10-14-2013 09:37 PM
Elizabeth George is a best-selling author, and she's been featured at B&N many times before. Here are some of the links:
10-14-2013 09:39 PM
SPECIAL EDITION ALERT!!!
Signed First Editions of Just One Evil Act are available for preorder online from Barnes and Noble!
Click here to order your copy today!
10-14-2013 09:39 PM - edited 10-14-2013 09:43 PM
Elizabeth George was born Susan Elizabeth George in Warren, Ohio.
She is a graduate of University of California in Riverside. She also attended California State University at Fullerton, where she was awarded a master's degree in Counseling/Psychology and an honorary doctorate of humane letters
Professionally, she started out as a teacher. She was employed at Mater Dei High School in Santa Ana initially, but there she gave in to her bent for organized labor and was summarily fired along with ten other teachers for union activity. She moved on to El Toro High School in El Toro, California (now called Lake Forest, California), where she remained for the rest of her career as high school English teacher. While employed there, she was selected Orange County Teacher of the Year, a tribute in part to the work she'd done with remedial students for nearly a decade. She left education after thirteen and a half years when she sold her first novel, A Great Deliverance, to her longtime publisher Bantam Books.
She has won the Anthony Award, the Agatha Award, and France's Le Grand Prix de Literature Policiere for her novel
A Great Deliverance (Inspector Lynley Series #1), for which she was also nominated for the Edgar and the Macavity Awards. She has also been awarded Germany's MIMI for her novel Well-Schooled in Murder.
Well-Schooled in Murder (Inspector Lynley Series #3)
Most of her novels have been filmed by for television by the BBC and have been broadcast in the US on PBS's MYSTERY.
10-14-2013 10:07 PM
10-14-2013 10:10 PM
#1 New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth George delivers another masterpiece of suspense in her Inspector Lynley series: a gripping child-in-danger story that tests Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers like never before.
Barbara is at a loss: The daughter of her friend Taymullah Azhar has been taken by her mother, and Barbara can’t really help—Azhar had never married Angelina, and his name isn’t on Hadiyyah’s, their daughter’s, birth certificate. He has no legal claim. Azhar and Barbara hire a private detective, but the trail goes cold.
Azhar is just beginning to accept his soul-crushing loss when Angelina reappears with shocking news: Hadiyyah is missing, kidnapped from an Italian marketplace. The Italian police are investigating, and the Yard won’t get involved, until Barbara takes matters into her own hands — at the risk of her own career.
As both Barbara and her partner, Inspector Thomas Lynley, soon discover, the case is far more complex than a typical kidnapping, revealing secrets that could have far-reaching effects outside of the investigation. With both her job and the life of a little girl on the line, Barbara must decide what matters most, and how far she’s willing to go to protect it.
10-14-2013 10:11 PM
Publishers Weekly - Starred Review
This riveting tale of love, passion, and betrayal, the 18th Inspector Lynley novel from bestseller George (after 2012’s Believing the Lie), spotlights Det. Sgt. Barbara Havers. Taymullah Azhar, a science professor who’s a friend and neighbor of Havers in North London, is devastated to come home one day and discover that his nine-year-old daughter, Hadiyyah, and most of her possessions are gone. Hadiyyah’s mother, Angelina Upman, to whom Azhar was never married, has decamped to Italy with the girl. A grateful Azhar accepts Havers’s offer to act as a private detective, though her superiors resist her request for a leave of absence.
Months later, when kidnappers take Hadiyyah from Angelina in an Italian marketplace, Lynley travels to Lucca, Tuscany, to look into the matter. Havers later goes AWOL to Lucca, where she seizes the initiative in the case and risks her career to persuade Scotland Yard to get involved.
Fully realized Italian characters, from a lover whose face cannot hide his emotions to the charming Chief Insp. Salvatore Lo Bianco, add to the rich ensemble cast. Series fans will enjoy following Lynley and Havers on their first investigation outside the U.K., while newcomers will be just as enthralled.
10-15-2013 02:51 PM
Here's an excerpt for you!
Reprinted by arrangement with Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, A Penguin Random House Company. Copyright © Elizabeth George, 2013.
E a r l s Cour t
Sitting on a plastic chair inside Brompton Hall among a crowd
of two hundred shouting individuals— all
dressed in what had
to be called alternative garb— was
the last thing Thomas Lynley
had ever expected to find himself doing. Edgy music was blasting
from speakers the size of a tower block on Miami Beach. A food stall
was doing a very brisk business in hot dogs, popcorn, lager, and soft
drinks. A female announcer was periodically shrieking above the din
to call out scores and name penalties. And ten helmeted women on
roller skates were racing round a flat ring delineated with tape on the
It was supposed to be an exhibition match only: something to
educate the populace in the finer points of women’s flat track roller
derby. But it was a case of tell-that-to-the-players, for the women
engaged in the bout were deadly serious.
They had intriguing names. All of them were printed, along with
suitably menacing photos, in the programmes that had been distributed
as spectators took their seats. Lynley had chuckled as he’d read
each nom de guerre. Vigour Mortis. The Grim Rita. Grievous Bodily
He was there because of one of the women, Kickarse Electra. She
skated not with the local team— London’s
the Electric Magic— but
rather with the team from Bristol, a savage-looking group of females
who went by the alliterative collective Boadicea’s Broads. Her actual
name was Daidre Trahair, she was a large animal veterinarian employed
at Bristol’s zoo, and she had no idea that Lynley was among
the howling mass of spectators. He wasn’t sure if he was going to keep
matters that way. He was, at this point, operating strictly by feel.
