Read Online A Suitable Vengeance by Elizabeth George - Free Book Online

officer’s name was scrawled in approval across the bottom along with the barely legible note, “Have a care if you’re flying, lad,” seven words that telegraphed Webberly’s accurate guess that he planned upon heading to Cornwall for a long weekend. Lynley had no doubt that the superintendent had also deduced his reason for the trip. Webberly had, after all, seen and remarked upon the photograph of Deborah on Lynley’s desk, and although he was not himself uxorious, the superintendent was always first with congratulations when one of his men got married.
    The superintendent’s secretary was examining this picture herself at the moment. She squinted to bring it into focus, once again eschewing the spectacles which Lynley knew were in her desk. Wearing spectacles detracted from the marked resemblance Harriman bore to the Princess of Wales, a resemblance which she did much to promote. Today, Lynley noted, Harriman was wearing a reproduction of the black-sashed blue dress which the Princess had worn to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in America. Royalty had looked quite svelte with it on. Harriman, however, was given over just a bit too much to hips.
    “Rumour has Deb back in London,” Harriman said, replacing the picture and frowning at the unorganised clutter of his desktop. She gathered up a fan of telephone messages, clipped them together, and straightened five files.
    “She’s been back for more than a week,” Lynley answered.
    “That’s the change in you, then. Grist for the marriage mill, Detective Inspector. You’ve been grinning like a fool these last three days.”
    “Have I?”
    “Walking on bubbles with not a trouble in the world. If this is love, I’ll take a double portion, thank you.”
    He smiled, sorted through the files, and handed two of them to her. “Take these instead, will you? Webberly’s waiting for them.”
    Harriman sighed. “I want love and he gives me”—she examined them—“fibre optic reports from a killing in Bayswater. How romantic. I’m in the wrong line of work.”
    “But it’s noble work, Harriman.”
    “Just what I need to hear.” She left him, calling out to someone to answer a phone that was ringing in an unmanned office nearby.
    Lynley folded the memo and flipped open his pocket watch. It was half past five. He’d been on duty since seven. There were at least three more reports on his desk waiting for comment, but his concentration was dwindling. It was time to join her, Lynley decided. They needed to talk.
    He left his office, making his way down to the lobby and out the revolving doors onto Broadway. He walked along the side of the building—such an unprepossessing combination of glass, grey stone, and protective scaffolding—towards the green.
    Deborah still stood where he had seen her from his office window, in the corner of that misshapen trapezoid of lawn and trees. She appeared to be alternating between studying the top of the Suffragette Scroll and gazing at it through her camera, which she had mounted on its tripod perhaps ten feet away.
    Whatever she hoped to capture through the lens seemed to elude her, however. For as Lynley watched, she scrunched up her nose, dropped her shoulders in disappointment, and began disassembling her equipment, packing it away in a sturdy metal case.
    Lynley prolonged the moment before he crossed the green to join her, taking pleasure in a study of her movements. He savoured her presence. Even more, he savoured the fact that she was home. He had no fondness for the tender angst of being in love with a woman who was six thousand miles away. So Deborah’s absence had created anything but an easy time for him. Most of it he had spent with his mind fixed upon when he would next see her in one or another of his quick trips to California. But now she was back. She was with him. He was fully determined to keep it that way.
    He crossed the lawn, scattering pigeons who were pecking about in search of crumbs from afternoon