A Traitor to Memory

Lynley explained. Given information was always scant until they had the first of their reports from forensic. An initial inspection of the dead woman's body—not to mention where she'd been found—had certainly called for the conclusion that she'd been hit by someone who then fled the scene. But a closer examination had revealed that she'd been hit more than once, her body had been moved, and what tyre tracks they had found on her clothing and her corpse indicated the damage had been done by a single vehicle. So their hit-and-run motorist was a murderer, and the death was no accident but a homicide.

“Good God.” Jill held out a hand to Richard Davies, but he didn't take it. Instead, he seemed to go into himself, stunned, to a dark place from which she couldn't draw him.

Davies said, “But they gave me absolutely no indication …” He stared into nothing, murmuring, “God. How can things possibly get worse?” Then he looked at Lynley. “I shall have to tell Gideon. You will allow me to be the one to tell my son? He's been unwell for several months. He's been unable to play. This could push him … You will allow me to be the one? It won't be in the papers yet, will it? In the Evening Standard? Not before Gideon's been told?”

“That's in the hands of the press office,” Lynley said. “But they'll hold back till the family's been notified. And you can help us with that. Aside from Gideon, are there other family members?”

“Her brothers, but God only knows where they are. Her parents were still alive twenty years ago, but they may well be dead by now. Frank and Lesley Staines. Frank was an Anglican priest, so you might start there—through the Church—to find him.”

“And the brothers?”

“One younger, one older. Douglas and Ian. Again, I can't say if they're living or dead. When I first met Eugenie, she hadn't seen any of her family in years and she never saw them the entire time we were married.”

“We'll try to find them.” Lynley took up his cup in which a Typhoo tea bag drooped soggily against the side. He removed it and added a splash of milk before he said, “And you, Mr. Davies? When exactly did you last see your former wife?”

“When we were divorced. Perhaps … sixteen years ago? There were papers to sign in the course of the proceedings, and that was when I saw her.”

“Since then?”

“Nothing. I'd spoken to her recently, though.”

Lynley set his cup down. “When was this?”

“She'd been phoning regularly to ask about Gideon. She'd learned he wasn't well. This would have been …” He turned to his fiancée. “When was that awful concert, darling?”

Jill Foster met his gaze so steadily that the fact that he knew exactly when the concert had been was more than apparent. She said, “The thirtieth of July, wasn't it?”

“That sounds right, yes.” And to Lynley, “Eugenie phoned shortly afterwards. I can't recall exactly when. Perhaps round the fifteenth of August. She'd kept in touch since then.”

“The last time you spoke to her?”

“Sometime last week? I don't know exactly. I didn't think to make note of it. She phoned here and left a message. I phoned her back. There wasn't much to tell her, so the conversation was brief. Gideon—and I'd very much appreciate this bit staying confidential, Inspector—is suffering from acute stage fright. We've given out that it's exhaustion, but that's a bit of a euphemism. Eugenie wasn't taken in by it, and I doubt the public's going to accept it much longer.”

“But she didn't visit your son? Did she contact him?”

“If she did, Gideon's said nothing to me about it. Which in itself would be a surprise. My son and I are quite close, Inspector.”

Davies' fiancée lowered her eyes. Lynley made a mental tick next to the possibility of filial-paternal devotion's being a one-way street with only Richard Davies traveling down it. He said, “Your wife was on her way to see a man in Hampstead, evidently. She had his address with her. He's called J. W. Pitchley, but you may know him by his previous name, James Pitchford.”

Davies' hands stopped caressing Jill Foster's feet. He became as still as a life-size Rodin.

“You remember him?” Lynley asked.

“Yes. I remember him. But …” Again, to his fiancée, “Darling, are you certain you don't want a lie-down?”

Her expression said volumes about her intentions: There was no way on earth that Jill Foster was going to toddle off to the bedroom now.

Davies said, “I'd be unlikely to forget anyone from that period of time, Inspector. Nor would you had you lived through it. James lodged with us for a number of years before Sonia, our daughter …” He left off the rest of the sentence, using that gesture with his fingers lifted briefly to express the rest.

“Have you any idea if your former wife kept in touch with this man? He's been interviewed and he himself says no. But in your phone conversations, did your wife ever mention him?”

Davies shook his head. “We never entertained any subject at all other than Gideon and Gideon's health.”