He had a companion with him, having lacked the courage to venture
into this unknown world on his own. Charlie Denton had accepted
his invitation to be enlightened, educated, and entertained at
Earls Court Exhibition Centre, and at this moment, he was milling
among the crowd at the snack stall.
He’d made the declaration of “It’s on me, m’lord . . . sir,” with that
final word a hasty correction that one would think by now he’d not
even have to make. For he’d been seven years in Lynley’s employ, and
when he wasn’t addressing his passion for the stage through auditions
for various theatrical events in Greater London, he served as manservant,
cook, housekeeper, aide-de-
and general factotum in Lynley’s
life. He’d so far managed Fortinbras in a north London production,
but the West End north London was not. So he soldiered on in his
double life, determinedly believing that his Big Break was only round
the next corner.
Now, he was amused. Lynley could see that in Denton’s face as he
made his way back across Brompton Hall to the array of chairs among
which Lynley sat. He carried a cardboard food tray with him.
“Nachos,” Denton said as Lynley frowned down at something that
looked like orange lava erupting from a mountain of fried tortilla.
“Your dog’s got mustard, onions, and relish. The ketchup looked iffy
so I gave it a pass, but the lager’s nice. Have at it, sir.”
Denton said all this with a twinkle in his eye, although Lynley
reckoned it could have been just the light shining on the lenses of his
spectacles. He was daring Lynley to refuse the offered
repast and instead come forth as he really was. He was also entertained
by the sight of his employer sitting chummily next to a bloke whose
potbelly overhung his baggy jeans and whose dreadlocks fell the length
of his back. Lynley and Denton had come to depend upon this individual. His name was Steve-o, and what he didn’t know about women’s
flat track roller derby did not, apparently, bear knowing at all.
He was attached to Flaming Aggro, he’d told them happily. Plus,
his sister Soob was a member of the cheering squad. This latter group
of individuals had taken up a position whose disturbing proximity to
Lynley added to the general cacophony surrounding him. They wore
black from head to toe with embellishments of hot pink in the form
of tutus, hair decorations, knee socks, shoes, or waistcoats, and they
had so far spent most of their time screaming “Break ’em, baby!” and
shaking pink and silver pompoms.
“Great sport, innit?” Steve-o
kept saying as the Electric Magic
piled the points onto the scoreboard. “It’s tha’ Deadly Deedee-light
does most of the scoring. Long ’s she don’t rack up the penalties, we’re
in, mate.” And then onto his feet he leapt, shouting, “Do it, Aggro!”
as his girlfriend swept by in the midst of the pack.
Lynley was loath to tell Steve-o
that he was a supporter of Boadicea’s
Broads. It was a matter of chance that he and Denton had placed
themselves among the Electric Magic fans. The Boadicea’s Broads
crowd was on the other side of the taped-off ring, being led into a
frenzy of synchronised shouting by their own squad of cheerleaders
who, like those supporting the Electric Magic, were dressed in black
but with touches of red. They appeared to have more experience in
the arena of cheerleading. They executed vague dance moves with
accompanying leg kicks that were most impressive.
It was the sort of event that should have appalled Lynley. Had his
father been there— doubtless
dressed to the nines with one or two
touches of ermine and red velvet lest someone doubt his position in
society— he would have lasted less than five minutes. The sight of the
women on roller skates might have given him a coronary, and listening
to Steve-o drop his t’s and ignore his h’s would have made the
poor man’s blood run cold. But Lynley’s father was long in his grave,
and Lynley himself had spent most of the evening grinning so much
that his cheeks were actually beginning to hurt.
He’d learned far more than he’d ever have imagined possible upon
having made the decision to accept the invitation that had been
printed on a handbill he’d found among his post a few days earlier.
He’d discovered they were meant to keep their eyes on the jammer,
identified by the star cap that stretched across her helmet. This wasn’t
a permanent position for a skater, as the star cap was passed round
among the women. But the jammer was the team’s scoring position,
and the ultimate scoring came during a power jam when the opposing
team’s jammer had to sit in the penalty box. He’d learned the
purpose of the pack and, thanks to Steve-o,
what it meant when the
lead jammer rose from her crouched position to place her hands on
her hips. He was still rather vague on the purpose of the pivot—
although he knew who she was by the striped cap she wore stretched
over her helmet— but he was definitely getting the idea that roller
derby was a sport of strategy as well as skill.
Mostly, he’d kept his eyes on Kickarse Electra throughout the
match-up between London and Bristol. She, he discovered, was quite
a jammer. She skated aggressively, like a woman to the roller skates
born. Lynley wouldn’t have thought it possible of the quiet, thoughtful
veterinarian he’d met seven months earlier on the coast of Cornwall.
He knew she was practically unbeatable at darts. But this . . . ? He
never would have guessed it.
His pleasure in the wild sport had been interrupted only once, in
the middle of a power jam. He’d felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket,
and he’d dug it out to see who was ringing him. His first thought was
that the Met was calling him back to work. For the caller was his
usual partner, Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers. Still, she was ringing
from her home phone and not from her mobile so perhaps, he
thought, he was in luck and nothing had occurred that wanted his
He’d answered, but he’d not been able to hear her. The noise was
far too intense. He’d shouted that he would ring her back as soon as
he was able to do so, and he’d shoved the mobile back into his pocket
and forgotten about the matter.
The Electric Magic won the bout twenty minutes later. The two
groups of skaters congratulated each other. Athletes mingled with
spectators then, cheerleaders mingled with athletes, referees mingled
with each other. No one was in a hurry to leave, which was all to the
good since Lynley intended to do a little mingling himself.
