Free In Pursuit Of The Proper Sinner by Elizabeth George Page B

“These things just aren't black and white, Tommy I wish they were, but they never are. The child involved—”
    “The DCI ordered a life belt thrown to her.”
    “But there was doubt as to whether the girl could swim. And beyond that …” Webberly removed the cigar from his mouth and examined its tip as he said, “She's someone's only child. Evidently, Havers knew it.”
    And Lynley knew what that fact meant to his superintendent. Webberly himself had a single light in his life: his one daughter, Miranda. He said, “Barbara owes you on this one, sir.”
    “I'll see that she pays.” Webberly nodded at a yellow pad that lay before him on the desk. Lynley glanced at it to see the superintendent's scribbling rendered in black felt-tip pen. Webberly said, “Andrew Maiden. D'you remember him?”
    At the question—the name—Lynley sat in a chair near Webberly's desk and said, “Andy? Of course. I'd not be likely to forget him.”
    “I thought not.”
    “One operation in SO10 and I made a hash of it. What a nightmare that was.”
    SO 10 was the Crime Operations Group, the most secret and secretive collection of officers in the Met. They were responsible for hostage negotiation, witness and jury protection, the organisation of informants, and undercover operations. Lynley had once aimed to work among them in the latter group. But at twenty-six, he hadn't possessed either the sangfroid or the performance ability to adopt a persona other than his own. “Months of preparation went straight down the drain,” he recalled. “I expected Andy to string me up.”
    Andy Maiden hadn't done so, however. That wasn't his style. The SO 10 officer was a man who knew how to cut his losses, and that's what he'd done, not assigning blame where it was owed but instead matching his moves to the moment's need: He quickly withdrew his men from the undercover operation and waited for another opportunity to introduce them, months later, when he could join them and assure that no outrageous faux pas such as Lynley's could undermine their efforts again.
    He'd been called Domino—Andy Maiden—so adept had he been at assuming the character of everyone from hit men to American backers of the IRA. His primary field had ultimately become drug operations, but before he arrived there, he made his mark in murder for hire and organised crime as well.
    “I used to run into him from time to time on the fourth floor,” Lynley told Webberly. “But I lost track of him once he left the Met. That was … when? Ten years ago?”
    “Just over nine.”
    Maiden, Webberly said, had taken early retirement and moved his family to Derbyshire. In the Peaks, he'd poured his life savings and his energy into the renovation of an old hunting lodge. It was a country hotel now, called Maiden Hall. Quite the spot for walkers, holiday-makers, mountain bikers, or anyone looking for an evening out and a decent meal.
    Webberly referred to his yellow pad. “Andy Maiden brought more louts to justice than anyone else in SO 10, Tommy.”
    “It doesn't surprise me to hear that, sir.”
    “Yes. Well. He's asking for our help, and we owe him.”
    “What's happened?”
    “His daughter was murdered in the Peaks. Twenty-five years old and some bastard left her in the middle of nowhere in a place called Calder Moor.”
    “Christ. That's rough. I'm sorry to hear it.”
    “There was a second body as well—a boy's—and no one knows who the devil he is. No ID on him. The girl—Nicola—had gone camping and she was geared up for the works: rain, fog, sun, or anything else. But the boy at the site hadn't got any gear at all.”
    “Do we know how they died?”
    “No word on that.” And when Lynley raised an eyebrow in surprise, Webberly said, “This is coming our way via SO 10. Name the time those bastards made fast and free with their information.”
    Lynley couldn't do so. Webberly went on.
    “What I know is this: Buxton CID's got the case, but Andy's asking for more and