A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,7
who was safe near Lynley. He'd slept his way through department and division, leaving a trail of the discarded behind him. He had the reputation of a racehorse put out to stud and, from all the tales told, the endurance as well. She angrily shoved the comb back into her pocket.
So, how does it feel, she demanded of her reflection, to be the one lucky woman whose virtue is quite secure in the presence of the almighty Lynley? No wandering hands while our Barb's in the car! No confidential dinners to "go over our notes." No invitations to Corn-wall to
"think the case out." No fear here, Barb. God knows that you're safe with Lynley. In her five years working in the same division with the man, she was certain he'd managed to avoid so much as saying her name, let alone having a single second's foul contact with her. As if a grammar school background and a working-class accent were social diseases that might infect him if he were not scrupulously careful to keep himself clear of them.
She left the room and stalked down the corridor towards the lift. Was there anyone in all of New Scotland Yard whom she hated more than she hated Lynley? He was a miraculous combination of every single thing that she thoroughly despised: educated at Eton, a first in history at Oxford, a public school voice, and a bloody family tree that had its roots somewhere just this side of the Battle of Hastings. Upper class. Bright. And so damnably charming that she couldn't understand why every criminal in the city simply didn't surrender to accommodate him.
His whole reason for working at the Yard was a joke, a flaming little myth that she didn't believe for a moment. He wanted to be useful, to make a contribution. He preferred a career in London to life on the estate. What a ruddy good laugh!
The lift doors opened and she punched furiously for the garage. And hadn't his career been convenient and sweet, purchased lock, stock, and barrel with the family funds? He bought his way right into his current position and he'd be a Commissioner before he was through. God knew inheriting that precious title hadn't hurt his chances for success one bit. He'd gone from sergeant to inspector in record time straight away. Everyone knew why.
She headed for her car, a rusty Mini in the far corner of the garage. How nice to be rich, to be titled like Lynley, to work only for a lark, and then to swing home to the Belgravia townhouse, or better yet fly to the Cornish estate. With butlers and maids and cooks and valets.
And think of it, Barb: picture yourself in the presence of such greatness. What shall you do? Shall you swoon or vomit first?
She flung her handbag into the rear seat of the Mini, slammed the door, and started the car with a sputter and roar. The wheels squealed on the pavement as she ascended the ramp, nodded brusquely towards the officer on guard in the kiosk, and headed for the street.
The light weekend traffic made getting from Victoria Street to the Embankment a manoeuvre of a few minutes only, and, once there, the mild breeze of the October afternoon cooled her temper, calmed her nerves, and coaxed her into forgetting her indignation. It was a pleasant drive, really, to the St. James house.
Barbara liked Simon Allcourt-St. James, had liked him from the first time she had met him ten years ago when she was a nervous twenty-year-old probationary police constable all too aware of being a woman in a closely guarded man's world where women police were still called Wopsies after a few drinks. And she'd been called worse than that - she knew it. Damn them all to hell. To them, any woman who aspired to CID was a bona fide freak and made to feel that way. But to St. James, two years her senior, she had been an acceptable colleague, even a friend.
St. James was now an independent forensic scientist, but he had begun his career at the Yard. By his twenty-fourth birthday he was the very best of the scene-of-crime men, quick, observant, intuitive. He could have gone in any direction: investigations, pathology, administration, anywhere. But it had all ended one night eight years ago on a drive with Lynley, a wild junket through the back roads of Surrey. They had both been drunk - St. James was always prompt