He turned to Denton. “I’m not sir.”
Denton said, “Pardon?”
“We’re here as friends. Make it school chums. You can do that,
“What, me? Eton?”
“It’s well within your skill set, Charlie. And call me either Thomas
or Tommy. It doesn’t matter which.”
Denton’s round eyes got even rounder behind his spectacles. He
said, “You want me to . . . I’ll probably choke if I try to say it.”
“Charlie, you’re an actor, yes?” Lynley said. “This is your BAFTA
moment. I’m not your employer, you’re not my employee. We’re going
to talk to someone, and you’re going to pose as my friend. It’s . . .”
He sought the correct term. “It’s improv.”
Charlie’s face brightened. “C’n I do the Voice?”
“If you must. Come with me.”
Together, then, they approached Kickarse Electra. She was in conversation
with London’s Leaning Tower of Lisa, an impressive Amazonian
who stood at least six feet five inches tall in her roller skates. She would
have been an imposing presence anywhere, and she was particularly
striking next to Kickarse Electra, who, even in her skates, was some
seven inches shorter.
Leaning Tower of Lisa first saw Lynley and Denton. She said, “You
two look like trouble of the very best kind. I claim the smaller one.”
And she rolled over to Denton and put her arm round his shoulders.
She kissed his temple. He became the colour of pomegranate seeds.
Daidre Trahair turned. She’d taken off her helmet and she’d raised
a pair of plastic goggles to the top of her head. They now held back
wisps of her sandy hair, which had escaped from the French braid that
contained it. She was wearing her spectacles beneath her goggles, but
they were badly smudged. She could see through them perfectly well,
though, a fact Lynley ascertained by the colour that her skin took on
when she looked at him. He could only just see this colour through
her makeup, however. Like the other skaters, she was heavily painted,
with an emphasis on glitter and lightning bolts.
“My God,” she said.
“I’ve been called worse.” He held up the handbill advertising this
event. “We thought to take up the offer. Brilliant, by the way. We
quite enjoyed it.”
Leaning Tower of Lisa said, “This your first?”
“It is,” Lynley told her. And then to Daidre, “You’re far more
skilled than you let on when we first met. You do this as well as you
throw darts, I see.”
Daidre’s colour deepened. Leaning Tower of Lisa said to her, “You
know these blokes?”
Daidre said inarticulately, “Him. I know him.”
Lynley extended his hand to the other skater. “Thomas Lynley,”
he told her. “You’ve got your arm round my friend Charlie Denton.”
“Charlie, is it?” Leaning Tower said. “He’s awfully sweet-looking.
Are you sweet in character as well as in looks, Charlie?”
“I believe he is,” Lynley told her.
“Does he like big women, then?”
“I expect he takes them as they come.”
“He doesn’t talk much, does he?”
“You might be an overpowering presence.”
“Isn’t that always the case?” Leaning Tower released Denton with
a laugh and another solid kiss on his temple. “You change your mind,
you know where to find me,” she said to him as she rolled away to
join her mates.
Daidre Trahair had apparently used the duration of this exchange
to come to her wits. She said, “Thomas. You’re the last person I would
have thought to see at a roller derby match.” Then she turned to
Denton and extended her hand, saying, “Charlie, I’m Daidre Trahair.
How’d you like the match?” She offered this question to them both.
“I’d no idea women could be so ruthless,” Lynley said.
“There’s Lady Macbeth,” Denton pointed out.
“There is that.”
Lynley’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and gave it
a glance as before. As before, the caller was Barbara Havers. He let it
go to message as Daidre said, “Work?” Before he could reply, she
added, “You are back at it, aren’t you?”
“I am,” he told her. “But not tonight. Tonight Charlie and I would
like you to join us for a postgame . . . whatever. If you’ve a mind for it.”
“Oh.” She looked from him to the milling skaters. She said, “It’s
only that . . . the team usually go out. It’s rather a tradition. Would
you like to join us? Apparently this group”— with a nod at the Electric
Magic— “go to Famous Three Kings on North End Road. Everyone’s
invited. It’ll be a bit of a crowd scene.”
“Ah,” Lynley said. “I was rather hoping— we
were hoping— for
something more conducive to conversation. Can you possibly break
with this tradition for once?”
She said regretfully, “I do wish . . . It’s only that we’ve come by
coach, you see. It would be rather difficult. I have to return to Bristol.”
“Well, no. We’re in a hotel for the night.”
“We can take you there whenever you’re ready,” he offered. And
when she still hesitated, he added, “We’re actually quite harmless,
Charlie and I.”
Daidre looked from him to Denton and back to him. She fingered
back some of the hair that had come undone from the braid. She said,
“I’m afraid I have nothing special . . . I mean, we don’t generally dress
for going out.”
“We shall find a place entirely suitable for whatever state of dishabille
you demonstrate,” Lynley told her. “Do say yes, Daidre,” he
added in a quiet voice.
Perhaps it was the use of her name. Perhaps it was the change in
his tone. She thought for a moment and then said all right. But she
would have to change and perhaps she ought to get rid of the glitter
and the lightning bolts as well?
“I find them rather compelling,” Lynley told her. “What about
“It all makes a certain statement,” Denton said.
Daidre laughed. “Don’t tell me what that statement is. I’ll be a few
minutes. Where shall I meet you?”
“We’ll be just outside. I’ll pull my car round the front.”
“How will I know . . . ?”
“Oh, you’ll know,” Denton told her.
