A Traitor to Memory

He said, “Sit.”


She said, “Sir,” and although she'd have preferred to be off on her way home, she went to a chair of limited comfort and perched on its edge. In a better world, she thought, AC Hillier would at this moment of emotional in extremis see the error of his ways. He'd look at her, recognise her finer qualities—one of which was decidedly not her fashion sense—and he'd summarily acknowledge them. He'd elevate her on the spot to her previous professional position and that would be the end of the punishment he'd inflicted upon her at the end of the summer.

But this was not a better world, and AC Hillier did none of that. He merely said, “He might not make it. We're pretending other-wise—especially round Frances, for what little good it's doing—but it's got to be faced.”

Barbara didn't know what to say, so she murmured, “Bloody hell,” because that's what she felt: bloody, bowed, and consigned to helplessness. And sentenced, with the rest of mankind, to interminable waiting.

“I've known him ages,” Hillier said. “There've been times when I haven't much liked him and God knows I've never understood him, but he's been there for years, a presence that I could somehow depend upon, just to … to be there. And I find I don't like the thought of his going.”

“Perhaps he won't go,” Barbara said. “Perhaps he'll recover.”

Hillier shot her a look. “You don't recover from something like this. He may live. But recover? No. He'll not be the same. He'll not recover.” He crossed one leg over the other, which was the first time Barbara noticed his clothes, which were what he'd thrown on the night before and had never got round to changing during the day. And she saw him for once not as superior but as human being: in hound's-tooth and Tattersall, with a pullover that had a hole in the cuff. He said, “Leach tells me it was all done to divert suspicion.”

“Yes. That's what DI Lynley and I think.”

“What a waste.” And then he peered at her. “There's nothing else?”

“What do you mean?”

“No other reason behind Malcolm's being hit?”

She met his gaze steadily and read the question behind it, the one that asked if what AC Hillier assumed, believed, or wanted to believe about the Webberly marriage and its partners therein was really true. And Barbara didn't intend to give the assistant commissioner any part of that piece of information. She said, “No other reason. Turns out the superintendent was just easy for Davies to track down.”

“That's what you think,” Hillier said. “Leach told me Davies himself isn't talking.”

“I expect he'll talk eventually,” Barbara replied. “He knows better than most where keeping mum can get you.”

“I've made Lynley acting superintendent till this is sorted out,” Hillier said. “You know that, don't you?”

“Dee Harriman passed along the word.” Barbara drew in a breath and held it, hoping, wishing, and dreaming for what did not then come.

Instead, he said, “Winston Nkata does good work, doesn't he, all things considered.”

What things? she wondered. But she said, “Yes, sir. He does good work.”

“He'll be looking at a promotion soon.”

“He'll be glad of that, sir.”

“Yes. I expect he will.” Hillier looked at her long, then he looked away. His eyes closed. His head rested back against the sofa.

Barbara sat there in silence, wondering what she was meant to do. She finally settled on saying, “You ought to go home and get some sleep, sir.”

“I intend to,” Hillier replied. “We all should, Constable Havers.”



It was half past ten when Lynley parked on Lawrence Street and walked back round the corner to the St. James house. He hadn't phoned ahead to let them know he was coming, and on the way down from the Earl's Court Road, he'd determined that if the ground floor lights in the house were off, he wouldn't disturb its occupants. This was, he knew, in large part cowardice. The time was fast approaching when he was going to have to deal with harvesting the crop he'd long-ago sown, and he didn't particularly want to do that. But he'd seen how his past was seeping insidiously into his present, and he knew that he owed the future he wanted an exorcism that could only be managed if he spoke. Still, he would have liked to put it off and as he rounded the corner, he hoped for darkness in the house's windows as a sign that further procrastination was acceptable.

He had no such luck. Not only was the light above the front door blazing, but the windows of St. James's study cast yellow shafts onto the wrought iron fence that edged the property.