A Traitor to Memory

Lynley hadn't replied because it seemed to him that “watching the patient's progress” was a medical euphemism for waiting for an appropriate moment to pull the plug. Now, across the table from Havers with an undoctored espresso (his) and a coffee loaded with milk and sugar not to mention a pain au chocolat (both hers) between them, Lynley dug out his handkerchief from his pocket and spread it out on the table, disclosing its contents.

He said, “We may be down to this,” and indicated the shards of glass he'd taken from the edge of the pavement in Crediton Hill.

Havers scrutinised them. “Headlamp?” she asked.

“Not considering where I found them. Swept under a hedge.”

“Could be nothing, sir.”

“I know,” Lynley said gloomily.

“Where's Winnie? What's he come up with, Inspector?”

“He's on Katja Wolff 's trail.” Lynley filled her in on what Nkata had reported to him earlier.

She said, “So are you leaning towards Wolff? Because like I said—”

“I know. If she's our killer, it's not about her son. So what's her motive?”

“Revenge? Could they have framed her, Inspector?”

“With Webberly part of the they? Christ. I don't want to think so.”

“But with him involved with Eugenie Davies …” Havers had brought her coffee to her lips, but she didn't drink, instead, looking at him over the top of it. “I'm not saying he would've done it deliberately, sir. But if he was involved, he could've been blinded, could've been … well, led to believe … You know.”

“That presupposes the CPS, a jury, and a judge were all led to believe as well,” Lynley said.

“It's happened,” Havers pointed out. “And more than once. You know that.”

“All right. Accepted. But why didn't she speak? If evidence was altered, if testimony was false, why didn't she speak?”

“There's that,” Havers sighed. “We always come back to it.”

“We do.” Lynley took a pencil from his breast pocket. With it, he moved about the pieces of glass at the centre of his handkerchief. “Too thin for a headlamp,” he told Havers. “The first pebble that hit it—on the motorway, for instance—would have smashed to bits a headlamp made of this sort of glass.”

“Broken glass in a hedgerow? It's probably from a bottle. Someone coming out of a party with a bottle of plonk under his arm. He's had a few and he staggers. It drops, breaks, and he kicks the shards to one side.”

“But there's no curve, Havers. Look at the larger pieces. They're straight.”

“Okay. They're straight. But if you expect to tie these to one of our principals, I think you're going to be wandering in the outback without a guide.”

Lynley knew she was right. He gathered the handkerchief together again, slipped it into his pocket, and brooded. His fingers played with the top of his espresso cup as his eyes examined the ring of sludge left in it. For her part, Havers polished off her pain au chocolat, emerging from the exercise with flakes of pastry on her lips.

He said, “You're hardening your arteries, Constable.”

“And now I'm going after my lungs.” She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and dug out her packet of Players. She said in advance of his protest, “I'm owed this. It's been a long day. I'll blow it over my shoulder, okay?”

Lynley was too dispirited to argue. Webberly's condition was heavy in his mind, weighing only slightly less than Frances's knowledge of her husband's affair. He forced himself away from these thoughts, saying, “All right. Let's look at everyone again. Notes?”

Havers blew out a lungful of smoke impatiently. “We've done this, Inspector. We don't have a thing.”

“We've got to have something,” Lynley said, putting on his reading glasses. “Notes, Havers.”

She groused but brought them out of her shoulder bag. Lynley took his from his jacket pocket. They started with those individuals without alibis that could be corroborated.

Ian Staines was Lynley's first offering. He was desperate for money, which his sister had promised to request from her son. But she'd reneged on that promise, leaving Staines in dangerous straits. “He looks about to lose his home,” Lynley said. “The night of the death, they rowed. He could have followed her up to London. He didn't get home till after one.”

“But the car's not right,” Havers said. “Unless he had a second vehicle with him in Henley.”

“Which he may have done,” Lynley noted. “Parked there previously just in case. Someone has access to a second vehicle, Havers.”

They went on to the multi-named J. W. Pitchley, Havers' prime candidate at this point. “What the hell,” she wanted to know, “was his address doing in Eugenie's possession? Why was she heading to see him? Staines says she told him something came up. Was that something Pitchley?”

“Possibly, save for the fact that we can establish no tie between them. No phone tie, internet tie—”

“Snail mail?”

“How did she track him down?”

“Same way I did, Inspector. She figured he'd changed identities once, why not again?”