10-15-2013 02:54 PM
Reprinted by arrangement with Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, A Penguin Random House Company. Copyright © Elizabeth George, 2013.
Excerpt - Continued:
Ch e l s e a
“I see what he meant” were Daidre’s first words to Lynley when he got
out of the car at her approach. “What is this exactly? How old is it?”
“Healey Elliott,” he told her. He opened the door for her. “Nineteen
“Love of his life,” Denton added from the back as she slid within.
“I’m hoping he leaves it to me in his will.”
“Small chance of that,” Lynley told him. “I plan to outlive you by
several decades.” He pulled away from the building and headed
the car park’s exit.
“How do you two know each other?” Daidre asked.
Lynley didn’t reply till they were on Brompton Road, motoring
past the cemetery. “School together” was what he said.
“With my older brother,” Denton added.
Daidre glanced over her shoulder at him, then looked at Lynley.
Her eyebrows drew together as she said, “I see,” and Lynley had a
feeling that she saw more than he really wanted her to.
He said, “He’s ten years older than Charlie,” and with a glance at
the rearview mirror, “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Close enough,” Denton said. “But listen, Tom, would you mind
if I begged off all this? It’s been a deucedly long day and if you’ll drop
me in Sloane Square, I can walk the rest of the way. Early hours at
the bank tomorrow. Board meeting. Chairman all in a dither about
a Chinese acquisition. You know.”
Deucedly? Lynley mouthed. Tom? Bank? Board meeting? He half
expected Denton to lean forward and give him a wink-wink,
next. He said, “You’re sure, Charlie?”
“Couldn’t be more so. Long day for me today, longer one tomorrow.”
To Daidre he added, “Blasted worst employer on earth. Duty
calls and all that.”
She said, “Of course. And what about you, Thomas? It’s late and
if you’d rather—”
“I’d rather spend an hour or so with you,” he said. “Sloane Square
it is, Charlie. You’re sure about the walk?”
“Brilliant night for it,” Denton said. He said nothing more— thank
God, Lynley thought— till
they reached Sloane Square, where Lynley
dropped him in front of Peter Jones. Then it was, “Cheerio, then,” to
which Lynley rolled his eyes. He reckoned he was lucky Denton hadn’t
to his farewell. He was definitely going to have to
speak to him. The Voice was bad enough. The vocabulary was worse.
“He’s rather sweet,” Daidre said as Denton crossed over into the
square and made for the Venus fountain in its centre. From there it
was a short stroll to Lynley’s home in Eaton Terrace. Denton seemed
to bounce as he walked. He was, Lynley reckoned, entertained by his
“Sweet wouldn’t quite be my word of choice,” Lynley said to
Daidre. “He’s a lodger with me, actually. It’s a favour to his brother.”
Their own destination wasn’t far from Sloane Square. A wine bar
on Wilbraham Place stood three doors away from a pricey boutique
on the corner. The only table available was one by the door, which
wasn’t what he would have wished for considering the cold, but it
would have to do.
They ordered wine. Something to eat? Lynley offered Daidre. She
demurred. He said he would do likewise. There was, he told her,
something to be said for the staying power of nachos and hot dogs.
She laughed and fingered the stem of a single rose that was vased
on the table. She had the hands one would expect of a doctor, he
thought. Her nails were clipped short, to the end of her fingers, and
her fingers were strong-looking
and not at all slender. He knew what
she would call them. Peasant hands, she would say. Or gypsy hands.
hands. But not the hands one would expect of an
aristo, which she most definitely was not.
Suddenly it seemed there was nothing to say after all the time that
had passed since last they’d met. He looked at her. She looked at him.
He said, “Well,” and then he thought what an idiot he was. He had
wanted to see her again and here she was and the only thing he could
think of was to tell her that he never could quite make out if her eyes
were hazel or brown or green. His own were brown, very dark brown
at complete contrast to his hair, which was blond in the height of
summer but which now, in mid-autumn,
She smiled at him and said, “You’re looking quite well, Thomas.
Very different from the night you and I met.”
How true that was, he realised. For the night they’d met was the
night he’d broken into her cottage, the only structure on Polcare Cove
in Cornwall where an eighteen-year-old cliff climber had fallen to
his death. Lynley had been looking for a phone. Daidre had been arriving
for a few days’ respite from her job. He remembered her outrage
at finding him there inside her cottage. He remembered how quickly
that outrage had changed to concern for him from something she had
read upon his face.
He said, “I am well. Good days and bad days, of course. But most
of them are good now.”
“I’m glad of it,” she said.
They fell into silence again. There were things that could have
been said. Such as, “And you, Daidre? And what about your parents?”
But he couldn’t say them, for she had two sets of parents and it would
be cruel to force her to talk about one of them. He’d never met her
adoptive parents. Her natural parents, on the other hand, he’d seen:
at their ramshackle caravan by a stream in Cornwall. Her mother had
been dying but hoping for a miracle. She may have passed at this point,
but he knew better than to ask.
She said suddenly, “So how long have you been back?”
“At work?” he said. “Since the summer.”
“And how do you find it?”
“Difficult at first,” he replied. “But of course, it would be.”
“Of course,” she said.
Because of Helen went unsaid between them. Helen his wife, a victim
of murder, and her husband, a detective employed by the Met. The facts
of Helen didn’t bear thinking about, much less commenting upon.
Daidre wouldn’t go near that topic of conversation. Nor would he.
He said, “And yours?”
She frowned, obviously not knowing what he was referring to.
