Lynley watched Weaver lower his head, press a clenched fist to his moustache, then raise his head again, shaking it, perhaps stunned, perhaps touched, perhaps humbled, perhaps disbelieving. He said, “Dr. Weaver has just reached the pinnacle of his career before our very eyes, Sergeant. He’s been awarded the University’s Penford Chair in History.”
To which she replied, “He has? Bloody hell.”
My sentiments exactly, Lynley thought. They stayed for a moment longer, watching the condolences change to quiet congratulations, hearing the murmurs of conversation that spoke of triumph coming upon the heels of tragedy.
Havers said, “If he’s charged, if he goes to trial, will they take the Chair from him?”
“Chairs are for life, Sergeant.”
“But don’t they know—”
“About what he did yesterday? The committee? How could they? The decision was probably made by then anyway. And even if they did know, even if they decided this morning, he was, after all, only a father driven wild by his grief.”
They edged round the crowd and headed in the direction of Trinity Hall. Havers was dragging her feet on the ground, her attention given to the tops of her shoes. She drove her fists into the pockets of her coat.
“Did he do it for the Chair?” she asked abruptly. “Did he want Elena to go to St. Stephen’s because of the Chair? Did he want her to behave because of the Chair? Did he want to stay married to Justine because of it? Did he want to end his affair with Sarah Gordon because of it?”
“We’ll never know, Havers,” Lynley replied. “And I’m not sure Weaver will ever know either.”
“Why?”
“Because he still has to look at himself in the mirror every morning. And how can he do that if he ever starts digging through his life for the truth?”
They rounded the corner into Garret Hostel Lane. Havers stopped abruptly, slapping a hand to her forehead with a loud groan. “Nkata’s book!” she said.
“What?”
“I promised Nkata I’d pop into a few bookshops—they’re supposed to have a decent place called Heffers—and look for…now what was it…where did I put the flipping…” She zipped open her shoulder bag and began mauling her way through its contents, saying, “You go on without me, Inspector.”
“But we’ve left your car—”
“No problem. The station’s not far and I want to have a word with Sheehan before I head back to London.”
“But—”
“It’s okay. Really. Fine. See you. Bye.” And with a wave of her hand, she whipped back round the corner.
He stared after her. Detective Constable Nkata hadn’t read a book in a decade or more, as far as he knew. His idea of an evening’s entertainment was having the senior officer on the bomb squad retell the story of how, as a member of the Met’s PSU, he lost his left eye in a brawl in Brixton which, no doubt, Nkata himself had probably instigated during his salad days as chief battle counsel for the Brixton Warriors. They would talk and argue and laugh over scotch eggs, pickled onions, and beer. And if they moved on to other topics, none of them were likely to be centred round literature. So what was Havers up to?
Lynley turned back to the lane and saw the answer, sitting on the top of a large tan suitcase at the side of his car. Havers had seen her as they turned the corner. She had read the moment and left him to face it alone.
Lady Helen stood. “Tommy,” she said.
He walked to join her, trying to keep his eyes off the suitcase lest looking at it make the purpose for its presence something other than what he hoped it would be.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“Luck and the telephone.” She smiled at him fondly. “And knowing that you have a need to finish things, even when you can’t finish them the way that you’d like.” She looked towards Trinity Lane where cars were starting and people were calling out quiet farewells. “It’s over, then.”
“The official part of it.”
“And the rest?”
“The rest?”
“The part where you blame yourself for not being quicker, not being more clever, not being able to stop people from doing the worst to each other?”
“Ah. That part.” He let his eyes follow the progress of a group of students who passed them, pedalling their bicycles in the direction of the Cam as the bells of St. Stephen’s Church started tolling the hollow, stately accompaniment to a funeral’s conclusion. “I don’t know, Helen. That part never seems to be over for me.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I was up all night. I need to go home. I need to get some sleep.”
“Take me with you,” she said.
He turned back to her. Her words were smooth enough and said with conviction, but she looked uncertain about their reception. And he was unwilling to risk misunderstanding or to allow hope even a moment to plant roots in his breast.
“To London?” he asked.
“Home,” she replied. “With you.”
How odd it was, he thought. It felt as if someone had cut into him quite painlessly and all of his life force were pouring out. It was the strangest sensation in which blood, bones, and sinews transformed into a palpable deluge which flowed from his heart to encompass her. Caught in the midst of it, he saw her clearly, felt his own body’s presence, but couldn’t speak.
She faltered under his gaze, seemed to think she had made an error in judgement. She said, “Or you could drop me in Onslow Square. You’re tired. You won’t be in the mood for company. And no doubt my flat could use a good airing out. Caroline won’t be back yet. She’s with her parents—did I tell you?—and I ought to see what sort of state things are in because—”
He found his voice. “There are no guarantees, Helen. Not in this. Not in anything.”
Her face grew soft. “I know that,” she said.
“And it doesn’t matter?”
“Of course it matters. But you matter more. And you and I matter. The two of us. Together.”
He didn’t want to feel any happiness yet. It seemed too ephemeral a condition in life. So for a moment he stood there and merely let himself feel: the cold air washing from the Backs and the river, the weight of his overcoat, the ground beneath his feet. And then, when he was sure that he could bear any reply she might make, he said:
“I still want you, Helen. Nothing’s changed there.”
“I know,” she said, and when he would speak again she stopped him with, “Let’s go home, Tommy.”
He loaded their suitcases into the boot, his heartbeat light and his spirit soaring free. Don’t make too much of it, he told himself roughly, and don’t ever believe your life depends on it. Don’t ever believe your life depends upon anything at all. That’s the way to live.
He got into the car, determined to be casual, determined to be the one in control. He said, “You took quite a chance, Helen, waiting like that. I might not have come back and found you for hours. You might have been sitting in the cold all day.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She drew her legs up beneath her and settled companionably into the seat. “I was quite prepared to wait for you, Tommy.”
“Oh. How long?” Still, he was casual. Still, he was the one in control.
“Just a bit longer than you’ve waited for me.”
She smiled. She reached for his hand. He was lost.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ELIZABETH GEORGE’S first novel, A Great Deliverance, was honored with the Anthony and Agatha Best First Novel Awards and received the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière. Her third novel, Well-Schooled in Murder, was awarded the prestigious German prize for suspense fiction, the MIMI. A Suitable Vengeance, For the Sake of Elena, Missing Joseph, Playing for the Ashes, In the Presence of the Enemy, Deception on His Mind, In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner, A Traitor to Memory, and I, Richard were international bestsellers. Elizabeth George divides her time between Huntington Beach, California, and London. Her novels are currently being dramatized by the BBC. Visit her website at www.ElizabethGeorge.com.