A Traitor to Memory

Lynley hesitated just inside the door. He turned to the woman as Barbara passed by, going to the single desk in the room and lowering herself into the chair. On the desk top was a daily diary, which she slid towards her as Lynley said, “Yes?”


“Was Ted … Is he …” She seemed to strive for a funereal tone. “Is Ted terribly distraught, Inspector? We're such friends, and one wonders if one should phone immediately? Or perhaps drop by to offer a word of comfort?”

Good grief, Barbara thought. The corpse wasn't cold yet. But, obviously, when a man came up for grabs, there was no time to waste. As Lynley made all the right well-bred noises about only a friend having the ability to judge the suitability of a phone call or a visit, and as Georgia Ramsbottom took herself off to the netherworld to chew this over, Barbara gave her attention to Eugenie Davies' diary, where she saw that the director of the social club kept herself busy with committee meetings that were associated with club events, visits to places called Quiet Pines, River View, and The Willows which seemed to be nursing homes, engagements with Major Wiley that were indicated by Ted written across a time, and a set of appointments designated by what seemed to be the names of pubs and hotels. These last appeared regularly throughout the year. They were inconsistent as to day and week, but they marked each month of the year at least once. Interestingly, the entries occurred not only in the previous months of the year, not only in the current month, but clear through to the end of the diary, which included the first six months of the coming year as well. Barbara pointed these out to Lynley as he ventured through a personal telephone directory that he'd pulled from the top right-hand drawer of the desk.

“Standing appointment,” he said.

“As a pub crawler?” Barbara asked. “A hotel critic? I don't think so. Listen: Catherine Wheel, King's Head, Fox and Glove, Claridges … Now, that's something different. What does that suggest to you? It suggests an assignation to me.”

“One hotel?”

“No, there are others. Here's the Astoria. And Lords of the Manor. Le Meridien as well. In town, out of town. She was seeing someone, Inspector, and I'll bet it wasn't Wiley.”

“Phone the hotels. See if she booked a room.”

“Grunt work.”

“One of the job's chief glories.”

As she placed the calls, Barbara went through the rest of Eugenie Davies' desk. The other drawers contained office supplies: business cards, envelopes and stationery, Sellotape and staples, rubber bands, scissors, pencils, and pens. Filing folders held contracts with suppliers of food products, furniture, computers, and copying equipment. By the time she'd learned from the first of the hotels that there was no record of a Eugenie Davies staying with them, Barbara had also concluded that there was nothing of a personal nature inside her desk.

She turned her attention to the top of the desk as Lynley bent over a computer that was set in sleep mode. She delved into the dead woman's In tray. Lynley sank into her cyberworld.