A Traitor to Memory

She said, “Yeah. Tha's right. Katja was here.” But there was an undercurrent in the way she made the statement that suggested the facts might prove otherwise.

Something always alters in a person when he lies. Nkata had been told that a hundred times. Listen to the timbre of the voice, he'd been lectured. Watch for changes in the pupils of the eyes. Look for the head's movement, the shoulders either relaxing or tensing, the muscles of the throat constricting. Look for something—anything—that wasn't there before, and that something will tell you exactly where the speaker stands in relation to the truth.

He said, “I'll need another word,” and he nodded upwards.

“I've given you words.”

“Yeah. I know.” He headed back to the lift, and they went through the exercise they'd gone through before. But the silence between them felt charged to Nkata, and charged with something more than a man-to-woman charge, more than copper to suspect, more than former lag to potential screw.

“She was here,” Yasmin Edwards said. “But you don't believe me 'cause you can't believe me. 'Cause if you sussed where Katja was living, then you sussed the rest and you know I did time and lags and liars are one 'n the same when it comes to the filth. I'n't that right, man?”

He'd reached the door to her flat. She slid in front of it, blocking his way. She said, “You ask her what she did last night. You ask her where she was. She tell you she was here. An' just to make sure I can't mess with your process, I'll keep myself out here while you ask her.”

Nkata said, “Suit yourself, but put this round you if you mean to stay outside,” and he himself put the coat round her shoulders this time, drawing the collar up to protect her neck from the wind. She flinched. He wanted to say, “How'd you get this way, woman,” but instead, he ducked back inside the flat to have his confrontation with Katja Wolff.

10





“THERE WERE LETTERS, Helen.” Lynley was standing at the cheval mirror in their bedroom, gloomily attempting to make a choice among three ties that dangled limply from his fingers. “Barbara found them in a chest of drawers, just like love letters, all of them together with envelopes included. Everything was in place except the traditional blue ribbon tying them up.”

“Perhaps there's an innocent explanation.”

“What the hell was the man even thinking?” Lynley went on as if his wife hadn't spoken. “The mother of a murdered child. The victim of a crime. You don't find anyone more vulnerable than that, and when you do, you put distance between yourself and her. You don't seduce her.”

“If that's what happened in the first place, Tommy.” Lynley's wife watched him from the bed.

“What else could it have been? ‘Wait for me, Eugenie. I'm coming for you.’ That doesn't sound to me like your average bread-and-butter letter straight out of Mrs. Beeton.”

“I don't think Mrs. Beeton advised housewives on their letter writing, darling.”

“You know what I mean.”

Helen rolled onto her side, took his pillow, and cradled it to her stomach. She said, “Lord,” in a hollow tone that he couldn't ignore.

“Bad this morning?” he asked.

“Awful. I've never felt like this in my life. When will it progress to the rosy glow of a woman fulfilled? And why are pregnant women in novels always described as glowing when in reality they'd have faces like paste and stomachs at war with the rest of their bodies?”

“Hmm.” Lynley considered her question. “I don't actually know. Is it a conspiracy to keep the species propagating? I wish I could bear this for you, darling.”

She laughed weakly. “You've always been such a terrible liar.”

There was truth to that, and because of it, he held up the three ties for her inspection. “I was thinking about the dark blue with the ducks. What do you say?”

“Very appropriate for fostering in suspects the false belief that you'll be gentle with them.”

“Just what I thought.” He returned to the mirror, draping the other two ties round one of the bedposts on his way.

She said, “Did you tell DCI Leach about the letters?”

“No.”

“What did you do with them?” Their glances met in the mirror, and she read his reply on his face. “You took them? Tommy …”

“I know. But consider the alternative: to hand them over as evidence or to leave them there for someone else who might track down Webberly at the worst possible time and return them. To his home, for instance. With Frances standing there, just waiting for someone to deal her a death blow. Or even to the Yard, where it wouldn't do much for his career to have it made public that he'd involved himself with the victim of a crime. Or how about to a tabloid or two? They've such a profound love for the Met, after all.”

“Is that the only reason you took them? To protect Frances and Malcolm?”

“What other reason is there?”