'Rumour has Deb back in London,' Harriman said, replacing the picture and frowning at the unorganized clutter of his desk-top. 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. 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 on 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 lunches. They took hasty flight, and Deborah looked up. Her hair, which had been pulled back with a haphazard arrangement of combs, tumbled towards freedom. She muttered in exasperation and began to fuss with it.
'You know,' she said by way of greeting him, 'I always wanted to be one of those women who're described as having hair like silk. You know what I mean. An Estella Havisham type.'
'Did Estella Havisham have hair like silk?' He pushed her hand away and saw to the snarls himself.
'She must have. Can you imagine poor Pip falling for someone who didn't have hair like silk? Ouch!’
‘Pulling?'
'A bit. Honestly, isn't it pathetic? I lead one life and my hair leads another.'
'Well, it's fixed now. Sort of.' 'That's encouraging.'
They laughed together and began gathering her belongings which were scattered on the lawn. She'd come with tripod, camera-case, a shopping-bag containing three pieces of fruit, a comfortable old pullover, and her shoulder-bag.
'I saw you from my office,' Lynley told her. 'What are you working on? A tribute to Mrs Pankhurst?'
'Actually, I was waiting for the light to strike the top of the scroll. I thought to create some diffraction with the lens. Utterly defeated by the clouds, I'm afraid. By the time they decided to drift away, the sun had done so as well.' She paused reflectively and scratched her head. 'What an appalling display of ignorance. I think I mean the earth.' She fished in her shoulder-bag and brought out a mint which she unwrapped and popped into her mouth.
They strolled back towards Scotland Yard.
‘I’ve managed to get Friday off,' Lynley told her. 'Monday as well. So we're free to go to Cornwall. I'm free, that is. And if you've nothing planned I thought we might…' He stopped, wondering why he was adding the verbal apologia.
'Cornwall, Tommy?' Deborah's voice was no different when she asked the question, but her head was turned away from him so he couldn't see her expression.
'Yes. Cornwall. Howenstow. I think it's time, don't you? I know you've only just come back and perhaps this is rushing things. But you've never met my mother.'
Deborah said only, 'Ah. Yes.'
'Your coming to Cornwall would give your father an opportunity to meet her as well. And it's time they met.'
She frowned at her scuffed shoes and made no reply.
'Deb, it can't be avoided for ever. I know what you're thinking. They're worlds apart. They'll have nothing to say to each other. But that isn't the case. They'll get on. Believe me.'
'He won't want to do this, Tommy.'
'I've already thought of that. And of a way to manage it. I've asked Simon to come along. It's all arranged in fact.'
He did not include in the information the details of his brief encounter with St James and Lady Helen Clyde at the Ritz, they on their way to a business dinner and he en route to a reception at Clarence House. He also didn't mention St James' ill-concealed reluctance or Lady Helen's quick excuse. An enormous backlog of work, she'd said, promising to keep them busy for every weekend over the next month.
Helen's declining the invitation had been too quick to be believable, and the speed of her refusal, in combination with the effort she made not to look at St James, told Lynley how important absence from Cornwall was to them both. Even if he had wanted to lie to himself, he couldn't do so in the face of their behaviour. He knew what it meant. But he needed them in Cornwall for Cotter's sake, and the mention of the older man's possible discomfort was what won them over. For St James would never send Cotter alone to be wretchedly enthroned as a weekend visitor to Howenstow. And Helen would never abandon St James to what she clearly visualized as four days of unmitigated misery. So Lynley had used them. It was all for Cotter's sake, he told himself, and refused to examine the secondary reasons he had – even more compelling than Cotter's comfort – for arriving at Howenstow with a surfeit of companions.
Deborah was inspecting the silver letters on the Yard's revolving sign. She said, 'Simon's to go?'
'And Helen. Sidney as well.' Lynley waited for her further reaction. When there was none other than the smallest of nods, he decided they were finally close enough to the single area of discussion which they had long avoided. It lay between them, unspoken, putting down roots of potential doubt which needed to be extirpated once and for all.
'Have you seen him, Deb?'
'Yes.' She shifted her tripod from one hand to the other. She said nothing else, leaving everything up to him.
Lynley felt in his pocket for cigarette case and lighter. He lit up before she had a chance to admonish him. Feeling weighted down by a burden he did not wish to define, he sighed.
'I want to get us through this, Deb. No, that's not quite true, is it? We need to get through it.'