could have walked it, no matter the heat and the crowds of shoppers along the King's Road. Less than ten minutes from the moment he closed the front door of his house, he was crawling along Cheyne Row in the hope of finding a spot to park near to the corner of Lordship Place. As luck would have it, a spot was vacated by a van making a delivery to the King's Head and Eight Bells as he approached the pub. He was at last walking towards the tall brick house on the corner of Lordship Place and Cheyne Row when he heard his name called out by a woman's voice, crying, "Tommy! Hullo!"
This came from the direction of the pub where, he saw, his friends were just rounding the corner from Cheyne Walk and the Embankment beyond it. Likely they'd been for a walk along the river, he decided, for Simon St. James was carrying their dog - a long-haired dachshund who hated the heat as much as she hated walkies - and his wife, Deborah, was at his side, her hand through his arm and a pair of sandals dangling from her fingers.
"Isn't the pavement hot on your feet?" he called back.
"Absolutely horrible," she admitted cheerfully. "I wanted Simon to carry me but given the choice between Peach and myself, the wretch chose Peach."
"Divorce is the only answer," Lynley said. They came up to him then, and Peach - recognising him as she would do - squirmed to be put down so that she could jump up and demand to be held again. She barked, wagged her tail, and jumped a few more times as Lynley shook St. James's hand and accepted Deborah's fierce hug. He said, "Hullo, Deb,"
against her hair.
She said, "Oh, Tommy," in reply. And then stepping back and scooping up the dachshund who continued to writhe, bark, and demand to be noticed, "You're looking very well. It's so good to see you. Simon, doesn't Tommy look well?"
"Almost as well as the car." St. James had gone to have a look at the Healey Elliott. He gave an admiring whistle. "Have you brought it by to gloat?" he said to Lynley. "My God, it's a beauty. Nineteen forty-eight, isn't it?"
St. James had long been a lover of vintage cars and himself drove an old MG, modified to cope with his braced left leg. It was a TD classic, circa 1955, but the age of the Healey Elliott along with its shape made it rare and a virtual eyeful. St. James shook his head - dark hair overlong as always and doubtless Deborah was banging on daily about his need for a haircut - and gave a long sigh. "Where'd you find it?" he asked.
"Exeter," Lynley said. "I saw it advertised. Poor bloke spent years of his life restoring it but his wife considered it a rival - "
"And who can blame her?" Deborah said pointedly.
" - and wouldn't let go of the matter till he'd sold it."
"Complete madness," St. James murmured.
"Yes. Well. There I was with cash in hand and a Healey Elliott in front of me."
"You know, we've been to Ranelagh Gardens having a chat about some new adoption possibilities," St. James said to Lynley. "That's where we were coming from just now. But truth to tell? Babies be damned. I'd like to adopt this motor instead."
Lynley laughed.
"Simon!" Deborah protested.
"Men will be men, my love," St. James told her. And then to Lynley, "How long've you been back, Tommy? Come inside. We were just talking about a Pimm's in the garden. Will you join us?"
"Why else live in summer?" Lynley replied. He followed them into the house, where Deborah placed the dog on the floor and Peach headed towards the kitchen in the eternal dachshund search for food. "Two weeks," he said to St. James.
"Two weeks?" Deborah said. "And you've not phoned? Tommy, does anyone else know you're back?"
"Denton's not killed the fatted calf for the neighbourhood, if that's what you're asking,"
Lynley said dryly. "But that's at my request. He'd have hired skywriters if I'd allowed it."
"He must be glad you're home. We're glad you're home. You're meant to be home."
Deborah clasped his hand briefly and then called out to her father. She threw her sandals at the base of a coat rack, said over her shoulder, "I'll ask Dad to do us that Pimm's, shall I?" and went in the same direction as the dog, down to the basement kitchen at the back of