was sheltered from street noise by its position some distance from the main artery, Ladbroke Grove.

His mood wasn’t the best. Prior to departing Victoria Street, he’d made a request of Isabelle that she’d denied. He’d argued with her. She’d argued back. “This is down to you, Tommy, and I won’t be moved” was her final word on the topic.

She was, he decided, a woman who knew how to hold a grudge, and he didn’t need her to intone the words
Detective Chief Superintendent Daniel Sheehan
for him to be very clear what the grudge was. But given that all he’d asked was the use of a civilian typist to do the paperwork for the search warrant that DS Havers needed, the fact that Isabelle had denied him this in order to prove a point was maddening.

So he’d gone round her, even though he knew it was on the border of professional suicide to do so. He’d spoken at some length to Dorothea Harriman who, given enough information, could manage what he needed while at the same time appear to be doing something else. Would she? he’d asked her sotto voce after leaving Isabelle’s office. Leave it to me, had been her quiet reply.

He and Sumalee Goldacre had settled on meeting in the hospital’s restaurant. He found this in the basement of the main hospital building. The air inside was redolent of malt vinegar, and the speckled grey floors and faux ash tables were reassuringly spotless.

There were comfortable sofas, chairs, and coffee tables along two of the walls, and Sumalee was at one of these with a plain lunch bag resting unopened before her and her small feet flat on the floor. She stood when she saw him. When he crossed to her, she suggested they head out of doors. Despite the cool breeze outside, the day was sunny and in the garden just beyond the restaurant, there were tables, chairs, and benches where she and he might have a private word.

The privacy of it seemed to be important to Sumalee, so Lynley followed her to the far end of the restaurant where a fire door stood open to allow fresh autumn air into the building. Outside he saw that there was plenty of seating and few people were using it at present. Her choice was a quirky bench set on the edge of an area planted with rhododendrons and youthful limes. The bench’s back had been
fashioned fancifully from a halved wagon wheel. The wheel’s size made the bench more of a settee and put them in close proximity to each other which would, he knew, make it easy for her to speak in a low voice. This appeared to be her preference.

The sunlight dappled her dark hair and her smooth olive skin. She was, he thought another time, very lovely. And the contrast between her exotic beauty and her professional uniform only added to her appeal. He waited for her to explain why she’d asked him to make the journey from Victoria. She did not hesitate or even begin with social niceties. She merely opened her lunch bag, told him that she would have to eat as they spoke, and removed a triangle of homemade egg-salad sandwich from a small plastic bag.

“I’d thought at first that you’d come to speak to Francis about Will” was how she began. “Perhaps because something had come to light regarding his suicide. It was more than three years ago, but it seemed to me that information might have fallen into your hands and you wanted Francis to know about it.”

“Were there lingering questions about his death?” Lynley asked.

She held the sandwich triangle in her two small hands, the way a priest might hold the Host in the moments before the consecration. “It was definitely suicide,” she said. “His partner was present, and more than one person saw her running after Will before he jumped from the cliff. But still . . . One never knows about these things. Not entirely.” She took a bite of her sandwich, chewed thoughtfully. She brought out a small container of grapes, and she offered him some. He shook his head. She went on. “I didn’t like to ask Francis about your call on him because . . . You know that there are sometimes matters that don’t bear bringing up in a marriage. Are you married, Inspector?”

“I was. My wife died nearly eighteen months ago.”

“I’m so sorry. I hope yours was a happy union?”

“Very much so. Which makes the loss, of course . . .” He raised his fingers, lowered them. Enough said, the gesture told Sumalee.

“I expect you know, then, that often there are subjects that one doesn’t touch upon with a partner, sometimes to respect his privacy and sometimes merely to keep the peace. In our case—Francis’s and
mine—he has always been hesitant when it comes to talking about his first family, and I’ve learned to respect this. So it was only last night that he told me you’d come to speak to him about an interview he’d had with Clare Abbott.”

“That’s right,” Lynley said. “Did you know he’d been interviewed by Clare?”

“I did,” she said. “But Francis didn’t know that I knew.”

“Ah,” Lynley said.

She looked at him warily. “It’s not, perhaps, what you are thinking. I didn’t . . .” She frowned as if searching for the proper word. “I didn’t
delve
to discover this. I knew he’d had an interview with Clare because Clare told me. When she interviewed me.”

At this, Lynley altered his position on the bench, swinging slightly to face her profile. Her expression was as serene as it had been from the first. “When was this?” he asked her.

“Perhaps ten days after she interviewed Francis.”

“And did she tell you why she’d interviewed him and why she wanted to interview you?”

“About Will,” Sumalee said. “She wanted to know if I’d had a relationship of my own with him. As he was my stepson, I told her that of course I had.”

“What was she after?” Lynley asked.

Sumalee glanced his way another time, saying, “This is difficult for me as a second wife. I understand how it might appear: that a second wife wishes to cause trouble for this first wife by passing along gossip. Only it isn’t actually gossip and anyway it is not my intention to cause difficulties for Caroline nor was it ever. Indeed, I have no way of knowing if what I might tell you now is even important to Clare Abbott’s death.”

“I see the problem,” Lynley told her. “But as we’re attempting to sort out a great deal of information regarding Caroline and Clare’s relationship, whatever you tell us might be helpful.”

“I understand. I just don’t know if I can live with myself if it’s harmful to Caroline.”

Lynley waited. He wasn’t in a position to reassure her. He reckoned it wasn’t likely she possessed details that would lead them along a
path of culpability whose destination was Caroline Goldacre, but one never knew.

Across from them, a group of nurses came out of the restaurant’s fire door and trooped over to one of the picnic tables squarely in the sun. As most Londoners would do, they positioned themselves to get the sunlight onto their faces. One of them unbuttoned her shirt to expose her chest.

Sumalee watched them, smiling faintly, before she went on. Her voice was lower than ever as she said, “She wanted to speak to me about Caroline’s treatment of Will, Inspector. She wanted to know if Caroline abused him.”