He was unruffled by the indirect challenge to argue. “These aren’t school girls, Havers. We can call them that for want of a better word. But that’s not what they are.”
“All right. Young women, then, in subordinate positions. Does that make it right?”
“No. Of course not. But we’ve no direct proof of seduction yet.”
“She was pregnant, for God’s sake. Someone seduced her.”
“Or she seduced someone. Or they seduced each other.”
“Or-as you said yourself yesterday-she was raped.”
“Perhaps. But I’m having second thoughts about that.”
“Why?” Havers’ tone was belligerent, a suggestion that Lynley’s response implied impossibility. “Or are you of the typical male opinion that she would have lain back and enjoyed the experience?”
He glanced in her direction. “I think you know better than that.”
“Then what’s your point?”
“She reported Thorsson for sexual harassment. If she was willing to do that and face the possibility of a potentially embarrassing investigation into her own behaviour, I can’t see that she’d let a rape go unmentioned.”
“What if it was date rape, Inspector? Some bloke she was seeing but didn’t expect or want to get involved with?”
“Then you’ve just put Thorsson out of the picture, haven’t you?”
“You do think he’s innocent.” Her fist hit the steering wheel. “You’re looking for a way to exonerate him, aren’t you? You’re trying to pin this on someone else. Who?” She flashed a knowing look at him a second after she asked the question. “Oh no! You can’t be thinking-”
“I’m not thinking anything. I’m looking for the truth.”
She swung the car to the left in the direction of Cherry Hinton, passing a common that was rich with yellow-leaved horse chestnuts wearing a new winter’s growth of moss on their trunks. Beneath them, two women pushed prams side by side, their heads tilted together, their eager conversation sending out rapid puffs of steam in the air.
It was just after eight when they drove into Thorsson’s housing estate. In the narrow drive of his house on Ashwood Court, a fully restored TR-6 was sitting, its bulbous green wings gleaming in the morning light. They pulled up behind it, so close that the front of the Mini nosed into its boot like a careful insult.
“Nice bit, that,” Havers said as she looked it over. “Just the sort of thing one expects one’s local Marxist to drive.”
Lynley got out and went to inspect the car. Aside from the windscreen, it was beaded with moisture. He pressed his hand to the smooth surface of the bonnet. He could feel the remnants of the engine’s warmth. “Another morning arrival,” he said.
“Does that make him innocent?”
“It certainly makes him something.”
They went to the door where Lynley rang the bell as his sergeant dug through her shoulder bag and brought forth her notebook. When there was no immediate answer and no apparent movement in the house, he rang the bell a second time. A distant shout drifted down to them, a man’s voice calling out the words, “A moment.” More than one moment passed as they stood waiting on the sliver of concrete that served as the front step, watching two sets of neighbours hurry off to work and a third usher two children into an Escort that idled in the drive. Then behind the five opaque shafts of glass in the door, a shadow moved as someone approached.
The deadbolt turned. Thorsson stood in the entry. He wore a black velour dressing gown which he was in the process of belting. His hair was damp. It hung loose round his shoulders. He had nothing on his feet.
“Mr. Thorsson,” Lynley said by way of greeting.
Thorsson sighed, looked from Lynley to Havers. “Christ,” he said. “Wonderful. We’ve got snuten again.” Roughly, he ran a hand back through his hair. It fell onto his forehead in a boyish tangle. “What is it with you two? What do you want?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned from the door and walked down a short corridor towards the rear of the house where a door opened into what appeared to be the kitchen. They followed and found him pouring himself a mug of coffee from an impressive-looking coffee maker that sat on the work top. He began to drink, making a great deal of noise, first blowing then slurping. His moustache quickly became beaded with the liquid.
“I’d offer you some, but I require the whole pot to wake up in the morning.” That said, he added more to his cup.
Lynley and Havers took places at a glass and chrome table sitting in front of French doors. These led into a small rear garden where flagstones formed a terrace which held a set of outdoor furniture. One of the pieces was a wide chaise longue. A rumpled blanket lay across it, limp with the damp.
Lynley looked thoughtfully from the chaise to Thorsson. The other man glanced out the kitchen window in the direction of the furniture. Then he looked back to Lynley, his face a perfect blank.
“We seem to have taken you from your morning bath,” Lynley said.
Thorsson swallowed some coffee. He was wearing a flat gold chain round his neck. It glittered like snakeskin against his chest.
“Elena Weaver was pregnant,” Lynley said.
Thorsson leaned against the work top, holding his coffee mug balanced against his arm.
He looked uninterested, overcome with ennui. “And to think I had no opportunity to join her in celebrating the future blessed event.”
“Was a celebration in order?”
“I wouldn’t know, would I?”
“I thought you might.”
“Why?”
“You were with her Thursday night.”
“I wasn’t with her, Inspector. I went to see her. There’s a difference. Perhaps too subtle for you to grasp, but a difference all the same.”
“Of course. But she’d got the results of the pregnancy test on Wednesday. Did she ask to see you? Or did you take it upon yourself to see her?”
“I went to see her. She didn’t know I was coming.”
“Ah.”
Thorsson’s fingers tightened their grip on the mug. “I see. Of course. I was the anxious father-to-be waiting to hear the results. Did the rabbit live, precious, or should we start stockpiling disposable nappies? Is that how you have it?”
“No. Not exactly.”
Havers flipped over a page in her notebook. She said, “You’d want to know about the test results, I imagine, if you were the father. All things considered.”
“What things considered?”
“The harassment charges. A pregnancy is rather convincing evidence, wouldn’t you say?”
Thorsson barked a laugh. “What am I supposed to have done, dear Sergeant? Rape her? Tear off her knickers? Ply her with drugs and have at her afterwards?”
“Perhaps,” Havers said. “But seduction seems so much more in your line.”
“No doubt you could fill volumes with your knowledge of that subject.”
Lynley said, “Have you ever had a problem with a female student before?”
“What do you mean problem? What kind of problem?”
“An Elena Weaver kind of problem. Have you ever been charged with harassment before?”
“Of course not. Never. Ask at the college if you don’t believe me.”
“I’ve spoken to Dr. Cuff. He confi rms what you say.”
“But his word’s not good enough for you, it seems. You’d prefer to believe the stories cooked up by a little deaf tart who would have spread her legs-or opened her mouth-for any idiot willing to give her a try.”
“A little deaf tart, Mr. Thorsson,” Lynley said. “Curious choice of words. Are you suggesting that Elena had a reputation for promiscuity?”
Thorsson went back to his coffee, poured another mugful, took his time about drinking it. “Things get around,” he settled on saying. “The college is small. There’s always gossip.”