A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,82

back of her sock. "I don't much like the Bible. Old Testament especially. William said it was because I didn't understand it, and he told Mummy I ought to have religious 'structions. He was real nice and explained stories to me, but I didn't understand 'em very well. It's mostly 'cause no one ever got in trouble for their lies."

"How's that?" Lynley sought fruitlessly through his own limited religious instruction for successful biblical liars.

"Everybody was always lying with other people. Least, that's what the stories said. And no one ever got told it was wrong."

"Ah. Yes. Lying." Lynley studied the mallard, who was examining his shoelaces with a knowing beak. "Well, things are a bit symbolic in the Bible," he said breezily. "What else did you read?"

"Nothing. Just the Bible. I think that's all William and Bobba ever read. I tried to like it, but I didn't. I didn't tell William that 'cause he was trying to be nice, and I didn't want to be rude. I think he was trying to get to know me," she added wisely. "'Cause if he married Mummy, I'd be round all the time."

"Did you want him to marry your mummy?"

She scooped the bird up and placed it on the step between them. With a level, dispassionate look at Lynley, Dougal began grooming his shining feathers.

"Daddy read to me," Bridie said in answer. Her voice was a shade lower and her concentration on her shoe tops was total. "And then he went away."

"Went away?" Lynley wondered if this was a euphemism for his death.

"He went away one day." Bridie rested her cheek on her knee, pulled the bird to her side, and stared at the river. "He didn't even say goodbye." She turned and kissed the duck's smooth head. He pecked at her cheek in return. "I would've said goodbye," she whispered.

"Would you use the word angel or sunshine to describe someone who drank, swore, and ran around like mad?" Lynley asked.

Sergeant Havers looked up from her morning eggs, stirred sugar into her coffee, and thought about it. "I suppose it depends on your definition of rain, doesn't it?"

He smiled. "I suppose so." He pushed his plate away from him and regarded Havers thoughtfully. She wasn't looking half bad this morning: there was a hint of colour on her eyelids, cheeks, and lips, and her hair had a noticeable curl to it. Even her clothes had distinctly improved, for she wore a brown tweed skirt and matching pullover which, even if they weren't exactly the best colour for her skin tone, at least were a marked improvement over yesterday's ghastly blue suit.

"Why the question?" she asked.

"Stepha described Gillian as wild. A drinker."

"Who ran around like mad."

"Yes. But Father Hart said she was sunshine."

"That is peculiar."

"He said Teys was devastated when she ran away."

Havers knotted her thick eyebrows and, without thinking about how the action redefined their relationship, poured Lynley a second cup of coffee. "Well, that does explain why her photos are gone, doesn't it? He'd devoted his life to his children and look at his reward for the effort.

One of the two vanishes into the night."

The last four words struck a chord in Lynley. He rummaged through the file on the table between them and brought out the picture of Russell Mowrey that Tessa had given them.

"I'd like you to take this round the village today," he said.

Havers took the photograph, but her expression was quizzical. "But you said he was in London."

"Now, yes. Not necessarily three weeks ago. If Mowrey was here then, he would have had to ask someone for directions to the farm. Someone would have had to see him. Concentrate on the high and the patrons of the pubs. You might go to the hall as well. If no one's seen him - "

"We're back to Tessa, then," she finished.

"Or someone else with a motive. There seem to be several."

Madeline Gibson answered the door to Lynley's knock. He'd climbed his way over two quarrelling children in the war-torn front garden, manoeuvred past a broken tricycle and a dismembered doll, and avoided a plate of congealing fried eggs on the front steps. She surveyed all this with a bored glance and adjusted an emerald green peignoir over high, pointed breasts.

She wore nothing under it and made no secret of the fact that he couldn't have arrived at a more inconvenient time.

"Dick," she called, her sultry eyes on Lynley, "put it back in your trousers. It's Scotland Yard." She gave him