With No One As Witness

“Oh my goodness, eventually. One can’t be on holiday forever.”

“No. I expect you’re right.” Barbara handed over her shoulder bag to the little girl and took the rubbish from her. She heaved it like a duffel and manoeuvred it to the bins. Together they heave-hoed it to join the rest of the rubbish.

“I’m going to have tap lessons,” Hadiyyah told her as they brushed themselves off. “Dad said so tonight. I’m ever so pleased, because I’ve wanted them for ages. Will you come to watch me when I do my exhibition?”

“Front-row centre,” Barbara said. “I love exhibitions.”

“Brilliant,” she said. “P’rhaps Mummy’ll be there as well. If I get good enough, she’ll come. I know it. ’Night, Barbara. Got to get back to Dad.”

She scooted off, round the corner of the house. Barbara waited till she heard a door shut, telling her her little friend was safely inside. Then she went to her own digs and unlocked the door. True to her decision, she turned on no lights. She merely walked to the table, dumped her belongings, and turned to head for the shower and its blessed heat.

The damn answering machine stopped her with its blinking light. She thought about ignoring it but knew she couldn’t. She sighed and made her way across to it. She punched the button and heard the familiar voice.

“Barbie, dear, I’ve got the appointment.” Mrs. Flo, Barbara thought, her mother’s keeper. “My Lord, it wasn’t easy to get one, the NHS being what it is these days. Now I do have to tell you that Mum’s gone back to the Blitz, but I don’t want you to worry about it. If we must sedate her, we simply must, my dear, and that’s all there is to it. Her health-”

Barbara cut off the message. She would listen to the rest another time, she vowed. But not tonight.

A hesitant knock sounded on her front door. She crossed back to it. She’d not switched on a single interior light, so she reckoned only one person knew she was finally at home. She opened the door, and he stood before her, a covered pan in his hand.

Azhar said, “I believe you have not had your di

She said, “Hadiyyah told me you were cleaning out the fridge. Are these leftovers? If yours are anything like mine, Azhar, I’d be taking my life in my hands to eat them.”

He smiled. “This is freshly made. Pilau, to which I’ve added chicken.” He lifted the lid. In the dim light, she couldn’t see the contents, but she could smell their fragrance. Her mouth watered. Hours, days, weeks since she’d had a decent meal.

She said, “Cheers. Sh’ll I take it, then?”

“If I might set it down?”

“’Course.” She held the door open wider but still did not turn on the light. At this point it had more to do with the terminal disarray of her digs than with a desire for sleep. Azhar, she knew, was akin to a neat freak on steroids. She didn’t trust the strength of his heart if he saw the mess she’d not dealt with in weeks.

He placed the pan in the kitchen area, on the work top. She waited by the door, assuming he’d leave after that. He didn’t.

Instead he said, “Your case is concluded, then. The news is full of it.”

“This morning, right. Or last night. Or somewhere in between. I don’t actually know. Things start ru

He nodded. “I see.”

She waited for more. More did not come. A silence hung between them. He finally broke it.

“You have worked long with him, haven’t you?”

His voice was kind. Her insides gave warning. She said lightly, “Lynley? Yeah. Few years. A decent enough bloke if you can get past that voice. He finished school in the days before estuary English, when they turned out toffs who did world tours and spent the rest of their lives chasing foxes round the countryside.”

“Things are very bad for him.”

She didn’t reply. Instead she saw Lynley at the front door to his house in Eaton Terrace. She saw the door open before he could put his key in the lock, his sister framed in the light from inside. She waited, thinking he might turn and wave a farewell, but his sister put her arm round his waist and drew him within.

“Terrible things happen to very good people,” Azhar said.

“Well yeah. Right.”

She couldn’t-and wouldn’t-talk about it. Too fresh, too sore, vinegar washing over open wounds. She ran her hand back through her chopped-up hair and gave a big sigh that he was meant to read as tired-woman-needing-her-rest-thank-you. But he’d been a fool only once in his life, and he’d learned to be a wiser man from that experience. So she couldn’t drive him off with theatrics. She would have to be direct or stand there and tolerate what he had to say.

“Such a loss. One does not recover completely from that.”

“Yeah. Well. I reckon that’s right. He’s got a row to hoe and I don’t envy him it.”

“His wife. And the child. There was a child, the papers said.”

“Helen was pregnant, yeah.”

“And did you know her well?”

She. Would. Not. She said, “Azhar…” and took an unsteady breath. “You see, I’m knackered. Absolutely done in. Pickled. Dead on my-”

The word. The word itself and she stopped herself on it. She strangled back a cry. Tears sprang to her eyes. She brought a fist to her mouth.

Leave, she thought. Please go. Bloody leave.

But he didn’t do that, and she saw that he wouldn’t, that he’d come for a reason beyond what she could, at that moment, comprehend.

She waved a hand at him, waved him off and away, but he didn’t do as she hoped he would do. Instead he crossed the small room to her, said only, “Barbara,” and took her into his arms.

She began to weep, then. Like the child she’d been and the woman she’d become. It seemed the safest place to do so.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

WHEN AN AMERICAN ATTEMPTS TO WRITE A NOVEL SET in London, various forces and personalities come into play. For this book, a little volume called City Secrets, edited by Robert Kahn, set me off on my journey to find locations suitable for the action in this story. My editor at Hodder and Stoughton in London as well as my publicist there-Sue Fletcher and Karen Geary-made numerous helpful suggestions, and my fellow writer Courttia Newland introduced me firsthand to the immediate environs of West Kilburn. South of the river, Fairbridge opened its doors to me, and there I learned of the work that organization does to make a difference in the lives of young people at risk. My efforts to capture the flavor of the sort of police work that goes into the investigation of a serial killing were aided by David Cox of the Metropolitan Police and Pip Lane, retired and formerly of the Cambridge constabulary. Bob’s Magic, Novelties, and Gags in the Stables Market at Camden Lock stood in for Barry Minshall’s magic stall, and Bob himself was most kind to speak to me about the market and magic. Mind Hunter by John Douglas and Mark Olshaker and The Gates of Janus by-astoundingly-Ian Brady formed the background of my creation and understanding of the serial killer in this novel. And the ever resourceful and infinitely patient Swati Gamble of Hodder and Stoughton provided me with information on everything from schools to bus schedules to the floor coverings of vans.

In America, my editor at HarperCollins-Carolyn Marino-offered support and encouragement throughout the lengthy process of creating this novel. My longtime reader Susan Berner weighed in on the second draft with a fine critique. My fellow writer Patricia Fogarty graciously read a third draft. My assistant, Da