Gwynder was the only way she saw to do this. Indeed, bringing her sister to London was the only way she could show Lynley the woman she actually was. Nothing else would have worked because nothing else had worked, from the moment she’d come upon him inside her cottage in Cornwall, uselessly looking for a telephone. Indeed, wasn’t that oddly appropriate? he thought. He’d fallen in love with her because she was so unlike anyone in his world. And then he’d set about making her into someone he thought she needed to be.
He said quietly, “Daidre.” He waited. He said her name again. And then a third time until she raised her head to look at him. “I am,” he told her, “gravely at fault here. Please know that I finally see it. You are in no way to blame for my failure to understand before now what you’ve been trying to tell me from the moment we met. I’m so bloody sorry for what I’ve put you through. Truly, I am.”
He fished in his pocket and brought out the key she’d given him. He recalled that he’d asked for the key. He recalled that at first she’d hesitated, but then she’d complied. Even that memory seared his conscience. Twenty-five different ways he’d been a fool.
He handed it to her. He closed her fingers round it.
“Know that I love you,” he said. “You, Daidre, here and now, as you are. When you can—if you can—welcome me into your life, I’ll be waiting. I’ll hope that time comes, but if it doesn’t, please believe I shall do my best to understand.”
16 AUGUST
NEW END SQUARE
HAMPSTEAD
NORTH LONDON
On this, his third trip to the Bontempi house, Winston Nkata felt a weight on his shoulders like a yoke worn by an ox. He’d been up all night, not because he was at work but because he was waiting for word about Monifa Bankole. None had come.
The only person who seemed to feel worse than he did about her disappearance was his mother. She blamed herself for not asking more questions of Monifa and for not ringing her son at once to explain what was going on. And she could have done that, she kept insisting. All she’d had to do was ring him and ask him to check with the Belgravia police about the release of Abeo Bankole. But she hadn’t thought to do that because she’d not seen a reason that Monifa would lie. Nor had he, he reassured her. He’d been taken in by the Nigerian woman’s apparent helplessness. He reckoned he wasn’t the first person to find himself in that position.
Now pulling into New End Square, the idea of being taken in seemed to have a second application. He’d not wanted to think of Rosie Bontempi as responsible in any way for her sister’s death, and he had to admit that a large part of his disbelief had to do with Rosie’s beauty and sensuality. And the truth was that she wasn’t responsible for Teo’s death. What she was responsible for was leaving the flat without ringing 999 to ask for assistance. With her sister unconscious and the discarded sculpture lying nearby, Rosie hadn’t had a single reason for walking away and leaving her on the floor. Yet, she had done so. The why of it needed to be admitted to and explained.
He arrived early, as before. His ostensible reason was to let the family know that Teo’s body would be released to them, and the arrangements for her funeral could now be made. But his other reason was the conversation he needed to have with Rosie. And that was something he wasn’t anticipating with the slightest degree of pleasure.
As before, Solange Bontempi opened the door to him. Unlike his earlier visits, however, she was not wearing professional attire. Rather, she was in linen: navy trousers and a bright pink top, colour-blocked with navy and grey. Her feet were bare, but her toenails were the pink of the top she wore. Her only jewellery consisted of her wedding ring, a gold chain with a navy stone held by gold filigree, and small gold hoops for earrings. Seeing him, she smiled and said, “Detective Sergeant. Good morning. You have arrived just as we were setting off. Cesare insists that he return to the hospital today.”
“He’s had a turn?” Nkata asked her.
She gave a charming laugh and said, “No, no. I mean the animal hospital. I have agreed to this, and as I have two days away from my own work, I’m taking him, watching him, and generally hovering over him. He will not like this, of course, but as he cannot drive to Reading on his own, he must either call a car service or have me as his driver. He—wisely, may I say—chose me. Please come in.”
She directed Nkata to the sitting room, where he found Cesare Bontempi sitting in an armchair, casually dressed, like his wife, but in jeans and jumper. He had a Zimmer with him, but he also had a medical walking stick. Nkata reckoned having both constituted a compromise he’d reached with his wife.