A Great Deliverance Read online

  “More than a bit enticing to a man like Hanston-Smith?”

  “In truth. She got him to believe that Romaniv was innocent. It took a few weeks—Romaniv hadn’t come up before the assizes yet. She convinced Hanston-Smith that the case needed to be reopened. She swore that they were only being persecuted because of their gypsy blood, that Romaniv had been with her the entire night in question.”

  “I imagine her charms made that easy to believe.”

  Webberly’s mouth quirked. He stubbed out the tip of his cigar in the ashtray and clasped his freckled hands over his stomach. They effectively hid the stain on his waistcoat. “From the later testimony of Hanston-Smith’s valet, the good Mrs. Romaniv had no trouble keeping even a man of sixty-two more than busy for one entire night. You’ll recall that Hanston-Smith was a man of some considerable political influence and wealth. It was no difficult matter for him to convince the Yorkshire constabulary to become involved. So Reuben Kerridge—he’s still Yorkshire’s chief constable in spite of all that happened—ordered Nies’s investigation reopened. And to make matters worse, he ordered Romaniv released.”

  “How did Nies react?”

  “Kerridge is his superior officer, after all. What could he do? Nies was wild with anger, but he released Romaniv and ordered his men to begin again.”

  “It would seem that releasing Romaniv, while making his wife happy, would bring a premature end to Hanston-Smith’s joy,” Hillier noted.

  “Well, of course Mrs. Romaniv felt duty-bound to thank Hanston-Smith in the manner to which he’d become so accustomed. She slept with him one last time—wore the poor bloke out until the wee hours of the morning, if I have the story straight—and then let Romaniv into the house.” Webberly looked up at a sharp knock on the door. “The rest, as they say, is a bit of bloody history. The pair murdered Hanston-Smith, took everything they could carry, got to Scarborough, and were out of the country before dawn.”

  “And Nies’s reaction?”

  “Demanded Kerridge’s immediate resignation.” The knock sounded again. Webberly ignored it. “He didn’t get it, however. But Nies’s mouth has been watering like the devil for it ever since.”

  “And here we are back with them again, you say.”

  A third knock, much more insistent. Webberly called entrance to Bertie Edwards, the Met’s head of forensics, who entered the room in his usual brisk manner, scribbling on his clipboard and speaking to it at the same time. To Edwards, the clipboard was as human as most men’s secretaries.

  “Severe contusion on the right temple,” he was announcing happily, “followed by the main laceration to the carotid artery. No identification, no money, stripped down to the underclothes. It’s the Railway Ripper, all right.” He finished writing with a flourish.

  Hillier surveyed the little man with profound distaste. “Christ, these Fleet Street appellations. We’re going to be haunted by Whitechapel till the end of time.”

  “Is this the Waterloo corpse?” Webberly asked.

  Edwards glanced at Hillier, his face an open book in which he considered whether he should argue the merits of nameless killers being dubbed something—anything—for the sake of public awareness. He apparently rejected that line of communication, for he wiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his lab coat and turned to his immediate superior.

  “Waterloo.” He nodded. “Number eleven. We’ve not quite finished Vauxhall yet. Both are typical of the Ripper victims we’ve seen. Transient types. Broken nails. Dirty. Badly cut hair. Body lice as well. King’s Cross is still the only one out of sync, and that’s the bloody devil after all these weeks. No ID. No missing-person’s call on him yet. I can’t make it out.” He scratched his head with the end of his pen. “Want the Waterloo snap? I’ve brought it.”

  Webberly waved towards the wall on which were already posted the photographs of the twelve recent murder victims, all of them killed in an identical manner in or near London train stations. Thirteen murders now in just over five weeks. The papers were screaming for an arrest. As if he were oblivious to this, Edwards whistled airily between his teeth and rooted on Webberly’s desk for a drawing pin. He carried the latest victim to the wall.

  “Not a bad shot.” He stepped back to admire his work. “Sewed him up quite nice.”

  “Jesus!” Hillier exploded. “You’re a ghoul, man! At least have the decency to remove that filthy coat when you come here! Have you no sense at all? We’ve women on these floors!”

