A Traitor to Memory

Lynley looked up from one of the reports to see Nkata scrutinising his pager and contemplatively fingering his facial scar. He took off his reading glasses and said, “What is it, Winnie?” and the constable replied, “Don't know, man.” But he said it slowly, as if he had his thoughts on the subject, after which he went to a phone on a nearby desk, where a WPC was entering data into the computer.

“I think our next step is Swansea, sir,” Lynley had said to DCI Leach by mobile once they'd completed their interview with Raphael Robson. “It seems to me that we've got all the principals in hand at this point. Let's run their names through the DVLA and see if one of them has an older car registered, in addition to what they're driving round town. Start with Raphael Robson and see what he has. It could be in a lockup somewhere.”

Leach had agreed. And this is what the WPC at the computer was doing at the moment: contacting the vehicle department, plugging in names, and looking for ownership of a classic—or simply an old car.

“We can't discount the possibility that one of our suspects just has access to cars—old or otherwise,” Leach had pointed out. “Could be the friend of a collector, for instance. Friend of a car salesman. Friend of someone who works as a mechanic.”

“And we also can't discount the possibility that the car was stolen, recently purchased from a private party but not registered, or brought over from Europe to do the job and already returned with no one the wiser,” Lynley said. “In which case the DVLA will be a dead end. But in the absence of anything else …”

“Right,” Leach said. “What've we got to lose?”

Both of them knew that what they had to lose was Webberly, whose condition had altered perilously in Charing Cross Hospital.

“Heart attack,” Hillier had said tersely from intensive care. “Just three hours ago. Blood pressure went down, heart started acting dodgy, then … bam. It was massive.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lynley said.

“Used those things on him … what're they … electrical shocks …”

“Those paddles?”

“Ten times. Eleven. Randie was there. They got her out of the room but not before the alarms and the shouting and … It's a bloody mess, this.”

“What are they telling you, sir?”

“He's monitored every which way to Sunday. IVs, tubes, machines, wires. Ventricular fibrillation, this was. It could happen again. Anything could.”

“How's Randie?”

“Coping.” Hillier didn't give Lynley a chance to enquire about anything else. Instead, he went on gruffly, as if wishing to dismiss a topic that was too frightening to entertain, “Who've you brought in for questioning?” He wasn't happy when he learned that Leach's best efforts had failed to gain anything substantial from Pitchley-Pitchford-Pytches upon his third interview. He was also not pleased to learn that the equally best efforts of the teams who were working the sites of the two hit-and-runs had uncovered nothing more useful than what they had already known about the car. He was moderately satisfied with the news from forensic about the paint chips and the age of the vehicle. But information was one thing; an arrest was another. And he God damn wanted a bloody arrest.

“Do you have that message, Acting Superintendent?”

Lynley took a deep breath and put the heightened level of Hillier's acerbity down to his understandable dread about Webberly. He did indeed have the message, he told the AC steadily. Was Miranda really all right, though? Was there anything he could …? Had Helen at least managed to get her to have a meal?

“She's gone to Frances,” Hillier said.

“Randie?”

“Your wife. Laura's got exactly nowhere, can't even budge her from her bedroom, so Helen's decided to try her hand. Good woman, there.” Hillier harrumphed. He would, Lynley knew, never venture any closer to a compliment.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Get on with things. I'm staying here. I don't want Randie alone should anything … should she be asked to decide …”

“Right. Yes, sir. That's the best idea, isn't it?”

Now Lynley watched Nkata. Curiously, the constable was protecting his phone conversation from eavesdroppers with a broad shoulder lifted to shield the mouthpiece of the receiver. Lynley frowned at this, and when Nkata rang off, he said, “Get anything?”

Rubbing his hands together, the DC said, “Hope so, man. Bird who lives with Katja Wolff's asking for another word. That's who paged. Think I ought …?” He nodded towards the doorway, but the motion seemed more a bow to obligation than an actual request for direction because the constable's fingers began tapping against the pocket of his trousers as if eager to dig out his car keys.

Lynley reflected upon what Nkata had already told him about his most recent interview with both women. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“Just a word. Said she didn't want to talk on the phone.”

“Why not?”