A Traitor to Memory

“Why's that, 'Spector?”


“We've another hit-and-run.” Lynley brought him into the picture, telling him that he and Havers were heading to Portman Street. “With Davies down, we've got a new match. New rules, new players, and for all we know, an entirely new objective.”

“But with the Wolff woman having an alibi—”

“Just go easy,” Lynley cautioned. “There's more to know.”

When Lynley rang off, he brought Havers into the picture. She said at his conclusion, “The pickings are getting slim, Inspector.”

“Aren't they just,” Lynley replied.

Another ten minutes and they had made the circuit to come into Portman Street, where, had they not known an accident had happened, they would have concluded as much from the flashing lights a short distance from the square and the car-park quality of the stationary traffic. They pulled to the kerb, half in a bus lane and half on the pavement.

They trudged through the rain in the direction of the flashing lights, shouldering their way through a crowd of onlookers. The lights came from two panda cars that were blocking the bus lane and a third that was impeding the flow of traffic. The constables from one of the cars were in conversation with a traffic warden in the middle of the street, while those from the other two cars were divided between talking to people on the pavement and wedging themselves into the upper and lower parts of a bus that was itself parked at an angle with one tyre on the kerb. There was no ambulance anywhere in sight. Nor was there any sign of a scene-of-crime team. And the actual point of impact—which certainly had to be where the panda was parked in the traffic lane—had yet to be cordoned off. Which meant that what valuable evidence might be there wasn't being safeguarded and would soon be lost. Lynley muttered a curse.

With Havers on his heels, he squeezed through the crowd and showed his identification to the nearest policeman, a bobby in an anorak. Water dripped from his helmet onto his neck. Periodically, he slapped it away.

“What's happened?” Lynley asked the constable. “Where's the victim?”

“Off to hospital,” the constable said.

“He's alive, then?” Lynley glanced at Havers. She gave him a thumbs-up. “What's his condition?”

“Damn lucky, I'd say. Last time we had something like this, we were scraping the corpse off the pavement for a week, and the driver wasn't fit to go another hundred yards.”

“You've witnesses? We'll need to speak with them.”

“Oh, aye? How's that?”

“We've a similar hit-and-run in West Hampstead,” Lynley told him. “Another in Hammersmith. And a third in Maida Vale. This one today involves a man who's related to one of our earlier victims.”

“Your facts are off.”

“What?” Havers was the one to ask.

“This isn't a hit-and-run.” The constable nodded at the bus, where inside, one of his colleagues was taking a statement from a woman in the seat directly behind the driver's. The driver himself was out on the pavement, gesticulating to his left front headlamp and speaking earnestly to another policeman. “Bus hit someone,” the constable clarified. “Pedestrian was shoved out from the pavement directly into its path. Lucky he wasn't killed. Mr. Nai”—here he gave a nod to the driver of the bus—“has good reflexes and the bus had its brakes serviced last week. We've got some bumps and bruises from the sudden stop—this is on the passengers inside—and the victim's got a bone or two broken, but that's the extent of it.”

“Did anyone see who pushed him?” Lynley asked.

“That's what we're trying to find out, mate.”



Jill left the Humber in a spot marked clearly for ambulances only, but she didn't care. Let them tow, clamp, or fine her. She squirmed out from beneath the steering wheel and walked rapidly to the entrance for accidents and emergencies. There was no receptionist to greet her, just a guard behind a plain wooden desk.

He took a look at Jill and said, “Shall I ring your doctor, Madam, or is he meeting you here?”

Jill said, “What?” before she understood the inference that the guard was drawing from her condition, her personal appearance, and her frantic state. She said, “No. No doctor,” to which the man said, “You have no doctor?” in a disapproving tone.

Ignoring him, Jill made a lumbering dash in the direction of someone who looked like a doctor. He was consulting a clipboard and wore a stethoscope round his neck, which gave him an air of authority that the guard did not possess. Jill cried, “Richard Davies?” and the doctor looked up. “Where is Richard Davies? I was phoned. I was told to come. He's been brought in and don't tell me … you mustn't tell me he's … Please. Where is he?”

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