A Traitor to Memory

Richard said nothing. Jill saw the pulse beat a rapid tattoo in the vein on his temple. He said, “I hadn't seen my wife in nearly twenty years, Inspector. She might have wanted to tell her lover anything.”


My wife. Jill heard the words like a slim lance piercing her just beneath her heart. She reached blindly for the lid of her laptop. She lowered it and fastened it with more precision than was required.

The inspector was saying, “Did she mention this man—Major Wiley—in any of your conversations, Mr. Davies?”

“We spoke only of Gideon.”

“So you know nothing that might have been on her mind?” the detective pressed on.

“For God's sake, I didn't even know she had a man in Henley, Inspector,” Richard said testily. “So how the hell could I possibly have known what she intended to speak to him about?”

Jill tried to locate the feelings beneath his words. She laid his reaction—and whatever emotion underscored it—next to his earlier reference to Eugenie as his wife, and she excavated in the dust round both to see what fossilised emotions might remain there. She'd managed to put her hands on the Daily Mail that morning, and she'd flipped through it hungrily to find a picture of Eugenie. So she now knew that her rival had been attractive as Jill herself could never be attractive. And she wanted to ask the man she loved if that loveliness haunted him and, if so, what that haunting meant. She wouldn't share Richard with a ghost. Their marriage was going to be all or nothing and if it was meant to be nothing, then she wanted to know that so at least she could adjust her plans accordingly.

But how to ask? How to bring the subject up?

DI Lynley said, “She may not have identified it directly as something she wished to talk to Major Wiley about.”

“Then I wouldn't have known what it was, Inspector. I'm not a mind read—” Richard stopped abruptly. He stood and for a moment Jill thought that, pushed to the extreme in having to talk about his former wife—my wife, he'd called her—he intended to ask the policeman to leave. But instead, he said, “What about the Wolff woman? Eugenie might have been worried about her. She must have got that letter telling her about the release. She might have been frightened. Eugenie gave evidence against her at the trial, and she might have fancied that she—Wolff—would come looking for her. D'you think that's possible?”

“She never told you that, though?”

“No. But him. This Wiley. He was there in Henley. If Eugenie wanted protection—or just a sense of security, of someone looking after her—he'd have been the one to give it to her. I wouldn't. And if that's what she wanted, she'd've had to explain why she wanted it in the first place.”

Lynley nodded and looked thoughtful, saying, “That's possible. Major Wiley wasn't in England when your daughter was murdered. He did tell us that.”

“So do you know where she is?” Richard asked. “Wolff?”

“Yes. We've tracked her down.” Lynley flipped his notebook closed and stood. He thanked them for their time.

Richard said quickly, as if he suddenly didn't want the detective to leave them alone with what alone implied, “She might've been intent on settling the score, Inspector.”

Lynley stowed his notebook in his pocket. He said, “Did you give evidence against her as well, Mr. Davies?”

“Yes. Most of us did.”

“Then watch yourself till we get this cleared up.”

Jill saw Richard swallow. He said, “Of course. I will.”

With a nod to both of them, Lynley left.

Jill was suddenly frightened. She said, “Richard! You don't think … What if that woman killed her? If she tracked down Eugenie, there's every chance that she … You could be in danger as well.”

“Jill. It's all right.”

“How can you say that with Eugenie dead?”

Richard came to her. He said, “Please don't worry. It'll be all right. I'll be all right.”

“But you've got to be careful. You must watch … Promise me.”

“Yes. All right. I do promise that.” He touched her cheek. “Good God. You've gone white as a ghost. You're not worried, are you?”

“Of course I'm worried. He as good as said—”

“Don't. We've had enough of this. I'm taking you home. No arguments, all right?” He helped her to her feet and lingered nearby as she made her preparations to leave. He said, “You told him an untruth, Jill. At least a partial untruth. I let it go when you said it, but I 'd like to correct it now.”

Jill slid her laptop into its carrying case and looked up as she closed its zip. She said, “Correct what?”

“What you said: that I've given my life to Gideon.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that. It was true enough once; a year ago even, it was true. But not now. Oh, he'll always be important to me. How can he be otherwise? He's my son. But while he was the centre of my world for more than two decades, there's more to my life now, because of you.”