Helen warmed to her theory. Why, she asked, could someone employed by Reeve to trail the boy not have followed him out of London, up to Derbyshire, and onto the moors to meet Nicola? Once the girl was located, a single phone call to Martin Reeve from the nearest pub would have been all that it took. Reeve could have ordered the murders from London at that point, or he could have flown up to Manchester—or driven to Derbyshire in less than three hours—and gone out to the ancient stone circle to settle with them himself.
“It doesn't have to be Andy Maiden,” she concluded.
Lynley touched her cheek. “Thank you for being my champion.”
“Tommy, don't discount me. And don't discount yourself. From what you've told me, Martin Reeve has a motive carved out of marble. Why on earth would Andy Maiden kill his daughter?”
“Because of what she became,” Lynley replied. “Because he couldn't talk her out of becoming it. Because he couldn't stop her by means of reasoning, persuasion, or threat. So he stopped her the only other way he knew.”
“But why not just have her arrested? She and the other girl—”
“Vi Nevin.”
“Yes. Vi Nevin. There were two of them in business. Doesn't it constitute a brothel if there're two? Couldn't he merely have phoned an old friend in the Met and brought her down that way?”
“With all his former colleagues knowing what she'd become? What his own daughter had become? He's a proud man, Helen. He'd never go for that.” Lynley kissed her forehead, then her mouth. He picked up his suitcase. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”
She followed him down the stairs. “Tommy, you're harder on yourself than anyone I know. How can you be certain that you're not just being hard on yourself now? And with far more disastrous consequences?”
He turned to answer his wife, but the doorbell rang. The ringing was insistent and repeated, as if someone outside was leaning on the bell.
Their caller turned out to be Barbara Havers, and when Lynley set his suitcase by the door and admitted her into the house, she charged past him with a thick manila envelope in her hand, saying, “Holy hell, Inspector, I'm glad I caught you. We're one step closer to paradise.”
She greeted Helen and went into the drawing room, where she plopped onto a sofa and spilled the contents of her envelope onto a coffee table. “This is what he was after,” she said obscurely. “He spent over an hour at Terry Cole's flat pretending to look at Cilia's paintings. She thought he was in love with her work.” Havers ruffled her hair energetically, the signature gesture of her excitement. “But he was alone in that flat, Inspector, and he had plenty of time to search it stem to stern. He couldn't find what he wanted though. Because Terry had given it to Mrs. Baden when he'd realised he wasn't going to be able to flog it at a Bowers auction. And Mrs. Baden just gave it to me. Here. Have a look.”
Lynley stayed where he was, by the door to the drawing room. Helen joined Barbara and glanced through the numerous sheets of paper that she'd dumped from the envelope.
“It's music,” Barbara told him. “A whole slew of music. A whole bloody slew of Michael Chandler music. Neil Sitwell at Bowers told me he sent Terry Cole to King-Ryder Productions to get the name of the Chandler solicitors. But Matthew King-Ryder denied the whole thing. He said Terry came to get an artistic grant from him. So why the hell has no one we've talked to said a single word about Terry and a grant?”
“You tell me,” Lynley said evenly.
Havers ignored—or didn't notice—the tone. “Because King-Ryder is lying his head off. He followed him. He trailed Terry Cole round London everywhere he went, trying to get his mitts on this music.”
“Why?”
“Because the milk cow's dead.” Havers sounded triumphant. “And King-Ryder's only hope of keeping the ship floating for a few more years was to be able to produce another hit show.”
“You're mixing your metaphors,” Lynley remarked.
“Tommy.” Helen's expression carried an unspoken entreaty. She knew him better than anyone after all, and unlike Havers, she'd noted his tone. She'd also noted his unchanged position at the door to the room, and she knew what that meant.
Oblivious, Havers continued with a grin. “Right. Sorry. Anyway. King-Ryder told me that his dad's will leaves all the profits from his current productions to a special fund that supports theatre types. Actors, writers, designers. That sort. His last wife gets a bequest, but she's the sole beneficiary. Not a penny goes to Matthew or his sister. He'll have some sort of position as chairman or leader or whatever of the Fund, but how can that compare to the lolly he'd be gathering if he mounted another of his dad's productions? A new production, Inspector. A posthumous production. A production not governed by the terms of the will. There's your motive. He had to get his maulers on this music and eliminate the only person who knew Michael Chandler—and not David King-Ryder—had written it.”
“And Vi Nevin?” Lynley enquired. “How does she fit into the picture, Havers?”