  Edwards wore the guise of patient attention, but his eyes flicked over the chief superintendent and lingered longest on the fleshy neck that hung over his collar and on the thick hair that Hillier liked to have called leonine. Edwards shrugged at Webberly in mutual understanding. “Quite the gent, he is,” he commented before leaving the room.

  “Sack him!” Hillier shouted as the door shut behind the pathologist.

  Webberly laughed. “Have a sherry, David,” he said. “It’s in the cabinet behind you. We none of us ought to be here on a Saturday.”

  Two sherries considerably palliated Hillier’s irritation with the pathologist. He was standing before Webberly’s display wall, staring morosely at the thirteen photographs.

  “This is one hell of a mess,” he noted sourly. “Victoria, King’s Cross, Waterloo, Liverpool, Blackfriars, Paddington. God damn it, man, why can’t he at least be alphabetical!”

  “Maniacs often lack that little organisational touch,” Webberly responded placidly.

  “Five of these victims don’t even have names, for God’s sake,” Hillier complained.

  “ID is always removed, so are money and clothes. If there’s no missing-person report filed, we start with prints. You know how long something like that takes, David. We’re doing our best.”

  Hillier turned around. The one thing he knew for a certainty was that Malcolm would always do his absolute best and would quietly remain in the background when the kudos were given. “Sorry. Was I frothing?”

  “A bit.”

  “As usual. So this new Nies-Kerridge squabble? What’s it all about?”

  Webberly glanced at his watch. “Another Yorkshire murder being disputed, no less. They’re sending someone down with the data. A priest.”

  “A priest? Christ—what kind of case is this?”

  Webberly shrugged. “Evidently he’s the only third party that Nies and Kerridge could agree upon to bring us the information.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Seems he found the body.”

  2

  Hillier walked to the office window. Afternoon sunlight shafted across his face, detailing lines that spoke of too many late nights, highlighting puffy pink flesh that spoke of too much rich food and port. “By God, this is irregular. Has Kerridge gone quite mad?”

  “Nies has certainly been claiming that for years.”

  “But to have the first person on the scene…and not even a member of the force! What can the man be thinking?”

  “That a priest is the only person they both can trust.” Webberly glanced at his watch again. “He should be here within the hour, in fact. That’s why I asked you to come down.”

  “To hear this priest’s story? That’s certainly not your style.”

  Webberly shook his head slowly. He had come to the tricky part. “Not to hear the story. Actually, to hear the plan.”

  “I’m intrigued.” Hillier went to pour himself another sherry and held the bottle towards his friend, who shook his head. He returned to his seat and crossed one leg over the other, careful not to destroy the razor crease in his beautifully tailored trousers. “The plan?” he prompted.

  Webberly poked at a stack of files on his desk. “I’d like Lynley on this.”

  Hillier cocked an eyebrow. “Lynley and Nies for a second go-round? Haven’t we had trouble enough in that quarter, Malcolm? Besides, Lynley’s not on rota this weekend.”

  “That can be dealt with.” Webberly hesitated. He watched the other man. “You’re letting me hang he
re, David,” he said at last.

  Hillier smiled. “Forgive me. I was waiting to see how you were going to ask for her.”

  “Damn you,” Webberly cursed softly. “You know me too well by half.”

  “Let’s say I know you’re too fair for your own good. Let me advise you on this, Malcolm. Leave Havers where you put her.”

  Webberly winced and swiped at a nonexistent fly. “It grates on my conscience.”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool. Don’t be worse than that—don’t be a sentimental fool. Barbara Havers proved herself incapable of getting along with a single DI for her entire tenure in CID. She’s been back in uniform these past eight months and doing a better job there. Leave her.”

  “I didn’t try her with Lynley.”

  “You didn’t try her with the Prince of Wales either! It’s not your responsibility to keep moving detective sergeants around until they find a little niche in which they can grow old happily. It’s your responsibility to see that the flaming job gets done. And no job got done with Havers on it. Admit it!”

  “I think she’s learned from the experience.”

  “Learned what? That being a truculent pigheaded little bitch is not likely to advance her up the ranks?”