Then she said, “Oh! My job. It’s quite fine. We have two of our female
gorillas pregnant and a third not, so we’re watching that. We’re hoping
it won’t cause a problem.”
“Would it? Normally?”
“The third one lost a baby. Failure to thrive. So things could develop
because of that.”
“Sounds sad,” he said. “Failure to thrive.”
“It is, rather.”
They were silent again. He finally said, “Your name was on the
handbill. Your skating name. I saw it. Have you skated in London
prior to this?”
“I have,” she said.
“I see.” He twirled his wineglass and watched the wine. “I do wish
you’d phoned me. You have my card still, don’t you?”
“I do,” she told him, “and I could have phoned but . . . It’s just that
it felt . . .”
“Oh, I know how it felt,” he said. “Same as before, I daresay.”
She gazed at him. “My sort don’t say ‘I daresay,’ you see.”
“Ah,” he said.
She took a sip of wine. She looked at the glass and not at him. He
thought of how different she was, how completely different to Helen.
Daidre hadn’t Helen’s insouciant wit and carefree nature. But there
was something compelling about her. Perhaps, he thought, it was
everything that she kept hidden from people.
He said, “Daidre,” as she said, “Thomas.”
He let her go first. “Perhaps you might drive me to my hotel?” she
10-15-2013 02:56 PM
Lynley wasn’t stupid. He knew that driving her to her hotel meant
exactly that. It was one of the things he liked about Daidre Trahair.
She said exactly what she meant.
She directed him to Sussex Gardens, which lay to the north of
Hyde Park in the midst of Bayswater. It was a busy thoroughfare,
heavily trafficked both day and night, lined with hotels differentiated
one from the other only by their names. These were displayed on the
hideous plastic signs that had become so prevalent all over London.
Cheap and lit from within, they were a depressing statement about
the decline of individual neighbourhoods. These particular signs identified
the sort of hotels that dwelled in the land between essentially
all right and utterly horrible, with ubiquitous dingy white sheer curtains
at the windows and ill-lit
entries with brass fixtures in need of
polishing. When Lynley pulled the Healey Elliott up to Daidre’s
was called the Holly— he
reckoned he knew which end
of the spectrum between all right and horrible the place actually lay.
He cleared his throat.
She said, “Not exactly up to your standards, I expect. But it’s a bed,
it’s only for the night, there’s an en suite bathroom, and the expense
for the team is minimal. So . . . you know.”
He turned to look at her. She was backlit from a streetlamp near
the car, and there was a nimbus of light round her hair, putting him
in mind of Renaissance paintings of martyred saints. Only the palm
leaf was missing from her hand. He said, “I rather hate to leave you
“It’s a bit grim, but I’ll survive. Believe me, this is far better than
the last place we stayed. An entire cut above, it is.”
“That’s not actually what I meant,” he said. “At least not altogether.”
“I suppose I knew that.”
“What time do you leave in the morning?”
“Half past eight. Although we never quite manage to get off on
time. Heavy partying the night before. I’m probably the first one
“I’ve a spare room in my house,” he told her. “Why not sleep there?
You could have breakfast with me, and I’d have you back here in time
to ride with your teammates to Bristol.”
“Thomas . . .”
“Charlie does the breakfasts, by the way. He’s an exceptional cook.”
She let this one rest there for a minute before she said, “He’s your
man, isn’t he?”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Thomas . . .”
He looked away. On the pavement a short distance from them, a
girl and boy began to have an argument. They’d been holding hands,
but she tossed his away like the wrapper from a takeaway burger.
Daidre said, “No one says deucedly any longer. At least not this side
of a costume drama.”
Lynley sighed. “He does get carried away.”
“So is he your man?”
“Oh no. He’s definitely his own man. I’ve been trying to rein him
in for years, but he enjoys acting the role of servant. I think he believes
it’s extraordinarily good training. He’s probably right.”
“So he’s not a servant?”
“Lord no. I mean, yes and no. He’s an actor, or at least he would
be if he had things his way. In the meantime, he works for me. I’ve
no trouble with him going to auditions. He has no trouble with my
failing to show up for a dinner he’s slaved over for hours in the afternoon.”
“Sounds like you fit hand in glove.”
“More like foot in sock. Or perhaps sockless foot in shoe.” Lynley
looked away from the arguing couple who were now shaking their
mobile phones at each other. He turned to Daidre. “So he’ll be there
in the house, Daidre. He’ll act as chaperone. And, as I said, we’d have
a chance to talk over breakfast. And during the ride back here. Although,
of course, I could pop you into a taxi should you prefer that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“It’s just that . . . things seem unfinished between us. Or perhaps
unsettled. Or merely uneasy. Frankly, I’m not sure what it is, but I
expect you feel it as much as I do.”
She seemed to think about this for a moment, and from her silence
Lynley took hope. But then she shook her head slowly and put her
hand on the door handle. “I don’t think so,” she said. “And besides
. . .”
“Water off a duck’s back. That’s how I’d put it, Thomas. But I’m
not a duck and things don’t work that way for me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You do,” she said. “You know that you do.” She leaned over and
kissed him on the cheek. “I won’t lie, though. It was completely lovely
to see you again. Thank you. I hope you enjoyed the match.”
Before he could reply, she got out of the car. She hurried into the
hotel. She did not look back.
10-15-2013 02:59 PM
Reprinted by arrangement with Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, A Penguin Random House Company. Copyright © Elizabeth George, 2013.
Excerpt - Continued:
Bay swat e r
He was still sitting there in front of the hotel in his car when his mobile
rang. He was still feeling the pressure of her lips against his cheek
and the sudden warmth of her hand on his arm. So deep was he into
his thoughts that the mobile’s ringing startled him. He realised at its
sound that he’d not phoned Barbara Havers back as he’d said he would.
