“You’ve done your homework.”
“I’m trying to make it easier for you. I’m giving you details to support the arrangement. I know you can do this.”
He studied her. She avoided studying him back. He was an attractive man?hair going a bit thin but that didn’t detract?and she didn’t need to compare him to Motormouth Wanker or any of the others. She just needed him to cooperate or leave. Or cooperate and leave, which would be even better.
He said, “And if I arrange this for you, Beatrice?”
“What?”
“What’s the quid pro quo?” He was standing by the coffeemaker and he gave another look to the calendar. “‘Big Trouble Wanker,’” he read. “‘Motormouth Wanker.’ Come on, Beatrice.”
She said, “Thanks for bringing Pete’s football shoes. Finished with your coffee?”
He let a moment go by. Then he took a final gulp and handed the mug over to her, saying, “There had to have been less expensive shoes.”
“He has expensive tastes. How’s the Porsche running, by the way?”
“The Porsche,” he said, “is a dream.”
“The Porsche,” she reminded him, “is a car.” She held up a finger to stop him from retorting. She said, “Which brings to mind…the victim’s car.”
“What about it?”
“What does an unopened package of condoms in the car of an eighteen-year-old boy suggest to you?”
“Is this rhetorical?”
“They were in his car. Along with a bluegrass CD, a blank invoice from something called LiquidEarth, and a rolled-up poster for a music festival last year in Cheltenham. And two dog-eared surfing magazines. I’ve got my fingers on everything but the condoms?”
“Well, thank God for that,” Ray said with a smile.
“?and I’m wondering if he was about to get lucky, getting lucky, or hopeful of getting lucky.”
“Or just eighteen,” Ray said. “All boys that age should be so adequately prepared. What about Lynley?”
“Condoms. Lynley. Where’re we going with this?”
“What was your interview like?”
“He’s hardly going to be intimidated by being in the presence of a cop, so I’d have to say the interview was fine. No matter which way I flipped the questions, his answers were consistent. I think he’s playing it straight.”
“But…?” Ray prompted.
He knew her too well: her tone of voice, the expression that she tried and obviously failed to control on her face. “The other one concerns me,” she said.
“The other…Ah. The woman at the cottage. What was her name?”
“Daidre Trahair. She’s a vet from Bristol.”
“And what concerns you about the vet from Bristol?”
“I’ve a sense about things.”
“I know that well enough. And what’s the sense about things telling you this time?”
“That she’s lying about something. I want to know what.”
DAIDRE NEATLY SITUATED HER Vauxhall in the car park at the town end of St. Mevan Crescent, which made a slow curve towards St. Mevan Beach and the old Promontory King George Hotel sitting well above the sand, a line of decrepit blue beach huts below it. When she’d dropped him at the bottom of Belle Vue Lane and pointed him in the direction of the shops, she and Thomas Lynley had agreed on two hours.
He’d said politely, “I’m not inconveniencing you, I hope.”
He was not, she assured him. She had several things to do in town anyway. He was to take his time and purchase what he needed.