  Webberly let Hillier’s words scathe the air between them. “Well,” he said finally, “that was always the problem, wasn’t it?”

  Hillier recognised the sound of defeat in his friend’s voice. That was indeed the problem: advancing through the ranks. God, what an ignorant thing to say. “Forgive me, Malcolm.” He quickly finished his sherry, an act that gave him something to do other than look at his brother-in-law’s face. “You deserve my job. We both know it, don’t we?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  But Hillier stood. “I’ll put a call out for Havers.”

  Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers tugged the door of the super’s office shut, walked stiffly past his secretary, and made her way into the corridor. She was white with rage.

  God! God, how dare they! She pushed her way past a clerk, not bothering to stop when the folders he was carryiing slipped from his grasp and scattered. She marched right through them. Who did they think they were dealing with? Did they think she was so stupid she couldn’t see the ploy? God damn them! God damn them!

  She blinked, telling herself that there would be no tears, that she would not cry, that she would not react. The sign LADIES appeared miraculously in front of her and she ducked inside. No one was present. Here, it was cool. Had it really been so hot in Webberly’s office? Or had it been her outrage? She fumbled at her necktie, jerked it loose, and stumbled over to the basin. The cold water gushed out of the tap beneath her fumbling fingers, sending a spray onto her uniform skirt and across her white blouse. That did it. She looked at herself in the mirror and burst into tears.

  “You cow,” she sneered. “You stupid, ugly cow!” She was not a woman easily given to tears, so they were hot and bitter, tasting strange and feeling stranger as they coursed down her cheeks, making unattractive rivulets across what was an extremely plain, extremely pug-like face.

  “You’re a real sight, Barbara,” she upbraided her reflection. “You’re an absolute vision!” Sobbing, she twisted away from the basin, resting her head against the cool tile of the wall.

  At thirty years old, Barbara Havers was a decidedly unattractive woman, but a woman who appeared to be doing everything possible to make herself so. Fine, shiny hair the colour of pinewood might have been suitably styled for the shape of her face. But instead, she wore it cut bluntly at an unforgivable length just below her ears as if a too-small bowl had been placed upon her head for a model. She used no makeup. Heavy, unplucked eyebrows drew attention to the smallness of her eyes rather than to their fine intelligence. A thin mouth, never heightened in any way by colour, was pressed permanently into a disapproving frown. The entire effect was that of a woman stubby, sturdy, and entirely unapproachable.

  So they’ve given you the golden boy, she thought. What a treat for you, Barb! After eight miserable months they bring you back from the street “for another chance”—and all the while it’s Lynley!

  “I will not,” she muttered. “I will not do it! I will not work with that sodding little fop!”

  She pushed herself away from the wall and returned to the basin. She ran cold water into it carefully this time, bending to bathe her hot face and scrub away the incriminating sign of her tears.

  “I’d like to give you another opportunity in CID,” Webberly had said. He’d been fingering a letter opener on his desk, but she’d noticed the Ripper photos on the walls and her heart had soared. To be on the Ripper! Oh God, yes! When do I start? Is it with MacPherson?

  “It’s a peculiar case involving a girl up in Yorkshire.” Oh, so it’s not the Ripper. But still, it’s a case. A girl, you say? Of course I can help. Is it Stewart, then? He’s an old hand in Yorkshire. We’d work well together. I know we would.

  “In fact, I’m expecting to receive the information in about three-quarters of an hour. I’ll need you here then, if you’re interested, that is.” If I’m interested! Three-quarters of an hour gives me time to change. Have a bite to eat. Get back here. Then be on the late train to York. Will we meet up there? Shall I see about a car?

  “I’ll need you to pop round to Chelsea before then, I’m afraid.”

  The conversation ground to a sudden halt. “To Chelsea, sir?” What on earth had Chelsea to do with all this?

  “Yes,” Webberly said easily, dropping the letter opener onto the general clutter on his desk. “You’ll be working with Inspector Lynley, and unfortunately we’ve got to pull him out of the St. James wedding in Chelsea.” He glanced at his watch. “The wedding was at eleven, so no doubt they’re well into the reception by now. We’ve been trying to raise him on the phone, but apparently it’s been left off the hook.” He looked up in time to see the shock on her face. “Something wrong, Sergeant?”

