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Authors: Elizabeth George
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eyebrows drawn together. Then she said only, “Let me put you through to the Inspector. He’s here.”
Canerone turned. The constable extended the phone to him. Salvation came with it.
“Inspector Lynley,” she said. “New Scotland Yard.”
Queen Caroline Street was as close as Lynley could get to the Whateleys’ cottage on the river. He parked his car illegally in the only space available, blocking off half the driveway of an apartment building, and propped his police identification against the steering wheel. On either side of the street stood a grim collection of postwar housing where institutional buildings of mushroom-coloured concrete squared off against other buildings of dirty brown brick. Both were devoid of architectural decoration, bleak and overcrowded and inhospitable.
Even at ten o’clock on a Sunday night, the neighbourhood was alive with noise that rocketed through the street and reverberated against the buildings. Cars and lorries roared along the flyover. Additional traffic fired across Hammersmith Bridge. Shouts echoed in apartment courtyards, followed by the antiphonal barking of dogs.
Lynley walked to the end of the street and descended to the embankment. The tide was up, the water shimmered in the darkness like cool black satin, but what vague, life-giving smell rose from the river was overpowered by the exhaust fumes that drifted down from the bridge above him.
Lynley found the Whateleys’ cottage a few hundred yards along the Lower Mall, an obdurate reminder of Hammersmith’s past. It was an old unrestored fishing cottage, with whitewashed walls, thin strips of black woodwork, and dormer windows rising from its roof.
Access to the cottage interior was gained by means of a tunnel that served as boundary between the Whateleys’ home and a pub next door. The passage was narrow, unevenly paved, and redolent of the yeasty smell of lager and ale. As he made his way to the door the top of Lynley’s head grazed the rough timbers that crisscrossed the tunnel’s low ceiling.
So far, everything had followed the usual roll of policework. Lynley’s phone call to the incidents room in Stoke Poges had resulted in Kevin Whateley’s identification of his son’s body less than an hour later. This led to Lynley’s suggestion that Scotland Yard coordinate the investigation into the death of the boy, since more than one police organisation was involved: the constabulary of West Sussex where Matthew Whateley was last seen alive at Bredgar Chambers and that of Buckinghamshire where his body had been found near St. Giles’ Church. Once Inspector Canerone had given his approval to this plan of action—with rather more relief than was usual when someone from the Met proposed an invasion into another police force’s territory—all that had been left to ensure another case keeping Lynley occupied for the days or weeks it would take to see it to its completion was to secure approval from his own superior, Superintendent Webberly. Summoned away from his favourite Sunday night television show, Webberly had listened to Lynley’s quick recitation of the facts, agreed to his proposed involvement, and returned happily to BBC-1.
Sergeant Havers was the only person who promised not to be relieved by their involvement in yet another new case. But her displeasure could not be helped at the moment.
Lynley knocked on the discoloured door. It was recessed into the wall, and its lintel sagged as if it carried the weight of the entire building. When no one opened it, he looked for a bell, failed to find one, and rapped against the wood again, more forcefully. He heard a key being turned and bolts being drawn. Then he found himself face to face with the father of the boy.
Until that moment, the death of Matthew Whateley had represented to Lynley a means by which he might escape his own troubles and stave off the void. Confronted now with the kind of suffering incised onto Kevin Whateley’s face, Lynley
Canerone turned. The constable extended the phone to him. Salvation came with it.
“Inspector Lynley,” she said. “New Scotland Yard.”
Queen Caroline Street was as close as Lynley could get to the Whateleys’ cottage on the river. He parked his car illegally in the only space available, blocking off half the driveway of an apartment building, and propped his police identification against the steering wheel. On either side of the street stood a grim collection of postwar housing where institutional buildings of mushroom-coloured concrete squared off against other buildings of dirty brown brick. Both were devoid of architectural decoration, bleak and overcrowded and inhospitable.
Even at ten o’clock on a Sunday night, the neighbourhood was alive with noise that rocketed through the street and reverberated against the buildings. Cars and lorries roared along the flyover. Additional traffic fired across Hammersmith Bridge. Shouts echoed in apartment courtyards, followed by the antiphonal barking of dogs.
Lynley walked to the end of the street and descended to the embankment. The tide was up, the water shimmered in the darkness like cool black satin, but what vague, life-giving smell rose from the river was overpowered by the exhaust fumes that drifted down from the bridge above him.
Lynley found the Whateleys’ cottage a few hundred yards along the Lower Mall, an obdurate reminder of Hammersmith’s past. It was an old unrestored fishing cottage, with whitewashed walls, thin strips of black woodwork, and dormer windows rising from its roof.
Access to the cottage interior was gained by means of a tunnel that served as boundary between the Whateleys’ home and a pub next door. The passage was narrow, unevenly paved, and redolent of the yeasty smell of lager and ale. As he made his way to the door the top of Lynley’s head grazed the rough timbers that crisscrossed the tunnel’s low ceiling.
So far, everything had followed the usual roll of policework. Lynley’s phone call to the incidents room in Stoke Poges had resulted in Kevin Whateley’s identification of his son’s body less than an hour later. This led to Lynley’s suggestion that Scotland Yard coordinate the investigation into the death of the boy, since more than one police organisation was involved: the constabulary of West Sussex where Matthew Whateley was last seen alive at Bredgar Chambers and that of Buckinghamshire where his body had been found near St. Giles’ Church. Once Inspector Canerone had given his approval to this plan of action—with rather more relief than was usual when someone from the Met proposed an invasion into another police force’s territory—all that had been left to ensure another case keeping Lynley occupied for the days or weeks it would take to see it to its completion was to secure approval from his own superior, Superintendent Webberly. Summoned away from his favourite Sunday night television show, Webberly had listened to Lynley’s quick recitation of the facts, agreed to his proposed involvement, and returned happily to BBC-1.
Sergeant Havers was the only person who promised not to be relieved by their involvement in yet another new case. But her displeasure could not be helped at the moment.
Lynley knocked on the discoloured door. It was recessed into the wall, and its lintel sagged as if it carried the weight of the entire building. When no one opened it, he looked for a bell, failed to find one, and rapped against the wood again, more forcefully. He heard a key being turned and bolts being drawn. Then he found himself face to face with the father of the boy.
Until that moment, the death of Matthew Whateley had represented to Lynley a means by which he might escape his own troubles and stave off the void. Confronted now with the kind of suffering incised onto Kevin Whateley’s face, Lynley
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