Ray Hannaford picked up a manila envelope that had been sitting on the table. “Here it is,” he said to his former wife. “Next time you insist on a courier, do tell them where you are for delivery, Beatrice.”
“I did tell them,” the DI replied. “Obviously, whoever the sod was who brought this down from London, he didn’t want the bother of going all the way to Holsworthy or the Casvelyn station. Or,” she asked shrewdly, “did you put in a call for this as well?” She gestured with the manila envelope.
“I didn’t,” he said. “But we’re going to have to talk about a quid pro quo. The account’s growing. The drive from Exeter was bloody murder. You owe me on two fronts now.”
“Two? What’s the other?”
“Fetching Pete last night. Without complaint, as I recall.”
“Did I drag you from the arms of a twenty-year-old?”
“I believe she was at least twenty-three.”
Bea Hannaford chuckled. She opened the envelope and peered inside. She said, “Ah yes. I take it you’ve had a look yourself, Ray?”
“Guilty as suspected.”
She brought the contents out. At once Lynley recognised his own police identification from New Scotland Yard.
He said, “I handed that in. It should have been…What do they do to those things when someone quits? They must destroy them.”
Ray Hannaford was the one who replied. “Apparently, they weren’t willing to destroy yours.”
“Premature was the word they used,” Bea Hannaford added. “A hasty decision made at a bad time.” She offered the Scotland Yard ID to Lynley.
He didn’t take it. Instead he said, “My identification is on its way from my home. I did tell you that. My wallet, along with everything in it, will be here by tomorrow. This”?he indicated his warrant card?“was unnecessary.”
“On the contrary,” DI Hannaford said, “it was entirely necessary. Phony IDs, as you well know, are as easy to get as the clap. For all I know, you’ve spent the morning scouring the streets for the goods.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“I expect you can work that out for yourself, Superintendent Lynley. Or do you prefer the aristo title? And what the hell is someone like you doing working for the Bill?”
“I’m not,” he said. “Not any longer.”
“Tell that to the Yard. You didn’t answer. Which are you called? Which d’you prefer? Personal or professional title?”
“I prefer Thomas. And now that you know I am who I said I was last night?which I suspect you knew already or why else would you have allowed me into the mortuary with you?may I presume I’m free to resume my walk on the coast?”
“That’s the very last thing you may presume. You’re not going anywhere till I tell you otherwise. And if you’re thinking of scurrying off in the dark of night, think again. You’ve a usefulness now I have the proof you are who you claimed to be.”
“Usefulness as a policeman or as a private citizen?” Lynley asked her.
“As whatever works, Detective.”
“Works for what?”
“For our good doctor.”
“Who?”
“The vet. Dr. Trahair. You and I both know she’s lying through those pretty white teeth of hers. Your job is to find out why.”
“You can’t possibly require me?”
Hannaford’s mobile rang. She held up a hand and cut him off. She dug the phone from her bag and walked off a few paces, saying, “Tell me,” into the mobile as she flipped it open. She bent her head as she listened. She tapped her foot.
“She lives for this,” Ray Hannaford said. “She didn’t, at the beginning. But now, it’s what makes her alive. Foolish, isn’t it?”
“That death would make someone alive?”
“No. That I let her go. She wanted one thing; I wanted another.”
“That happens.”
“Not if I’d had my head on straight.”
Lynley looked at Hannaford. Earlier, he’d said regrettably about his status as the inspector’s former husband. “You could tell her,” Lynley said.
“Could and did. But sometimes when you demean yourself in another’s eyes, you can’t recover. I’d like to turn back time, though.”