He glanced at his watch.
It was one a.m. Couldn’t be Havers, he thought. And in the way
that the mind will go spontaneously from one thought to another, in
the time it took to fish the mobile from his pocket, he thought of his
mother, he thought of his brother, he thought of his sister, he thought
of emergencies and how they generally did occur in the middle of the
night because no one made a friendly call at this hour.
By the time he had the mobile out, he’d decided it had to be a
disaster in Cornwall, where his family home was, a heretofore unknown
Mrs. Danvers in their employ having set the place alight. But
then he saw it was Havers ringing again. He said into the phone hastily,
“Barbara. I am so sorry.”
“Bloody hell,” she cried. “Why didn’t you ring back? I’ve been
sitting here. And he’s alone over there. And I don’t know what to do
or what to tell him because the worst of it is that there’s sod all anyone
can do to help and I know it and I lied to him and said we’d do something
and I need your help. Because there has to be something—”
“Barbara.” She sounded completely undone. It was so unlike her
to babble like this that Lynley knew something was badly wrong.
“Barbara. Slow down. What’s happened?”
The story she told came out in disjointed pieces. Lynley was able
to pick up very few details because she was speaking so fast. Her voice
was odd. She’d either been weeping— which
hardly seemed likely—
she’d been drinking. The latter made little sense, however, considering
the urgency of the story she had to tell. Lynley put together
what he could, just the salient details:
The daughter of her neighbour and friend Taymullah Azhar was
missing. Azhar, a science professor at University College London, had
come home from work to find the family flat stripped of nearly all
possessions belonging to his nine-year-
daughter as well as to her
mother. Only the child’s school uniform remained, along with a
stuffed animal and her laptop, all of this lying on her bed.
“Everything else is gone,” Havers said. “I found Azhar sitting on
my front step when I got home. She’d rung me, too, Angelina had
done, sometime during the day. There was a message on my phone.
Could I look in on him this evening? she’d asked me. ‘Hari’s going
to be upset,’ she said. Oh yes, too right. Except he’s not upset. He’s
destroyed. He’s wrecked, I don’t know what to do or to say, and Angelina
even made Hadiyyah
leave that giraffe behind and we both
know why because it meant a time when he’d taken her to the seaside
and he’d won it for her and when someone took it off her on the
“Barbara.” Lynley spoke firmly. “Barbara.”
She breathed in raggedly. “Sir?”
“I’m on my way.”
10-15-2013 03:01 PM
I like Elizabeth's books. I'll have to get that one!
10-15-2013 03:03 PM
Barbara Havers lived in north London, not far from Camden Lock
Market. At one in the morning, getting there was merely a matter of
knowing the route, as there was virtually no traffic. She lived in Eton
Villas, where parking one’s car depended upon very good luck. There
was none of that at an hour when the residents of the area were all
tucked up into their beds, though, so Lynley made do with blocking
Barbara’s digs sat behind a conversion, a yellow Edwardian villa done
into flats at some point during the late twentieth century. She herself
occupied a structure behind it, a wood-framed
building that had once
done duty as God only knew what. It had a tiny fireplace, which suggested
it had always been used as some sort of living space, but its size
suggested that only a single occupant had ever lived there, and one
needing very little room.
Lynley cast a glance at the ground-floor
flat inside the conversion
as he made his way along the paved path towards the back of the villa.
This was, he knew, the home occupied by Barbara’s friend Taymullah
Azhar, and the lights within it were still blazing out onto the terrace
in front of the flat’s French windows. He assumed from his conversation
with Barbara that she’d been inside her own digs when he’d
spoken to her, though, and when he got behind the villa, he saw the
lights were on inside her bungalow as well.
He knocked quietly. He heard a chair scraping against the floor.
The door swung open.
He was unprepared for the sight of her. He said, “God in heaven.
What have you done?”
He thought in terms of ancient rites of mourning in which women
chopped off their hair and poured ashes upon the stubble that remained.
She’d done the first, but she’d skipped the second. There
were, however, ashes aplenty on the small table in what went for the
kitchen. She’d sat there for hours, it seemed to Lynley, and in a glass
dish that had served as her ashtray, the remains of at least twenty
cigarettes lay crushed, spilling burnt offerings everywhere.
Barbara looked ravaged by emotion. She smelled like the inside of
a fireplace. She was wearing an ancient chenille dressing gown in a
hideous shade of mushy-peas
green, and her sockless feet were tucked
into her red high-top
She said, “I left him over there. I said I’d be back but I haven’t been
able to. I didn’t know what to tell him. I thought if you came . . .
Why didn’t you ring me? Couldn’t you tell . . . Bloody hell, sir, where
the hell . . . Why didn’t you . . . ?”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t hear you on my mobile. I
was . . . It doesn’t matter. Tell me what happened.”
Lynley took her arm and guided her to the table. He took away the
glass dish of cigarette dog ends as well as an unopened packet of Players
and a box of kitchen matches. He put all of this on the worktop of
her kitchen area, where he also set the kettle to boil. He rustled in a
cupboard and came up with two bags of PG Tips as well as some artificial
sweetener, and he excavated through a sink filled with unwashed
crockery till he discovered two mugs. He washed them, dried
them, and went to the small refrigerator. Its contents were as appalling
as he’d expected they would be, heavily given to takeaway food cartons
meals, but among all of this he found a
pint of milk. He brought it out as the kettle clicked off.
