St. James poured two fingers of Lagavulin into each of two tumblers and handed one over, with “Cheers, then,” and after they’d both had a sip of the whiskey, “Why do I think this isn’t a social call?”
“Clearly, I have no poker face,” Lynley said. “But it’s Deborah I need to speak to, if she’s here.” He fished from his pocket the business card that Havers had found, and he passed it to St. James. “This was found among the belongings of a murder victim. I’m hoping Deborah can shed some light.”
St. James looked it over, then handed it back. “She’s in the garden,” he said. “Peach was requiring some exercise and she’s giving it a valiant effort. Deborah, that is. Peach would do nothing of the sort. Doubtless the dog will be more than thrilled with any interruption.”
Lynley followed him from the room into the corridor, where at the far end a set of stairs led down to the house’s original kitchen. It was fitted out with all the mod cons now, but time was when three or more household servants would have spent half their day washing, chopping, roasting, serving, and washing again. Now, a chocolate sponge stood on the room’s central chopping block cum table and next to it, dinner plates were stacked and cutlery was laid out, ready to be taken above to the dining room.
At the far side of the room, a door was open to a set of stone steps leading up to the garden. From there, the sound of Deborah’s voice came to them. “She wants to believe she’s too old, Dad. Honestly, she ought to wear a sandwich board: Will Only Play for Treats. Don’t you dare give her one unless she goes after the ball.”
“A cruel mistress,” St. James said to his wife as he reached the top of the stairs. “I’ve brought someone who wishes to speak to you.”
“Well, Peach will be pleased, and I’m not far behind.”
When he reached the top of the stairs, Lynley saw that Deborah was crossing the lawn to a small teak table. Her father joined her, as did one very recalcitrant long-haired dachshund. A bucket on the table held water—previously ice, he supposed—along with two bottles of Fanta orange and several small bottles of San Pellegrino. Both Deborah and her father went for the water, and Deborah offered one each to her husband and to Lynley. As they both still had their whiskeys, they demurred.
Deborah said, “You’re sure?” And before he replied, she went on with, “How are you, Tommy? How’s Daidre?”
“Ouch,” he replied with a smile.
“On that note, I’m going back to work,” Simon said with a laugh, and Deborah’s father joined him, scooping up the dog and returning to the house.
“Have you been misbehaving again?” Deborah asked Lynley.
“It appears to be my stock-in-trade, although I never intend it. I’ve found something of yours.” He reached into his pocket and brought out her card again.
She took it from him, looked at it, cocked her head, and said, “And . . . ?”
“It was with the belongings of a murder victim. Barbara found it when we were looking through her flat.”
“A murder victim? Who is it?”
“Detective Sergeant Teo Bontempi. She worked out of Empress State Building.”
“How extraordinary.” Deborah turned the card over, perhaps to see if she’d written upon it. She could observe, as he’d done, that the card wasn’t dog-eared, suggesting that DS Bontempi had come by it recently. Deborah said, “I’ve no idea why she had it, Tommy. Or how she came by it. Teo Bontempi, you said? I don’t know the name. Someone must have passed the card along to her.”
“You’ve given out no cards yourself lately?”
“Oh, I have done, yes. I attended a meeting at the Department for Education last month. There were . . . let me think . . . five people there? I gave all of them my card. But no one was called Teo Bontempi.”
“Anywhere else?” he asked her.
She frowned, tapping her fingers on the arm of her teak chair. “Well, there’s Orchid House. I gave my card to the women who work there and to the volunteers. But I know everyone there and no one is called Teo.”
“Orchid House?”
“It’s a group protecting girls from FGM. I’ve been taking their photos for a booklet the Department for Education wants to use: photographs of girls who are trying to escape FGM, photos of some girls who’ve had it done to them and others who’ve managed to escape having it done to them. I’m recording their statements as well: whatever they want to say to me. It’s meant to be given to girls through schools all over London.”