A Traitor to Memory

Wiley examined the picture again, and it was apparent from his expression that he very much wanted to recognise her, possibly to put an end to the anxiety of not knowing who had struck down and killed the woman he loved, possibly for another reason altogether. But ultimately, he shook his head and thrust the picture back at Lynley. “What about that bloke?” he asked. “The Audi. He was raging, he was. Bent on hurting someone. I could feel it. And the way he drove off … He was just the sort of bastard who blows. Doesn't get what he wants, so he makes a statement and the statement is usually a body. Or bodies. You know what I mean. Hungerford. Dunblane.”


“We haven't ruled him out,” Lynley said. “Constables back in town are working through a list of Audis from Brighton. We should know something at that end soon.”

Wiley grunted and removed his glasses. He shoved them into his jacket pocket.

Lynley said, “You mentioned that Mrs. Davies wanted to talk to you, that she said specifically that she had something to tell you. Have you any idea what that was, Major Wiley?”

“None.” Wiley reached for more books. He checked the dust jackets of these, going so far as to open each one and to run his fingers along the inner flap as if he were looking for imperfections.

As he did so, Lynley reflected upon the fact that a man generally knows when the woman he loves does not reciprocate the emotion. A man also knows—he can't avoid knowing—when the passion within a woman he loves begins to wither. Sometimes he lies to himself about the fact, denying it till the moment comes when he can no longer avoid it or escape it altogether. But he always knows even subconsciously when things aren't right. Openly admitting this is a form of torture, though. And some men can't cope with such torture, so they choose another route to deal with the matter.

Lynley said, “Major Wiley, you heard the messages on Mrs. Davies' answer machine yesterday. You heard the men's voices, so it can't be a surprise to you when I ask if Mrs. Davies might have been involved elsewhere besides with you, if that's what she might have wanted to tell you.”

“I've thought it,” Wiley said quietly. “Nothing else has been in my mind since … Damn. God damn.” He shook his head and shoved his hand into his trouser pocket. He brought out a handkerchief and honked into it loudly enough to disturb the reading of the woman in the armchair. She looked round, saw Lynley and Havers, and said, “Major Wiley? Is everything all right?”

He nodded, raised a hand as if to underscore his assent, and turned his shoulder so she couldn't see his face. She seemed to feel this was answer enough, for she went back to her reading as Wiley said to Lynley, “I feel a perfect fool.”

Lynley waited for more. Havers tapped her pencil against her notebook and frowned.

Wiley gathered himself together and told them the apparent worst there was for him to tell: about the nights he watched Eugenie Davies' cottage from his upstairs window and about one night in particular when his surveillance had finally been rewarded. “One A.M.,” he said. “It was that bloke with the Audi. And the way she touched him … Yes. Yes. I loved her and she was involved somewhere else. So was that what she wanted to tell me, Inspector? I don't know. I didn't want to know then, and I don't want to know now. What's the point?”

“The point is finding her killer,” Havers said.

“You think it's me?”

“What sort of car do you drive?”

“A Mercedes. It's right there, in front of the shop.”

Havers looked to Lynley for direction, and he nodded. She went outside and the two men watched her giving the car's front end a thorough inspection. It was black, but the colour was inconsequential if there was no damage to report.

“I wouldn't have hurt her,” Wiley said quietly. “I loved her. I trust you lot understand what that means.”

And what it implies, Lynley thought. But he didn't speak, merely waiting till Havers had completed her inspection and returned to them. It's clean, her eyes told them. Lynley could see she was disappointed.

Wiley read the message. He allowed himself the pleasure of saying, “I hope that satisfies. Or do you want me on the rack as well?”

“I expect you want us to do our job,” Havers pointed out.

Wiley said, “Then do it. There's a photo gone missing from Eugenie's house.”

“What sort of photo?” Lynley said.

“The only one of the little girl alone.”

“Why didn't you tell us this yesterday?”

“Didn't realise it. Not till this morning. She had them lined up on the kitchen table. Three rows of four. But she had thirteen pictures of those kids in the house—twelve of both of them and one of the girl—and unless she'd taken that one back upstairs, it's gone missing.”

Lynley looked at Havers. She shook her head. There had been no picture in any of the three rooms she'd looked through on the first floor of Doll Cottage.

“When was the last time you saw that photo?” Lynley asked.

“Whenever I was there, I saw all of them. Not like they were yesterday—in the kitchen—but spread round. In the sitting room. And upstairs. On the landing. In her sewing room.”

“P'rhaps she'd taken that one to have a new frame,” Havers said. “Or thrown it away.”

“She wouldn't have done,” Wiley said, aghast.

“Or given it away or lent it somewhere.”

“A picture of her daughter? Who'd she give it to, then?”

It was a question, Lynley knew, that had to be answered.