A Traitor to Memory

Lynley studied Webberly thoughtfully: faded, thin straw-coloured hair hastily brushed across his forehead, natural ruddiness of complexion muted, neck holding the head at an angle that suggested too much weight on his shoulders. Everything about him spoke of a single explanation—bad news—and a single source—the phone call.

Webberly roused himself but didn't move from the shadows as he spoke. “He's working a hit-and-run up in West Hampstead, Tommy. That's why he called. It happened round ten, eleven tonight. The victim's a woman.” Webberly paused, seemed to be waiting for Lynley to make a response of some kind. When Lynley didn't do anything other than nod—unfortunately, hit-and-runs happened with a distressing frequency in an urban environment in which foreigners often forgot which side of the street they were supposed to be driving on and in which direction they ought to be looking if they were pedestrians—Webberly studied the tip of his cigar and cleared his throat. “From the state of things, Leach's crime scene people are guessing that someone knocked her down, then deliberately ran over her. And then got out, dragged her body to one side, and drove on his way.”

“Christ,” Lynley murmured reverently.

“Her handbag was found nearby. Car keys and ID were in it. The car itself wasn't far, right there on the street. Inside, on the passenger seat, was a London A to Z, along with specific directions to the street where she was killed. And an address was there as well: Number Thirty-two Crediton Hill.”

“Who lives there?”

“The bloke who found the body, Tommy. The very same bloke who happened to drive up the street within an hour of her being hit.”

“Was he expecting the victim at his home? Had they an appointment?”

“Not that we know of, but we don't know much. Leach said the bastard looked like he'd swallowed an onion when they told him the woman had his address in her car. All he said was 'No. That's impossible,' and phoned his solicitor directly.”

Which was, of course, his right. But there was certainly something suspicious about that being someone's first reaction to learning a murder victim was carrying his address.

Still, neither the hit-and-run nor the oddity of its discovery could explain to Lynley why DCI Leach had phoned Webberly at one in the morning or why Webberly was reporting that phone call to him now.

He said, “Sir, is DCI Leach in over his head for some reason? Is something wrong with the murder squad in Hampstead?”

“Why did he phone, you mean? And more importantly, why am I telling you?” Webberly didn't wait for a reply before he sank into his desk chair and said, “Because of the victim, Tommy. She's Eugenie Davies, and I want you involved. I want to move heaven and earth and hell if I have to, to get to the bottom of what happened to her. Leach knew that the moment he saw who she was.”

Lynley frowned. “Eugenie Davies? Who was she?”

“How old are you, Tommy?”

“Thirty-seven, sir.”

Webberly blew out a breath. “Then I suppose you're too young to remember.”

GIDEON





23 August





I didn't like the way you asked me the question, Dr. Rose. I was offended by your tone and the implication. Don't try to tell me there was no implication, because I'm not that much of a fool. And don't make allusions to the “real meaning” behind a patient's drawing inferences from your words in the first place. I know what I heard, I know what happened, and I can summarise both for you in a sentence: You read what I've written, saw an omission in the story, and pounced on it like a criminal barrister with a mind so closed as to be virtually useless.

Let me repeat what I said in our session: I made no mention of my mother until that final sentence because I was attempting to fulfil your assignment to me, which was to write what I remember, and I was writing what I was writing as it came into my mind. She did not come into my mind before then: before Raphael Robson became, virtually, my full-time instructor and companion.

But the Italian-Greek-Portuguese-Spanish girl did come into your mind? you ask me in that insufferably quiet calm placid manner of yours.

Yes, she did. What's that supposed to mean? That I have a heretofore unmentioned affinity for Portuguese-Spanish-Italian-Greek girls, arising from my unacknowledged indebtedness to an unnamed young woman who unknowingly started me on my path to success? Is that it, Dr. Rose?