Throughout everything, Havers was silent. This was completely uncharacteristic
of her. In all the time he’d known the detective sergeant,
she’d never been without a comment to toss in his direction, particularly
in a situation like this one in which he was not only making tea but
actually giving some thought to toast as well. It rather unnerved him,
this silence of hers.
He brought the tea to the table. He placed a mug in front of her.
There was another sitting near to where the cigarettes had been, and
he removed this. It was cold, a skin of someone’s indifference to it
floating on its surface.
Havers said, “That was his. I did the same thing. What is it about
tea and our bloody society?”
“It’s something to do,” Lynley told her.
“When in doubt, make tea,” she said. “I could do with a whiskey.
Or gin. Gin would be nice.”
“Have you any?”
“ ’Course not. I don’t want to be one of those old ladies who sip
gin from five o’clock in the afternoon till they’re comatose.”
“You’re not an old lady.”
“Believe me, it’s out there.”
Lynley smiled. Her remark was a slight improvement. He pulled
the other chair out from the table and joined her. “Tell me.”
Havers spoke of a woman called Angelina Upman, the apparent
mother of Taymullah Azhar’s daughter. Lynley himself had met both
Azhar and the girl Hadiyyah,
and he’d known that the mother of this
child had been out of the picture for some time prior to Barbara’s
purchase of the leasehold on her bungalow. But he’d not been told
that Angelina Upman had waltzed back into the lives of Azhar and
the previous July, and he’d never learned that not only were
Azhar and the mother of his child not married but also that Azhar’s
name was not on the birth certificate of the girl.
Other details came pouring forth, and Lynley tried to keep up with
them. It hadn’t been due to the fashion of the times that Azhar and
Angelina Upman had remained unmarried. Rather, there had been
no marriage possible between them because Azhar had left his legal
wife for Angelina, and this was a woman he’d refused to divorce. With
her, he had two other children. Where they all lived was something
Barbara didn’t know.
What she did know was that Angelina had seduced Azhar and
into believing she’d returned to take her rightful place in
their lives. She needed to obtain their trust, Barbara said, so that she
could lay her plans and execute them.
“That’s why she came back,” Barbara told him. “To get everyone’s
trust. Mine included. I’ve been a bloody idiot most of my life. But
this one . . . I’ve sodding outdone myself.”
“Why did you never tell me any of this?” Lynley asked.
“Which part?” Havers asked. “Because the bloody idiot part I
would’ve expected you already knew.”
“The part about Angelina,” he said. “The part about Azhar’s wife,
the other children, the divorce or lack thereof. All of that. Any of
that. Why didn’t you tell me? Because you certainly must have felt . . .”
He could say no more. Havers had never spoken of her feelings either
for Azhar or for his young daughter, and Lynley had never asked. It
had seemed more respectful to say nothing when the truth, he admitted,
was that saying nothing had just been the easier thing to do.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yeah. Well, you were occupied anyway. You know.”
He knew she was talking about his affair with their superior officer
at the Met. He’d been discreet. So had Isabelle. But Havers was no
fool, she hadn’t been born recently, and she was nothing if not acutely
percipient when it came to him.
He said, “Yes. Well. That’s over, Barbara.”
“Ah. Right. I expect you do.”
Havers turned her tea mug in her hands. Lynley saw it bore a caricature
of the Duchess of Cornwall, helmet-haired
Unconsciously, she covered this caricature with her hand as if in apology
to the unfortunate woman. She said, “I didn’t know what to tell him,
sir. I came home from work and I found him sitting on my front step.
He’d been there hours, I think. I took him back to his flat once he’d
told me what happened— that
she’d taken off and that Hadiyyah
with her— and
I had a look round and I swear to God, when I saw she’d
taken everything with her, I didn’t know what to do.”
Lynley considered the situation. It was more than difficult and
Havers knew this, which was why she’d been immobilised. He said,
“Take me to his flat, Barbara. Put on some clothes and take me to his
She nodded. She went to the wardrobe and rooted around for some
clothes, which she clutched to her chest. She started to head towards
the bathroom, but she stopped. She said to him, “Ta for not mentioning
the hair, sir.”
Lynley looked at her shorn and ruined head. “Ah, yes,” he said.
“Get dressed, Sergeant.”
10-15-2013 03:06 PM
Barbara Havers felt appreciably better now that Lynley had arrived.
She knew she should have been able to do something to take hold of
the reins of the situation, but Azhar’s grief had undone her. He was a
man and had always been so in the nearly two years
that she had known him. As such, he’d played his cards so close that
most of the time she could have sworn he had no cards at all. To see
him broken by what his lover had done and to know that she herself
should have recognised from their first meeting that something was up
with Angelina Upman and with all of Angelina Upman’s overtures of
friendship towards her . . . This was enough to break Barbara as well.
Like most people, she’d seen only what she wanted to see in Angelina
Upman, and she’d ignored everything from red flags to speed
bumps. Meantime, Angelina had seduced Azhar back to her bed.
She’d seduced her daughter into abject devotion. She’d seduced Barbara
into unwitting conspiracy through garnering her cooperative
silence about everything having to do with Angelina herself. And
disappearance with her daughter in tow— was
Barbara got dressed in the bathroom. In the mirror she saw how
terrible she looked, especially her hair. Her head bore great bald
patches in spots, and in other spots the remains of what had been an
expensive Knightsbridge hairstyle sprang out of her scalp like so many
weeds waiting to be pulled from a garden. The only answer to what
she’d done to herself was going to be to shave her head completely,
but she didn’t have time to do that just then. She came out of the
bathroom and rooted for a ski cap in her chest of drawers. She put this
on and together she and Lynley returned to the front of the house.
