Playing for the Ashes (95 page)

“The length of the sentence is up to the court. And the skill of his barrister.”

“So it’s true.”

“What?”

“That the kid did it.”

“You’ve no doubt read the papers.”

She lifted the cigarette to her mouth and inhaled, watching him over the glowing tip. “Why’re you here, then? Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”

“There’s not much to celebrate in a murder investigation.”

“Not even when the bad guys are caught?”

“Not even then. I’ve found the bad guys are rarely as bad as I would like them to be. People kill for all sorts of reasons, but the rarest is malice.”

She inhaled another time. He could see the wariness in her eyes and her posture. Why’s he here? she was wondering, and her expression told him she was making an attempt to suss him out.

“People kill for revenge,” he said easily, as if he were a lecturer in a criminology classroom with nothing at stake. “They kill in a sudden fit of temper. They kill because of ava

rice. Or in self-defence.”

“That’s not murder, then.”

“Sometimes they become embroiled in territorial disputes. Or they attempt to secure justice. Or they need to cover up another crime. Other times they commit an act of desperation, in trying to secure freedom from bondage, for example.”

She nodded. Behind her, Faraday shifted on his chair. Lynley could see that the black-and-white cat had stolen silently into the galley as he was speaking and leapt to the table where she was weaving between two empty glasses. Faraday didn’t appear to notice the animal.

“Sometimes they kill because of jealousy,” Lynley said. “Because of thwarted passion, obsession, or love. Sometimes they even kill by mistake. They aim in one direction, but they shoot in another.”

“Yeah. I expect that happens.” Olivia tapped her cigarette against the tin. She returned it to her mouth and used her hands to pull her legs closer to the chair.

“That’s what happened in this case,” Lynley said.

“What?”

“Someone made a mistake.”

Olivia gave her attention to the newspapers briefly, seemed to think this was avoidance, and returned her gaze to Lynley. She kept it there as he went on.

“No one knew that Fleming was going to Kent last Wednesday night. Are you aware of that, Miss Whitelaw?”

“As I didn’t know Fleming, I haven’t given it much thought.”

“He told your mother he was going to Greece. He told his teammates much the same. He told his son he had cricket business to take care of. But he didn’t tell anyone he was going to Kent. Not even Gabriella Patten, who was staying at the cottage and whom he no doubt wished to surprise. Curious, isn’t it?”

“His kid knew he was there. The papers said.”

“No. The papers said Jimmy confessed.”

“That’s logic chopping. If he confessed to killing him, he had to know he was there to do the job.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Lynley said. “Fleming’s killer—”

“The kid.”

“I’m sorry. Yes. The boy—Jimmy, the killer—knew that someone was in the cottage. And that someone was indeed the intended victim. But in the killer’s mind—”

“In Jimmy’s mind.”

“—that someone in the cottage wasn’t Fleming at all. It was Gabriella Patten.”

Olivia ground her cigarette against the tin. She sent Faraday a look. He brought her another. She lit up again and held the smoke in. Lynley could imagine it swirling through her blood to buzz round her skull.

“How’d you come up with this?” she
fin
ally asked.

“Because no one knew Fleming was going to Kent. And his killer—”

“The boy,” Olivia said tersely. “Why d’you keep saying ‘Fleming’s killer’ when you know it’s the boy?”

“Sorry. Force of habit. I’m falling back on police terminology.”

“You said you were off duty.”

“And I am. Bear with my lapses if you will. Fleming’s killer—Jimmy—loved him but had good reason to hate Gabriella Patten. She was a disruptive influence. Fleming was in love with her, but their affair kept him in turmoil, which he was unable to conceal. Beyond that, their affair promised great changes in Fleming’s life. If he actually married Gabriella, his circumstances would alter dramatically.”

“Specifically, he’d never go back home.” Olivia sounded comfortable with this conclusion. “Which is what the boy wanted, isn’t it? Didn’t he want his dad to come home?”

“Yes,” Lynley said, “I dare say that was the motive behind the crime. To keep Fleming from marrying Gabriella Patten. It’s ironic, however, when you think about the situation.”

She didn’t say, What situation? She merely lifted her cigarette and observed him from behind its smoke.

Lynley continued. “No one would have died at all had Fleming himself had less masculine pride.”

In spite of herself, Olivia drew her eyebrows together.

“His pride is the basis for the crime in the first place,” Lynley explained. “Had Fleming only been less proud, had he only been willing to reveal that he was going to Kent to end the affair with Mrs. Patten because he’d discovered he was just one in a long line of her lovers, his killer—forgive me, I’m doing it again; Jimmy, the boy—would have had no need to eliminate the woman. There would have been no mistake about who was staying in the cottage that night. Fleming himself would still be alive. And the kil—And Jimmy wouldn’t go through the rest of life tormented by the thought of having murdered—by mistake— someone he loved so much.”

Olivia took a moment to examine the tin’s contents before she ground her cigarette out against its side. She placed the tin on the
flo
or and folded her hands in her lap. “Yeah,” she said. “Well, what do they say about always hurting the one we love? Life’s rotten, Inspector. The kid’s just learning early.”

“Yes. He is learning, isn’t he? All about what it’s like to be branded a parricide, to have charges brought against him, to be fingerprinted and photographed, to face a criminal trial. And after that—”

“He should’ve thought
fir
st.”

“But he didn’t, did he? Because he—the killer, Jimmy, the boy—thought the crime was perfect. And it almost was.”

She watched, wary. Lynley thought he could hear her breathing change.

He said, “There was only one detail that marred it.”

Olivia reached for her walker. She intended to rise, but Lynley could see that the depth of the armchair made it difficult for her to do so without assistance. She said, “Chris,” but Faraday didn’t move. She jerked her head in his direction. “Chris. Give a hand.”

