A Traitor to Memory

“HE WOULDN'T EVEN take a wheelchair,” the nurse in charge of Casualty told them. Her name badge said she was Sister Darla Magnana and she was in high dudgeon over the manner in which Richard Davies had departed the hospital. Patients were to leave in wheelchairs, accompanied by an appropriate staff member who would see them to their vehicles. They were not meant to decline this service, and if they did decline it, they were not to be discharged. This gentleman had actually walked off on his own without being discharged at all. So the hospital could not be held responsible if his injuries intensified or caused him further problems. Sister Darla Magnana hoped that was clear. “When we wish to keep someone overnight for observation, we have a very good reason for doing so,” she declared.

Lynley asked to speak to the doctor who'd seen Richard Davies, and from that gentleman—a harassed-looking resident physician with several days' growth of whiskers—he and Havers learned the extent of Davies' injuries: a compound fracture of the right ulna, a single break of the right lateral malleolus. “Right arm and right ankle,” the doctor translated for Havers when she said, “Fractures of the whats?” He went on to say, “Cuts and abrasions on the hands. A possible concussion. He needed some stitches on the face. Overall, he was very lucky, however. It could have been fatal.”

Lynley thought about this as he and Havers left the hospital, having been told that Richard had departed in the company of a heavily pregnant woman. They went to the Bentley, phoned in to Leach, and learned from him that Winston Nkata had given the incident room Noreen McKay's name to be put through the DVLA. Leach had the results: Noreen McKay owned a late-model Toyota RAV4. That was her only vehicle.

“If we get no joy from those prison records, we're back to the Humber,” Leach said. “Bring that car in for a once-over.”

Lynley said, “Right. And as to Eugenie Davies' computer, sir?”

“Deal with that later. After we get our hands on that car. And talk to Foster. I want to know where she was this afternoon.”

“Surely not pushing her fiancé under a bus,” Lynley said despite his better judgement, which told him not to do or say anything that might remind Leach of Lynley's own transgressions. “In her condition, she'd be rather conspicuous to witnesses.”

“Just deal with her, Inspector. And get that car.” Leach recited Jill Foster's address. It was a flat in Shepherd's Bush. Directory enquiries gave Lynley a phone number to go along with the address, and within a minute he knew what he'd already assumed when Leach gave him the assignment: Jill wasn't at home. She'd have taken Davies to his own flat in South Kensington.

As they were spinning down Park Lane in preparation for the last leg of the trip from Gower Street to South Kensington, Havers said, “You know, Inspector, we're down to Gideon or Robson shoving Davies into the street this evening. But if either one of them did the job, the basic question remains, doesn't it? Why?”

“If's the operative word,” Lynley said.

She obviously heard his doubts, because she said, “You don't think either of them pushed him, do you?”

“Killers nearly always choose the same means,” Lynley pointed out.

“But a bus is a vehicle,” Havers said.

“But it's not a car and driver. And it's not that car, the Humber. Or any antique car for that matter. Nor was the hit as serious as the others, considering what it could have been.”

“And no one saw the shove,” Havers said thoughtfully. “At least so far.”

“I'm betting no one saw it at all, Havers.”

“Okay. So we're back to Davies again. Davies tracking down Kathleen Waddington before going after Eugenie. Davies setting his sights on Webberly to guide our suspicion onto Katja Wolff when we don't get there fast enough. Davies then throwing himself into the traffic because he's got the sense we're not taking Wolff seriously as a suspect. All right. I see. But why’s the question.”

“Because of Gideon. It has to be. Because she was threatening Gideon in some way and Davies lives for Gideon. If, as you suggested, Barbara, she actually meant to stop him playing—”

“I like the idea, but what was it to her? I mean, if anything, it seems that she'd want to keep him playing, not stop him, right? She had a history of his whole career up in her attic. She obviously cared that he played. Why cock it up?”

“Perhaps cocking it up wasn't her intention,” Lynley said. “But perhaps cocking it up was what would have happened—without her knowing it—if she met Gideon again.”

“So Davies killed her? Why not just tell her the truth? Why not just say, ‘Hang on, old girl. 'F you see Gideon, he's done for, professionally speaking.’”