Playing for the Ashes by Elizabeth George Page B

dropping her packages to the floor. He placed his own on the table, took off his jacket, switched off the coffee maker, and went to the work top. Water, detergent, and ten minutes set the kitchen in order, although the coffee carafe would need a good soak to put it right. He left it in the sink.
    He found Helen standing alongside her bed in a teal-coloured dressing gown, pursing her lips thoughtfully as she studied three ensembles she’d put together. “Which says ‘ Blue Danube followed by seraphic Thai food’ to you?”
    “The black.”
    “Hmm.” She took a step back. “I don’t know, darling. It seems to me—”
    “The black’s fine, Helen. Put it on. Comb your hair. Let’s go. All right?”
    She tapped her cheek. “I don’t know, Tommy. One always wants to be elegant at a concert but at the same time not overdressed for dinner. Don’t you think this might be too understated for the one and too overstated for the other?”
    He picked up the dress, unzipped it, handed it to her. He went to her dressing table. There, unlike the kitchen, every item was arranged with an attention to order that one might give to assembling surgical instruments in an operating theatre. He opened her jewellery box and drew out a necklace, earrings, two bracelets. He went to the wardrobe and rustled up shoes. He returned to the bed, tossed down jewellery and shoes, turned her to face him, and untied the belt of her dressing gown.
    “You’re being excessively naughty this evening,” he said.
    She smiled. “But look where it’s got me. You’re taking off my clothes.”
    He pushed the gown from her shoulders. It fell to the floor. “You don’t have to be naughty to get me to do that. But I expect you know that already, don’t you?” He kissed her, sliding his hands into her hair. It felt like cool water between his fingers. He kissed her again. For all the frustrations of having his heart enmeshed in her life, he still loved the touch of her, the powdery scent of her, the taste of her mouth.
    He felt her fingers working at his shirt. She loosened his tie. Her hands slid to his chest. He said against her mouth, “Helen, I thought you wanted dinner this evening.”
    She said, “Tommy, I thought you wanted me dressed.”
    “Yes. Right. But first things first.” He brushed the clothing to the floor and drew her to the bed. He slid his hand up her thigh.
    The telephone rang.
    He said, “Damn.”
    “Ignore it. I’m not expecting anyone. The machine will pick it up.”
    “I’m on rota this weekend.”
    “You’re not.”
    “Sorry.”
    They both watched the phone. It continued to ring.
    “Well,” Helen said. The ringing continued. “Does the Yard know you’re here?”
    “Denton knows where I am. He would have told them.”
    “We might have already left for all they know.”
    “They have the car phone and the seat numbers at the concert.”
    “Well, perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps it’s my mother.”
    “Perhaps we ought to see.”
    “Perhaps.” She touched her fin gers to his face, sketching a pattern across his cheek to his lips. Her own lips parted.
    He drew in a breath. His lungs felt oddly hot. Her fingers moved from his face to his hair. The phone stopped ringing and in a moment from the other room a disembodied voice spoke into Helen’s answering machine. It was an only too recognisable disembodied voice, belonging to Dorothea Harriman, secretary to Lynley’s divisional superintendent. When she went to the effort of tracking him down, it always meant the worst. Lynley sighed. Helen’s hands dropped to her lap. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said to her and reached for the telephone on the bedside table, interrupting the message that Harriman was leaving by saying, “Yes. Hello, Dee. I’m here.”
    “Detective Inspector Lynley?”
    “None other. What is it?”
    As he spoke, he reached out for Helen once more. But she was already moving away from him, slipping from the bed and bending to retrieve her