A Traitor to Memory

The garden here was overgrown, unlike the other small gardens on the street. On either side of the front door, shrubbery had been allowed to flourish, and tentacles from a star jasmine bush at one side and a Spanish broom on the other hungered outward towards the front door as if for an anchoring spot. From across the street, Nkata watched as Katja sidled through the shrubbery and mounted the two steps onto the front porch. She didn't ring the bell. Rather, she opened the door and let herself in. Her companion followed.

The door shut behind them and a light went on right inside the entry. This was followed some five seconds later by a dimmer light, which began to glow behind the curtains at the front bay window. The curtains were such that only silhouettes were visible. But nothing more than silhouettes was necessary to understand what was going on when the two women melded into one figure and into each other's arms.

“Right,” Nkata breathed. So at last he saw what he had come to see: a concrete illustration of Katja Wolff's infidelity.

Laying this information in front of the unsuspecting Yasmin Edwards should suffice to get her to start telling what was what with regard to her companion. And if he left this instant and jogged back to his car, he'd be able to make the drive to the Doddington Grove Estate far in advance of Katja herself, who thus wouldn't be able to prepare Yasmin to hear something which Katja could later label a lie.

But as the two figures in the Galveston Road sitting room moved apart to set about doing whatever it was that they intended to do for each other's pleasure, Nkata found himself hesitating. He found himself wondering how he could broach the subject of Katja's infidelity in such a way as to avoid making Yasmin Edwards want to kill the messenger instead of absorbing the message.

Then he wondered why he was wondering that at all. The woman was a charlie. She was also a lag. She'd knifed her own husband and done five years and no doubt learned a few more tricks of the trade while she was inside. She was dangerous and he—Winston Nkata, who himself had escaped a life that could have sent him along a path similar to hers—would do well to remember that.

There was no need to rush over to the Doddington Grove Estate, he decided. From the looks of things here in Galveston Road, Katja Wolff wasn't going anywhere soon.



Lynley was surprised to find his wife still at the St. James house when he arrived. It was nearly time for dinner, long past the hour at which she usually departed. But when Joseph Cotter—St. James's father-in-law and the man who had held the Cheyne Row household together for more than a decade—admitted Lynley into the house, the first thing he said was, “They're up in the lab, the whole flamin' lot of 'em. No surprise, that. His nibs's got them marching today. Deb's up there 's well, though I don't s'pose she's cooperating like Lady Helen's been doing. Even went without lunch. ‘Can't stop now,’ 'e said. ‘We're almost done.’”

“Done with what?” Lynley asked, thanking Cotter when the other man set down a tray he'd been carrying and took his coat.

“God knows. Drink? Cuppa? I made fresh scones”—this with a nod at the tray—“'f you c'n be bothered to take 'em up with you. I did 'em for tea, but no one came down.”

“I'll investigate the situation.” Lynley took the tray from where Cotter had balanced it precariously on an umbrella stand. He said, “Any message for them?”

Cotter said, “Tell 'em dinner's at half eight. Beef in port wine sauce. New potatoes. Courgettes and carrots.”

“That should certainly tempt them.”

Cotter snorted. “Should do, yes. But will do? Not likely. But mind you tell 'em there's no skipping this one 'f they want to keep me cooking. Peach is up there as well, by the way. Don't give her one of them scones, no matter what she does. She's on a diet.”

“Right.” Dutifully, Lynley mounted the stairs.

He found everyone where Cotter had promised they would be: Helen and Simon were poring over a set of graphs spread out on a worktable, while Deborah was examining a string of negatives just inside her darkroom. Peach was snuffling round the floor. She was the first to spy Lynley, and the sight of the tray he was carrying caused her to prance over to him happily, tail wagging and eyes alight.

“If I were na?ve, I'd think you were welcoming me,” Lynley said to the animal. “I've strict orders to refrain from feeding you, I'm afraid.”

At this, St. James looked up and Helen said, “Tommy!” and glanced at the window with a frown, adding, “Good Lord. What time is it?”

“Our results aren't making sense,” St. James said to Lynley without other explanation. “A gram as the minimum fatal dose? I'll be laughed out of the hearing.”

“And when is the hearing?”

“Tomorrow.”

“It looks like a late night, then.”

“Or ritual suicide.”

Deborah came to join them, saying, “Tommy, hello. What have you brought us?” Her face lit up. “Ah. Brilliant. Scones.”

“Your father's sending a message about dinner.”

“Eat or die?”

“Something along those lines.” Lynley looked at his wife. “I thought you'd be long gone by now.”