A Traitor to Memory

“She's ill,” Hillier said.

“Rotten luck,” was the reply. The surgeon nodded at Randie, saying, “We'll let you know when he's out of recovery. It won't be for several hours, though. You'd be wise to get some rest.”

When he left, Randie turned to her uncle and Lynley, saying anxiously, “He won't die. That means he won't die. That's what it means.”

“He's alive right now, and that's what counts,” her uncle told her, but he didn't say what Lynley knew he was thinking: Webberly might not die, but he also might not recover, at least not to a degree that made him fit for something more than life as an invalid.

Without wanting it to happen, Lynley found himself thrust back in time to another head injury, and another bout of pressure on the brain. That had left his own friend Simon St. James much in the state he was in today, and the years that had passed since the man's long convalescence had not returned to him what Lynley's negligence had taken.

Hillier settled Randie on a PVC sofa, where a discarded hospital blanket marked another anxious relative's vigil. He said, “I'm going to fetch you some tea,” and he indicated to Lynley that he was to follow. Out in the corridor, Hillier paused. He said, “You're acting superintendent till further notice. Put together a team to scour the town for the bastard that hit him.”

“I've been working on a case that—”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing?” Hillier cut in. “Drop that case. I want you on this one. Use whatever resources you need. Report to me every morning. Clear? The uniforms below will put you in the picture of what we've got so far, which is sod bloody all in a basket. A driver going the opposite direction got a glimpse of the car, but it didn't register beyond something large like a limo or a taxicab. He thought the roof might be grey, but you can discount that. The reflection of street lights would have made it look grey, and when was the last time you saw a two-tone car?”

“Limo or taxi. Black vehicle, then,” Lynley said.

“I'm glad to see you haven't lost your remarkable powers of deduction.”

The gibe gave credence to how little Hillier actually wanted him involved in the case at hand. Hearing it, Lynley felt the old quick heat, felt his fingers draw inward to form a fist. But when he said, “Why me?” he did his best to make the question sound polite.

“Because Malcolm would choose you if he were able to speak,” Hillier told him. “And I intend to honour his wishes.”

“Then you think he won't make it.”

“I don't think anything.” But the tremor in Hillier's voice gave the lie to his words. “So just get onto it. Drop what you're doing and get onto it now. Find this son of a bitch. Drag him in. There're houses along the road where he was hit. Someone out there has got to have seen something.”

“This may be related to what I'm working on already,” Lynley said.

“How the hell—”

“Hear me out, if you will.”

Hillier listened as Lynley sketched in the details of the hit-and-run two nights earlier. It was another black car, he explained, and there was a connection between Detective Superintendent Malcolm Webberly and the victim. Lynley didn't spell out the exact nature of their connection. He merely let it suffice that an investigation from two decades in the past might well be what lay beneath the two hit-and-runs.

Hillier hadn't reached his level of command without his fair share of brains, however. He said incredulously, “The mother of the child and the chief investigating officer? If this is connected, who the hell would wait two decades to go after them?”

“Someone who didn't know where they were till recently, I expect.”

“And you've someone likely among the group you're interviewing?”

“Yes,” Lynley said after a moment's reflection. “I believe we may have.”



Yasmin Edwards sat on the edge of her son's bed and curved her hand round his small, perfect shoulder. “Cme on, Danny. Time to get up.” She gave him a shake. “Dan, di'n't you hear your alarm?”

Daniel scowled and burrowed further beneath the covers so that his bottom made an appealing hillock in the bed that caught at Yasmin's heart. He said, “Jus' a more minute, Mum. Please. C'me on. Jus' a more minute.”

“No more minutes. They're adding up too fast. You'll be late for school. Or have to go without breakfast.”

“Tha's okay.”

“Not,” she told him. She smacked his bum, then blew in his ear. “You don't get up, the kiss bugs're gonna go after you, Dan.”

His lips curved in a smile, although his eyes stayed closed. “Won't,” he said. “Got m' bug killer on.”

“Bug killer? I think not. You can't kill a kiss bug. Just you watch and see.”