“But we’ve been there, sir,” Havers said. “And everything you just said applies perfectly to Rosie.”
“I think we’re missing something,” Lynley told her. “Our remit now is to uncover what the something is.”
THE NARROW WAY
HACKNEY
NORTH-EAST LONDON
Lynley’s part was to speak with Paul Phinney, whose car was among those seen on one of the CCTV cameras in Streatham High Road on the evening of the day that Ross Carver had gone to his estranged wife and found her collapsed on the floor. Paul was the older brother of Mark Phinney, so the box to tick off was who, exactly, was using the car that evening. That detail seemed the connection that wanted making, unless this was the investigation’s first indication that Paul Phinney—as well as his brother—knew Teo Bontempi.
When Lynley reached Paul Phinney’s place of employment, the pawnshop was locked. There was, however, a hand-lettered Be Back Directly sign posted in the window, so Lynley walked across to the McDonald’s on The Narrow Way and purchased a coffee—so scaldingly hot that its scent was cleverly disguised by the amount of steam rising from the brew—which he took to one of the few tables inside the place. This allowed him to sit at the window, from which he could see the comings and goings at Phinney Pawn.
Directly did not, apparently, mean what it implied when it was used in the language of Paul Phinney, as Lynley discovered. His coffee had cooled enough to drink by the time the pawnshop showed a sign of life. This sign of life, however, wasn’t the return of Paul Phinney. Rather the sign of life belonged to a woman, and she was leaving the shop, not returning to it.
Lynley could see that behind her, still in the shop itself, was a man, and the two of them shared a laugh and a quick kiss at the door. The woman went up The Narrow Way after that. Lynley watched her till she reached what looked like an old church tower. There she turned right and disappeared from view.
He tossed the remainder of his coffee into the bin and crossed over to Phinney Pawn. He entered and was struck by the strong scent of peach air freshener. He caught sight of Paul Phinney, who was employing it more liberally than one would have considered strictly necessary unless the rotting corpse of something had this morning been discovered in the storage room. It was from there that Phinney seemed to be laying a trail of the stuff into the shop.
When Lynley said his name, Phinney stopped his spraying, stood straight, hastily rearranged his hair, and said, “Sorry. Didn’t hear you. Can I help?”
“I’ve been waiting for your return,” Lynley told him. “Across the way at McDonald’s.” He took out his warrant card and presented it, adding, “I hope this is a convenient time.”
Phinney gazed upon the card and said, “Sorry about the wait. My wife stopped by for a quick . . . conversation. About our son. I expect you know how these things can go. Families. Discussions. Matters can get bloody well heated, eh? Well, they tend to do with me and Eileen. Heated. You know.”
The fact that he was explaining at all suggested to Lynley that whoever the woman was, she and Phinney had not been engaged in earnest conversation about anyone. But he wasn’t here to deal with the ins and outs of the Phinney marriage. Instead, he said, “Your car was captured by CCTV camera on Streatham High Road as it drove by a block of flats across the way from a funeral director’s. A police detective was attacked in her flat in the building. This was on July thirty-first. Can you tell me anything about that?”
“I don’t know any police detective,” Phinney said. “I mean, not a woman detective. What was the date you said?”
Lynley repeated it. Phinney frowned. He said, “We none of us have a reason to be in Streatham, far as I know. ’Course, my Eileen could be having it on with some bloke over there, but that’s not likely. That was her leaving just now, like I said, and she and I . . . ? We keep each other fairly busy in that department, plus we’ve got four kids in the bargain. She’s not got much free time. Hour here, half hour there. I don’t see her driving to Streatham and I sure as bloody hell’ve never been there myself. I probably couldn’t get there even with a road map. Or a GPS, for that matter.”
“Someone else with access to your car?”
“My mum has a set of keys. She and Dad live across from us, they do. She knows she can take the car if she needs it, but even then, I can’t think why she’d be going to Streatham. And she’d ask me or Eileen first anyway.” He was quiet, frowning down at a glass display case holding a large collection of hand-painted enamel trinket boxes. He’d remembered something. Lynley could see it in the way he pressed his hand, fingers splayed, against the glass.