“She hates them all.”
“Not entirely true. She’s still tap dancing, isn’t she?”
“Well. Yes. But I expect that’s due to the curry. I think she sees it as her reward.”
“There you are,” he said.
“There I am? Where?”
“You’ve hit on it. She needs rewards. We all do.”
“More curry?”
“Probably not.” The lift doors opened. He punched for the car park and, lest Dorothea jump inside to continue their discussion, “Dee, I am completely confident you can come up with something.”
Once in his car, he made for the river, windows open to catch whatever breeze might be coming off the water. He made good time to Chelsea, and although he was forced to park at the top of Bramerton Street, the walk to the St. Jameses’ house wasn’t far, and soon enough he was climbing the steps to their door and ringing the bell.
Barking ensued: Peach was causing her usual ruckus. A voice attempted to put an end to her canine greeting, but Peach had never been a dog to be disciplined. She was, after all, a dachshund.
A bolt was withdrawn, the door opened, and Peach dashed out to examine his ankles. Finding them passable, she trotted back inside.
“She’s got the devil in her, that dog,” Joseph Cotter said, opening wide the door to allow him entrance to the house.
“I daresay she’s better than a burglar alarm.” Lynley bent to let the dog have a whiff of his fingers, happy he’d thoroughly washed his hands after downing half of a day-old tuna salad sandwich before he left his office.
“Gone out, I’m ’fraid,” Cotter told him. “Said he had to speak with someone in Lambeth.”
“Ah. There’s a trial coming up?”
“Oh aye. Isn’t there always a trial coming up? Twenty-four/seven it seems like he’s at work. ’Course, Deb’s not much better.”
“Is she here, then? I’ve actually come to speak to her rather than to Simon.”
“To Deb? Oh. Right, she’s above. I c’n fetch her down to the study for you. She’s doing something with her photos. Don’t ask me what.”
Lynley said he would go to her, rather than having to interrupt her work. He went for the stairway and climbed to the top floor of the house. Here, under a huge skylight, both Deborah and Simon often worked, she dealing with her photography, he dealing with requests for his expertise in matters of evidence to be used—or for that matter, discounted—in upcoming trials.
He found Deborah at one of the worktables, a number of photographs spread out in front of her. Her heavy mass of hair was done in whimsical plaits—against the heat, no doubt—and she was wearing a large set of headphones. Her shoulders were moving to the beat of whatever music she was listening to. He didn’t wish to startle her, so he crossed the room and put himself on the other side of the table at which she worked. The movement appeared to catch her attention, but she didn’t look up. Instead, she lifted a hand in a just-a-moment gesture. She removed two of the photos she was inspecting, filing them in a large accordion folder. That done, she raised her head. She looked surprised and quickly gazed round, perhaps to see if Simon was with him. She removed her headphones—he could hear the dreadful teeth-grinding sound of a rock ’n’ roll guitar solo—and she thumbed a small switch to turn the music off.
“What on earth was that?” he asked her.
She laughed. “The Scorpions. ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane.’ That’s just the opening. You’re a heavy metal philistine, Tommy.”
“And long do I wish to remain. That was indescribable. Aren’t you damaging your hearing?”
“With the volume?” She looked at the headphones rather too fondly, in his opinion. “I generally don’t listen to anything that loud. But every once in a very long while, only true, metallic rock ’n’ roll at maximum volume will do.”
“What does it do? Remove tartar from your teeth?”
She laughed again. “I suspect Barbara would approve of my choice.”
“Not unless Buddy Holly has left his grave and joined the band.”
She waved him off. “Simon’s not here, you know. Dad must have told you.”
“Is this a bad time?” He gestured to the photos. They appeared to be portraits, all of the same woman, taken inside a home. She was Black, and she had a shy cast to her look. She was seated, and behind her off to one side, a wall was hung with a collection of African art. Mostly masks, he saw. They were deliberately out of focus, but still identifiable as masks. “Who is it?” he asked her.