Read Online In The Presence Of The Enemy by Elizabeth George - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth George
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returning her glasses to her nose.
For Charlotte
. She wouldn’t say the two words because she wouldn’t say her daughter’s name. Saying her daughter’s name would give him an opening before she was ready. And she was a bloody politician who bloody well knew how to keep the upper hand.
As if a meal were not in the midst of cooking in that very room, she went to the refrigerator. Alex watched her bring out the two covered plates that he’d already inspected, carrying them to the work top and unwrapping Mrs. Maguire’s Wednesday night offering of macaroni cheese, mixed veg, and boiled new potatoes dressed with a daring dash of paprika.
“God,” she said, staring down at the lumps of cheddar that pockmarked the agglutinant gobbet of macaroni.
He said, “I leave her something for Charlie every day. All she has to do is warm it, but she won’t. ‘Fancy names for muck’ is what she calls it.”
“And this isn’t muck?” Eve dumped the contents of both plates into the sink. She flipped the switch and let the disposer eat its fill. The water ran and ran and Alex watched her watching it, knowing that she was using the time to prepare herself for the coming conversation. Her head was bowed and her shoulders drooped. Her neck was exposed. It was white and vulnerable and it begged for his pity. But he wasn’t moved.
He crossed to her, switched off the disposer, and turned off the tap. He took her arm to swing her to him. She was rigid to the touch.
He dropped his hand.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Just what I told you. She disappeared on the way home from her music lesson.”
“Maguire wasn’t with her?”
“Apparently not.”
“God
damn
it, Eve. We’ve been through this before. If she can’t be relied on to—”
“She thought Charlotte was with friends.”
“She thought. She bloody fucking
thought
.”
Again he felt the need to strike. Had the housekeeper been there, he would have gone for her throat. “Why?” he asked sharply. “Just tell me why.”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She turned. She cupped each elbow with her hands. It was a choice of position that cut her off from him more effectively than had she moved to the other side of the room. “Alex, I had to think what to do.”
He felt gratitude for the fact that she at least didn’t try to expound on her previous lie of things happening too quickly, of there being no time.
But it was a meagre gratitude, like a seed that fell onto barren soil. “What exactly is there to think about?” he asked with a deliberate, polite calm.
“It seems a simple four-step problem to me.” He used his thumb and three fingers to tick off each step. “Charlie’s been snatched. You phone me at the restaurant. I fetch you from your offi ce. We go to the police.”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“You seem to be quagmired somewhere on step one. Is that right?” Her face didn’t change.
It still wore its expression of complete sangfroid, so essential in her line of work, a tranquillity that was quickly obliterating his own.
“God damn it. Is that
right
, Eve?”
“Do you want me to explain?”
“I want you to tell me who the fuck those people were in the sitting room. I want you to tell me why the fuck you haven’t called the police. I want you to explain—and let’s go for ten words or less, Eve—why you didn’t seem to think it important to let me know my own daughter—”
“Stepdaughter, Alex.”
“Jesus Christ. So if I was her father—obviously defined by you as provider of a sodding sperm—I’d have merited a call to let me know that my child had gone missing. Am I getting it right?”
“Not quite. Charlotte’s father already knows. He’s the one who phoned me to tell me she’d been taken. I believe he’s arranged to have her taken himself.”
The pasta water chose this moment to boil over, gushing in a frothing wave down the sides of the pot and onto the burner beneath it. Feeling as if he
For Charlotte
. She wouldn’t say the two words because she wouldn’t say her daughter’s name. Saying her daughter’s name would give him an opening before she was ready. And she was a bloody politician who bloody well knew how to keep the upper hand.
As if a meal were not in the midst of cooking in that very room, she went to the refrigerator. Alex watched her bring out the two covered plates that he’d already inspected, carrying them to the work top and unwrapping Mrs. Maguire’s Wednesday night offering of macaroni cheese, mixed veg, and boiled new potatoes dressed with a daring dash of paprika.
“God,” she said, staring down at the lumps of cheddar that pockmarked the agglutinant gobbet of macaroni.
He said, “I leave her something for Charlie every day. All she has to do is warm it, but she won’t. ‘Fancy names for muck’ is what she calls it.”
“And this isn’t muck?” Eve dumped the contents of both plates into the sink. She flipped the switch and let the disposer eat its fill. The water ran and ran and Alex watched her watching it, knowing that she was using the time to prepare herself for the coming conversation. Her head was bowed and her shoulders drooped. Her neck was exposed. It was white and vulnerable and it begged for his pity. But he wasn’t moved.
He crossed to her, switched off the disposer, and turned off the tap. He took her arm to swing her to him. She was rigid to the touch.
He dropped his hand.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Just what I told you. She disappeared on the way home from her music lesson.”
“Maguire wasn’t with her?”
“Apparently not.”
“God
damn
it, Eve. We’ve been through this before. If she can’t be relied on to—”
“She thought Charlotte was with friends.”
“She thought. She bloody fucking
thought
.”
Again he felt the need to strike. Had the housekeeper been there, he would have gone for her throat. “Why?” he asked sharply. “Just tell me why.”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She turned. She cupped each elbow with her hands. It was a choice of position that cut her off from him more effectively than had she moved to the other side of the room. “Alex, I had to think what to do.”
He felt gratitude for the fact that she at least didn’t try to expound on her previous lie of things happening too quickly, of there being no time.
But it was a meagre gratitude, like a seed that fell onto barren soil. “What exactly is there to think about?” he asked with a deliberate, polite calm.
“It seems a simple four-step problem to me.” He used his thumb and three fingers to tick off each step. “Charlie’s been snatched. You phone me at the restaurant. I fetch you from your offi ce. We go to the police.”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“You seem to be quagmired somewhere on step one. Is that right?” Her face didn’t change.
It still wore its expression of complete sangfroid, so essential in her line of work, a tranquillity that was quickly obliterating his own.
“God damn it. Is that
right
, Eve?”
“Do you want me to explain?”
“I want you to tell me who the fuck those people were in the sitting room. I want you to tell me why the fuck you haven’t called the police. I want you to explain—and let’s go for ten words or less, Eve—why you didn’t seem to think it important to let me know my own daughter—”
“Stepdaughter, Alex.”
“Jesus Christ. So if I was her father—obviously defined by you as provider of a sodding sperm—I’d have merited a call to let me know that my child had gone missing. Am I getting it right?”
“Not quite. Charlotte’s father already knows. He’s the one who phoned me to tell me she’d been taken. I believe he’s arranged to have her taken himself.”
The pasta water chose this moment to boil over, gushing in a frothing wave down the sides of the pot and onto the burner beneath it. Feeling as if he
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