“Th’ estranged husband was with her the night she got coshed, sir. For most of the night, as it turns out. Claims she asked him to come round because she wanted a chat.”
“About what?”
“No clue. That’s me and him. All he offered was she asked him to come for a chat, he agreed, and the rest is the rest. Easy enough to check out, you ask me. Their mobiles are going to show us.”
“Hmmm.” Lynley picked up the day’s post. Charlie Denton had placed it on the walnut demilune table in the entry, inside an empty and ancient Tupperware container standing in place of the silver tray of old. Clearly, he’d forgotten to take them—the day’s post and the Tupperware—down to the kitchen. “Anything else?”
“He says she was the one who wanted the divorce, not him. Says he ‘loved her too much,’ and she couldn’t cope with it, whatever all of that means. He’s got photos of her—and of them together—all over his sitting room ’s well. Says he likes to look at them, he does.”
“Obsession?”
“Could be.”
“Stalking that turns into if I can’t have you, no one else can?”
“I wouldn’t say no. He’s intending to move back into the flat, by the way.”
“That’s an interesting detail.”
She related the rest: Ross Carver’s possession of a key to that flat, how he’d found his estranged wife, what she said, her nausea, her dizziness, her inability to remember—or perhaps her unwillingness to say—exactly what had happened prior to his arrival. She added, “He’s a white bloke, in case that matters.”
Lynley wondered if that fact would please Hillier and Deacon or send them straight round the bend. He said, “She could have moved on, had another lover, the husband not liking it?”
“S’pose. But if that’s the case, he’s not saying. The family might know. Have you heard from Winston?”
“Not yet.”
“What’s next, then?”
“Streatham. We need to have a thorough look at the scene tomorrow. Has SOCO finished up there?”
“They’ve had enough time. I’ll give them a bell. Where are you? Belsize Park?”
“Home for the night. I’m letting Belsize Park cool down a bit.”
“Ah. Think that’s wise, do you?”
“Wise? Barbara, it should be obvious to you by now that I have no idea what constitutes wisdom in male-female affairs of the heart.”
6 AUGUST
EEL PIE ISLAND
TWICKENHAM
GREATER LONDON
Deborah slid her car into a vacant parking bay across the Thames from Eel Pie Island just before dawn. She’d never been to this place before. Indeed, she’d never heard of it, despite having lived in London since just after her seventh birthday. No one had been trying to hide its existence from her, of course, but the heyday of the island had been long ago, as she’d discovered. Even its history as a quite small mecca or the rock ’n’ roll of the 1960s had not saved it from the virtual obscurity it enjoyed now.
When she’d recommended that Deborah speak to Dr. Philippa Weatherall, Narissa had advised her to make this early morning journey, one she herself had made when searching out the surgeon in the hope that having a real face-to-face conversation with her—bearded in her home before she set off for her day’s work—might convince her that her appearance in Narissa’s documentary would give crucial hope to any girls who might be in danger and to women who had already been harmed. As things turned out, Narissa had explained to Deborah, she’d gained nothing from her effort. She’d lost several hours’ sleep, she’d driven for an hour, and she’d used up petrol and valuable time. Dr. Weatherall had told her she was not willing to draw attention to herself for fear of reprisals.
“You can give it a go,” Narissa had told Deborah. “Since your project isn’t a film, you could have better luck.” She’d handed over the surgeon’s details, which had turned out to be the product of sixty minutes online with various search engines and data banks prior to her own visit there. “You c’n ring her first, but I wouldn’t. That’s what I did and I wager she had already written out her refusal and memorised it.”
Deborah would find Dr. Weatherall’s home on Eel Pie Island, Narissa had told her. Cottages there had no addresses—they hardly needed them, considering how few there were—so what Deborah needed to know was Mahonia: a cream-coloured cottage with a blue-tiled roof, set back some twenty yards or so from the main path bisecting the island. It had no name on it, but it did have a picket fence in front of it, an arbor in serious need of rehab, a dead lawn, some dying shrubs, and a few ornamental grasses.