With No One As Witness Page 0,242

been driving, but it was cold and she'd got tired."

"You'd done too much. If you hadn't done too much...those God damn bloody christening clothes..."

A snaking tear spilled over the rim of Deborah's eye. She brushed it away. She said, "We stopped and unloaded the parcels. She asked me to take care parking the car because...You know how Tommy loves his car, she said. If we put a scratch on it, he'll have us both for dinner. Watch the left side of the garage, she said. So I took care. I'd never driven...You see, it's so big and it took me more than one try to get it into the garage...But not five minutes, Tommy, not that even. And I assumed she'd go straight into the house or ring the bell for Denton-"

"He's gone to New York," Lynley said, unnecessarily. "He isn't there, Deborah."

"She didn't tell me. I didn't know. And I didn't think...Tommy, it's Belgravia, it's safe, it's-"

"No where is God damn safe." His voice sounded savage. He saw St. James stir. His old friend raised a hand: a warning, a request. He didn't know nor did he care. There was only Helen. He said, "I'm in the middle of an investigation. Multiple murders. A single killer. Where in the name of heaven did you get the idea any place on earth is safe?"

Deborah took the question like a blow. St. James said his name, but she stopped him with a movement of her head. She said, "I parked the car. I walked back along the mews."

"You didn't hear-"

"I didn't hear a sound. I came round the corner back into Eaton Terrace and what I saw was the shopping bags. They were spread on the ground, and then I saw her. She was crumpled...I thought she'd fainted, Tommy. There was no one there, no one nearby, not a single soul. I thought she'd fainted."

"I told you to be sure no one-"

"I know," she said, "I know. I know. But what was I meant to make of that? I thought of flu, someone sneezing in her face, Tommy being a fuss pot husband because I didn't understand, don't you see that, Tommy? How would I know because this is Helen we're talking about and this is Belgravia where it's supposed to be...and a gun, why would I ever think of a gun?"

She began to weep in earnest then, and St. James told her that she'd said enough. But Lynley knew she never could have said enough to explain how his wife, how the woman he loved...

He said, "What then?"

St. James said, "Tommy..."

Deborah said, "No. Simon. Please." And then to Lynley, "She was on the top step and her door key was in her hand. I tried to rouse her. I thought she'd fainted because there was no blood, Tommy. There was no blood. Not like what you would think if someone is...I'd never seen...I didn't know...But then she moaned and I could tell something was terribly wrong. I phoned triple nine and then I cradled her to keep her warm and that's when...On my hand, there was blood. I thought I'd cut myself at first and I looked for where and how but I saw it wasn't me and I thought the baby, but her legs, Helen's legs...I mean, there was no blood where one would think...And this was a different sort of blood anyway, it looked different because I know, you see, Tommy..."

Even in his own despair, Lynley felt hers, and that was what finally got through to him. She would know what the blood of a miscarriage looked like. She'd suffered how many...? He didn't know. He sat, not next to Deborah and her husband, but across, on the chair that Terence Fire had been using.

He said, "You thought she'd lost the baby."

"At first. But then I finally saw the blood on her coat. High up, here." She indicated a spot beneath her left breast. "I phoned triple nine again and I said, There's blood, there's blood. Hurry. But the police got there first."

"Twenty minutes," Lynley said. "Twenty God damn minutes."

"I phoned three times," Deborah told him. "Where are they, I asked. She's bleeding. She's bleeding. But I still didn't know she'd been shot, you see. Tommy, if I'd known...If I'd told them that...Because I didn't think, not in Belgravia...Tommy, who would shoot someone in Belgravia?"

Lovely wife, Superintendent. The sodding profile in The Source. Complete with photographs of the smiling superintendent of police and his charming wife. Titled bloke,

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