Faraday looked at Lynley and asked the question, which Olivia was avoiding. “What detail marred it?”

“Chris! Goddamn—”

“What detail?” he asked again.

“A telephone call made by Gabriella Pat-ten.”

“What about it?” Faraday asked.

“Chris! Help me. Come on.”

“It was answered as it should have been,” Lynley said. “But the person who allegedly answered doesn’t even know the phone call was made. I find that curious when—”

“Oh too right,” Olivia snapped. “Do you remember every phone call you get?”

“—when I consider the time the call was made and the nature of the message. After midnight. Abusive.”

“Maybe there was no call,” Olivia said. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe she lied about making it.”

“No,” Lynley said. “Gabriella Patten had no reason to lie. Not when lying extended an alibi to Fleming’s killer.” He leaned towards Olivia, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not here as a policeman, Miss Whitelaw. I’m here simply as a man who’d like to see justice done.”

“It’s being done. The kid confessed. What more do you want?”

“The real killer. The killer that you can identify.”

“Bollocks.” But she wouldn’t look at him.

“You’ve seen the papers. Jimmy’s confessed. He’s been arrested. He’s been charged. He’ll go to court. But he didn’t kill his father, and I think you know it.”

She reached for the tin. Her intentions were obvious. But Faraday wouldn’t accommodate her.

“Don’t you think the boy’s been through enough, Miss Whitelaw?”

“If he didn’t do it, then let him go.”

“That’s not the way it works. His future was mapped out the moment he said he murdered his father. What happens next is a trial. After that, prison. The only way he can clear himself is if the real killer is apprehended.”

“That’s your job, not mine.”

“It’s everyone’s job. That’s part of the price we pay for choosing to live among others in an organised society.”

“Oh, is it?” Olivia shoved the tin to one side. She grasped the walker and pulled herself forward. She grunted with the strain of lifting and moving the uncooperative mass of her muscles. Beads of perspiration began to dot her forehead.

“Livie.” Faraday got up from his chair and came to her side.

She shrank away from him. “No. Forget it.” By the time she was upright, her legs were quaking so badly that Lynley wondered if she would be able to remain on her feet much more than a minute. She said, “Look at me. Look…at…me. Do you know what you’re asking?”

“I know,” Lynley said.

“Well, I won’t. I
won’t
. He’s nothing to me. They’re nothing to me. I don’t care about them. I don’t care about anyone.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Try. You’ll manage.”

She wrenched the walker to one side and followed it with her body. With painful slowness, she faltered from the room. As she passed the table in the galley, the cat sprang to the floor, twined between her legs, and followed her out of sight. More than a minute went by before they heard the sound of a door closing behind her.

Faraday looked as if he wanted to follow her, but he stayed where he was, standing next to her chair. Although he kept his gaze pointed in the direction Olivia had taken, he said to Lynley in a low rapid voice, “Miriam wasn’t there that night. Not when we got there. But her car was there and the lights were on and she’d left music playing so we both assumed…I mean it was logical for us to assume she’d just popped over to a neighbour’s for a minute.”

“Which is what anyone who happened to knock on her door was meant to think.”

“Except we didn’t knock. Because Livie had the key. We let ourselves in. I…I looked round the house to tell her Livie had arrived. But she wasn’t there. Livie told me to shove off, so I did.” He turned to Lynley. He asked, sounding desperate, “Is that enough? For the boy?”

“No,” Lynley said and when Faraday’s expression became even more bleak, “I’m sorry.”

“What’s going to happen? If she doesn’t tell the truth?”

“A sixteen-year-old boy’s future hangs in the balance.”

“But if he didn’t do it—”

“We have his confession. It’s perfectly solid. The only way we can negate it is by identifying who did.”

Lynley waited for Faraday to respond in some fashion. He hoped for a single clue as to what might happen next. He’d reached the absolute bottom of his bag of tricks. If Olivia didn’t break, he’d smeared the name and the life of an innocent boy for nothing.

But Faraday didn’t make a reply. He merely went to the table in the galley, where he sat and dropped his head into his hands. His
fin
gers pressed into his skull until their nails were white.

“God,” he said.

“Talk to her,” Lynley said.

“She’s dying. She’s afraid. I don’t have the words.”

Then they were lost, Lynley concluded. He picked up his newspapers, folded them, and went out into the evening.

OLIVIA

T
he footsteps came on. They were certain, determined. My mouth got dry as they closed in on the morning room door. They stopped abruptly. I heard someone take a sharp breath. I turned in my chair. It was Mother.

We stared at each other. She said, “God in heaven,” with her hand on her breast, and she stayed where she was. I waited for the sound of Kenneth following her. I waited for his voice saying, “What is it, Miriam?” or “Darling, is something wrong?” But the only sound was the grandfather clock in the corridor bonging out three o’clock. The only voice was Mother’s. “Olivia?
Olivia
? My God, what on earth…”

I thought she would come into the room, but she didn’t. She remained in the dark corridor just beyond the doorway, where she reached with one hand for the jamb and climbed the other to the collar of her dress. This she pinched closed. She was fairly hidden in the shadows, but I could see enough to know she wasn’t wearing one of her Jackie Kennedy sheaths. Instead she had on a bright spring number of green with a pattern of daffodils climbing from the hem to a gathered waist. It looked like something one might notice in a C & A window display heralding the change in seasons. It wasn’t like anything Mother had ever worn before, and it emphasised her hips in an unflattering manner. I felt odd, seeing her dressed like that, and I wondered if she’d hung a gay straw boater with streamers on the hook just inside the garden door. I half expected to look at her feet and see sweet little white T-strap shoes upon them. I was embarrassed for her. It didn’t take an advanced degree in human psychology to delve past the costume to the intention beneath it.