A Traitor to Memory

“Yes. Exactly. That's their first mistake. Their second is failing to note whether their computer is set up to save all the e-mail that comes into it. They think they've got privacy, but the reality is that their world is an open book to anyone who knows which icons turn which pages. In Mrs. Davies' case, her computer dumped all the messages it received into its trash bin whenever she deleted them, but till she emptied the trash bin itself—which she appears not to have done, ever—the messages were just stored inside it. It happens all the time. People hit the delete button and assume they've got rid of something when all the computer has actually done is to move it to another location.”


“This is everything, then?” Lynley gestured with the stack of papers.

“Every message she received. Helen's to thank for printing them out. She's also gone through them and marked the ones that look like business messages to save you some time. The rest you'll want to have a more thorough look at.”

Lynley said, “Thank you, darling,” to his wife, who had taken a scone from the tray and was nibbling its edges. He went through the stack of papers, setting aside the ones that Helen had marked as business correspondence. He read the rest of them in chronological order. He was looking for anything even moderately suspicious, something from someone with the potential to do Eugenie Davies harm. And although he admitted this only to himself, he was also looking for anything from Webberly, anything recent, anything embarrassing to the superintendent.

Although some of the senders used not their own names but, rather, monikers apparently related to their line of work or their special interests, Lynley was relieved to see that there were none among them that he could easily associate with his superior at New Scotland Yard. There was also no Scotland Yard address listed, which was even better.

Lynley breathed easier and kept on reading to find that there was also nothing among the messages from anyone identifying himself as TongueMan, Pitchley, or Pitchford. And upon a second examination of the first document St. James had handed him, none of the URLs for the web sites Eugenie Davies had visited looked as if they might be a clever cover for a chat room where sexual encounters were set up. Which might or might not, he concluded, move TongueMan-Pitchley-Pitchford off their list.

He went back to the stack of e-mail as St. James and Helen returned to their perusal of the graphs they'd been working with upon his arrival, Helen saying, “The last e-mail she received was on the morning of the day she was killed, Tommy. It's at the bottom of the pile, but you might want to have a look at it now. It caught my eye.”

Lynley saw why when he pulled it out. The message comprised three sentences, and he felt a corresponding chill when he read them: I must see you again, Eugenie. I'm begging. Don't ignore me after all this time.

“Damn,” he whispered. After all this time.

“What do you think?” Helen asked although the tone of her voice indicated that she'd already reached her own conclusion in the matter.

“I don't know.” There was no closing to the message, and the sender was among the group who used a handle rather than a Christian name. Jete was the word that preceded the provider's identification. The provider itself was Claranet, with no business name associated with it.

This indicated that a home computer had probably been used to communicate with Eugenie Davies, which brought Lynley at least some measure of reassurance. Because as far as he knew, Webberly had no personal computer at his home.

He said, “Simon, is there a way to trace the real name of an e-mail user if he's adopted a nickname?”

“Through the provider,” St. James replied, “although I expect you'd have to strong-arm them into giving it to you. They're not obliged to.”

“But in a murder investigation …?” Helen said.

“That might be sufficient coercion,” St. James admitted.

Deborah returned to them, carrying four glasses and a decanter. “Here we are,” she announced. “Scones and sherry.” She proceeded to pour.

Helen said quickly, “Nothing for me, Deborah. Thanks,” and helped herself to a dab of butter that she dotted on a scrap of the scone she'd taken.

“You've got to have something,” Deborah said. “We've been working like slaves. We deserve a reward. Would you rather a gin and tonic, Helen?” She wrinkled her nose. “What on earth am I thinking? Gin and tonic and scones? Now, that sounds appetising.” She handed a glass to her husband and another to Lynley. “This is quite a red-letter day. I don't think I've ever heard you turn down a sherry, Helen, especially after being run ragged by Simon. Are you all right?”

“I'm perfectly fine,” Helen said. And she glanced at Lynley.

Now was the moment, of course, Lynley thought. It was the perfect time for him to tell them. With the four of them congenially together in St. James's lab, what was to stop him from saying offhandedly, “We've an announcement, by the way, although you're probably moments away from guessing it. Have you guessed?” He could put his arm round Helen's shoulders as he spoke. He could carry on and kiss the side of her head. “Parenthood looms,” he could say jokingly. “Goodbye to late nights and Sunday morning lie-ins. Hello to nappies and baby milk.”