Once those issues had been dealt with, he asked her how the sketching was going.
At first she was clueless until she recalled GroupMeet or GroupGrope or whatever the bloody hell it was called, along with Dorothea Harriman’s intention to involve her in it. The sketching, she informed Lynley, wasn’t going at all. At least not yet. To this she added, “And if I have my way, it never will. Why does she think I need a love life, sir? Do I look like I need a love life? And what does someone who needs a love life look like anyway? And how the bloody hell is sketching supposed to lead to a love life?”
“I wouldn’t presume to answer a single one of those questions,” Lynley admitted. “Obviously, I have difficulty enough in the love-life area myself.”
Barbara harrumphed. “I need someone to pose as my lover, I do.” She thought of her acquaintances, most of whom were her fellow cops. Then she had it. “What about Charlie Denton, sir? D’you think he’d be up for the job? It could take a massive amount of acting, ’course. But on the other hand, there’s every chance that a little sighing along with flowers and boxes of chocolates and looking at me with cow eyes could do the trick. Dee’s not met him, has she? He’s not been round to see you at work, right? Of course, there is the problem of Denton not being my type, but p’rhaps we can get round that some way.” When Lynley didn’t reply, she went on with, “I mean, you do agree, right? Denton isn’t my type.”
“Have you a type?” Lynley asked her.
“According to Dee, we all have types. We’re just meant to devote some serious time sorting the wheat from the whatsit.”
“The chaff?”
“Is that what it is? And is the wheat supposed to be my type, or is it the chaff? And what the bloody dickens is chaff when its home with its mum?”
“Flotsam and jetsam of the corn world, perhaps?”
“Oh, that’s very helpful, sir.”
They found Easter Lange at her regular place of employment. This had been something of a surprise to them, as they’d expected her employment to be oriented towards the clinic at which she’d been arrested. But they ended up instead at the top of Mare Street in Hackney, where a Marks & Spencer sat in a pedestrian area, just across from a crenellated tower, which marked the near end of a small park. This immediate area, they learned, was called The Narrow Way and it was crowded with shoppers who appeared to be preparing scores of children with uniforms, shoes, and school supplies for the new school term, which was fast upon them.
Upon making an enquiry at the department store, showing his warrant card, and using his plummiest accent to smooth the potential for difficulties inherent to speaking to an employee during her working hours, Lynley was able to unearth the information that they would find Easter Lange in ladies’ wear, particularly undergarments, even more particularly knickers and brassieres. Barbara allowed herself a small snicker. She reckoned that while Marks & Spencer wasn’t exactly Lynley’s usual stamping ground, the department featuring ladies’ knickers and bras was even less so. Nonetheless, he impressively girded whatever needed to be girded, and he led the way.
Easter Lange turned out to be a stout figure somewhere in her sixties. She had shockingly red hair, which was unexpected, but she carried it off well. She was rounded everywhere: arms, legs, arse, breasts. Her hands were dimpled and so were her cheeks. She would have looked quite pleasant and utterly approachable should someone have a question about ladies’ undergarments, but she looked dead angry when Lynley introduced himself, introduced Barbara, and said they’d been given permission to have a word.
“You lot took your time,” she snapped. “What’re you doing to catch those bloody kids?”
Lynley and Barbara exchanged a look. Easter Lange seemed to clock their confusion because she said, “Police, right?” Then, “You di’n’t come about the raid last evening?”
“We did not.”
“Well, tha’s just the bloody limit, that is. We had more’n one hundred kids in here, doing a raid. Had it all planned, they did, and in they came in a swarm and there was nothing to be done to stop ’em. Tha’s when we needed you lot, innit. Stuffing all sorts of clobber into bags, they were, with no one to hold ’em back but shop assistants and two security guards. This whole place was a tip by the time they finished their fun. Oh, they’re all on CCTV, the lot of them, but how’s that goin’ to help? We still got to put this place in order.” She indicated the lingerie department, which seemed to have taken quite a hit during the invasion. She continued what she had been doing, which Barbara saw was hanging up bras where they belonged. Knickers were easier as they were mostly in packages. “They lef’ saying ‘there’ll be more of us tonight,’ and laughing like this was the local asylum. They do it all by mobile, y’know. They message the time and they message the place and they storm it, taking everything they can get their maulers on. I ask you how’re we meant to stop ’em when they come at us like that? ’S that what you come to tell me? You’re here to say how I’m s’posed to prevent this? An’ why me when there’s other departments got hit as well? Shoes got hit worse, I hear it.”