Everything was as she’d left it in Azhar’s flat. The only difference
was that instead of sitting staring at nothing, Azhar was walking aimlessly
through the rooms. When, hollow-eyed,
he looked in their
direction, Barbara said to him, “Azhar, I’ve brought DI Lynley from
He’d just emerged from Hadiyyah’s
bedroom. He was clutching
the little girl’s stuffed giraffe to his chest. He said to Lynley, “She’s
“Barbara’s told me.”
“There’s nothing to be done.”
Barbara said, “There’s always something to be done. We’re going
to find her, Azhar.”
She felt Lynley shoot her a look. It told her that she was making
promises that neither he nor she could keep. But that was not how
Barbara saw the situation. If they couldn’t help this man, she thought,
then what was the point of being cops?
Lynley said, “May we sit?”
Azhar said yes, yes, of course, and they went into the sitting room.
It was still fresh from Angelina’s redecoration of it. Barbara saw it now
as she should have seen it when Angelina unveiled it to her: like
something from a magazine, perfectly put together but otherwise
devoid of anyone’s personality.
Azhar said as they sat, “I telephoned her parents once you left.”
“Where are they?” she asked.
“Dulwich. They wished not to speak to me, of course. I am the
ruination of one of their two children. So they will not contaminate
themselves through any effort to be of assistance.”
“Lovely couple,” Barbara noted.
“They know nothing,” Azhar said.
“Can you be sure of that?” Lynley asked.
“From what they said and who they are, yes. They know nothing
about Angelina and, what’s more, they do not want to know. They
said she made her bed a decade ago and if she doesn’t like the smell
of the sheets, it’s not down to them to do anything about that.”
“There’s another child, though?” Lynley said, and when Azhar
looked confused and Barbara asked, “What?” he clarified with, “You
said you were the ruination of one of their two children. Who is the
other and might Angelina be with this person?”
“Bathsheba,” Azhar said. “Angelina’s sister. I know only her name
but have never met her.”
“Might Angelina and Hadiyyah
be with her?”
“They have no love for each other as I gather these things,” Azhar
said. “So I doubt it.”
“No love for each other according to Angelina?” Barbara asked
sharply. The implication was clear to both Lynley and Azhar.
“When people are desperate,” Lynley said to the man, “when they
plan something like this— because
it would have taken some planning,
grudges are often put to rest. Did you ring the sister? Do
you have the number?”
“I know only her name. Bathsheba Ward. I know nothing else. I’m
“Not a problem,” Barbara said. “Bathsheba Ward gives us something
to start with. It gives us a place to—”
“Barbara, you are being kind,” Azhar said. “As are you”— this
to come here in the dead of night. But I know the reality
of my situation.”
Barbara said hotly, “I told you we’ll find her, Azhar. We will.”
Azhar observed her with his calm, dark eyes. He looked at Lynley.
His expression acted as acknowledgement of something Barbara didn’t
want to admit and certainly didn’t want him to have to face.
Lynley said, “Barbara’s told me there’s no divorce involved between
you and Angelina.”
“As we were not married, there is no divorce. And because there
was no divorce between me and my wife— my
legal wife— Angelina
did not identify me as Hadiyyah’s
father. Which was, of course, her
right. I accepted this as one of the outcomes of not divorcing Nafeeza.”
“Where is Nafeeza?” he asked.
“Ilford. Nafeeza and the children live with my parents.”
“Could Angelina have gone to them?”
“She has no idea where they live, what their names are, anything
“Could they have come here, then? Could they have tracked her
down, perhaps? Could they have wooed her out there?”
“For what purpose?”
“Perhaps to harm her?”
Barbara could see how this was entirely possible. She said, “Azhar,
that could be it. She could have been taken. This could look like
something it isn’t at all. They could have come for her and taken
as well. They could have packed everything. They could
have forced her to make that call to me.”
“Did she sound like someone under duress in the phone message,
Barbara?” Lynley asked her.
Of course, she had not. She’d sounded just as she’d always sounded,
which was perfectly pleasant and completely open to friendship. “She
could have been acting,” Barbara said, although even she could hear
how desperate she sounded. “She fooled me for months. She fooled
Azhar. She fooled her own daughter. But maybe she wasn’t fooling at
all. Maybe she never intended to leave. Maybe they came for her out
of the blue and they’ve taken her somewhere and she had to leave that
message and they forced her to sound—”
“You can’t have it both ways,” Lynley said, although his voice was
“He is right,” Azhar said. “If she was forced to make a phone call,
if she was taken from here— she
she would have said something in that phone call to you. She would
have left a sign. There would be some indication, but there is not.
There is nothing. And what she did leave— Hadiyyah’s
her laptop, that little giraffe— this
was to tell me that they are
not returning.” His eyes grew red-rimmed.
Barbara swung to Lynley. He was, she had long known, the most
compassionate cop on the force and quite possibly the most compassionate
man she’d ever met. But she could see upon his face that what
he felt— beyond
sympathy for Azhar— was
knowledge of the truth in
front of them. She said to him, “Sir. Sir.”
He said, “Aside from checking with the families, Barbara . . . She’s
the mother. She’s broken no law. There’s no divorce with a judge’s
decree and a custody ruling that she’s defying.”
“A private enquiry, then,” Barbara said. “If we can do nothing,
then a private detective can.”
“Where am I to find such a person?” Azhar asked her.
“I can be that person,” Barbara told him.