  “Inspector Lynley?” She saw it all at once, the reason they needed her, the reason why no one else would really quite do.

  “Yes, Lynley. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem at all.” And then, as an afterthought, “Sir.”

  Webberly’s shrewd eyes evaluated her response. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. There’s a lot you might learn from working with Lynley.” Still the eyes watched, gauging her reaction. “Try to be back here as fast as you can.” He gave his attention back to the papers on his desk. She was dismissed.

  Barbara looked at herself in the mirror and fumbled in the pocket of her skirt for a comb. Lynley. She tugged the plastic through her hair mercilessly, dragging it against her scalp, abrading the skin, welcoming the pain. Lynley! It was only too obvious why they’d brought her back out of uniform. They wanted Lynley on the case. But they needed a woman as well. And every person on Victoria Street knew that there wasn’t a female in CID who was safe near Lynley. He’d slept his way through department and division, leaving a trail of the discarded behind him. He had the reputation of a racehorse put out to stud and, from all the tales told, the endurance as well. She angrily shoved the comb back into her pocket.

  So, how does it feel, she demanded of her reflection, to be the one lucky woman whose virtue is quite secure in the presence of the almighty Lynley? No wandering hands while our Barb’s in the car! No confidential dinners to “go over our notes.” No invitations to Cornwall to “think the case out.” No fear here, Barb. God knows that you’re safe with Lynley. In her five years working in the same division with the man, she was certain he’d managed to avoid so much as saying her name, let alone having a single second’s foul contact with her. As if a grammar school background and a working-class accent were social diseases that might infect him if he were not scrupulously careful to keep himself clear of them.

  She left the room and stalked down the corridor towards the lift. Was there anyone in all of New Scotland Yard whom she hated more than she hated Lynley? He was a miraculous combination
of every single thing that she thoroughly despised: educated at Eton, a first in history at Oxford, a public school voice, and a bloody family tree that had its roots somewhere just this side of the Battle of Hastings. Upper class. Bright. And so damnably charming that she couldn’t understand why every criminal in the city simply didn’t surrender to accommodate him.

  His whole reason for working at the Yard was a joke, a flaming little myth that she didn’t believe for a moment. He wanted to be useful, to make a contribution. He preferred a career in London to life on the estate. What a ruddy good laugh!

  The lift doors opened and she punched furiously for the garage. And hadn’t his career been convenient and sweet, purchased lock, stock, and barrel with the family funds? He bought his way right into his current position and he’d be a Commissioner before he was through. God knew inheriting that precious title hadn’t hurt his chances for success one bit. He’d gone from sergeant to inspector in record time straight away. Everyone knew why.

  She headed for her car, a rusty Mini in the far corner of the garage. How nice to be rich, to be titled like Lynley, to work only for a lark, and then to swing home to the Belgravia townhouse, or better yet fly to the Cornish estate. With butlers and maids and cooks and valets.

  And think of it, Barb: picture yourself in the presence of such greatness. What shall you do? Shall you swoon or vomit first?

  She flung her handbag into the rear seat of the Mini, slammed the door, and started the car with a sputter and roar. The wheels squealed on the pavement as she ascended the ramp, nodded brusquely towards the officer on guard in the kiosk, and headed for the street.

  The light weekend traffic made getting from Victoria Street to the Embankment a manoeuvre of a few minutes only, and, once there, the mild breeze of the October afternoon cooled her temper, calmed her nerves, and coaxed her into forgetting her indignation. It was a pleasant drive, really, to the St. James house.

  Barbara liked Simon Allcourt-St. James, had liked him from the first time she had met him ten years ago when she was a nervous twenty-year-old probationary police constable all too aware of being a woman in a closely guarded man’s world where women police were still called Wopsies after a few drinks. And she’d been called worse than that—she knew it. Damn them all to hell. To them, any woman who aspired to CID was a bona fide freak and made to feel that way. But to St. James, two years her senior, she had been an acceptable colleague, even a friend.