The Punishment She Deserves: A Lynley Novel - Hardcover

Elizabeth George is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty psychological suspense novels, four young adult novels, one book of nonfiction, and two short-story collections. Her work has been honored with the Anthony and Agatha awards, two Edgar nominations, and both France's and Germany's first prize for crime fiction, as well as several other prestigious prizes. She lives in Washington State.

4 MAY

Soho
London

First had come the requisite clothing, and her choice was simplicity itself. She already had dozens of slogan-bearing T-shirts she could wear—only some of them being truly objectionable—so the single purchase she made was two pairs of leggings, black in colour since black was supposed to be slimming and God knew she wanted to look slimmer than she actually was. Next, naturally, had come the footwear, with an astonishing array of choices she had absolutely not known could exist online or anywhere else. Black, of course, there was lots of black, but there was also the choice of beige, pink, red, silver, and white. One could have glitter as well. One could choose from soles of leather, resin, rubber, or a synthetic material of unnamed and, one hoped, eco-friendly origin. Then came the ribbons or the laces. Or the ankle straps with buckles. And finally presented were the taps themselves. Toe, toe and heel, none at all . . . although why one would purchase tap shoes without taps didn’t make much sense to her. She ended up choosing red—it was, after all, her signature colour when it came to footwear—and she went with straps and buckles as she could not see herself being responsible for keeping either laces or ribbons tied for the length of time that they would need to be tied: ninety minutes each lesson.

The last thing Barbara Havers had ever expected when she’d agreed to tap-dancing lessons in the company of Dorothea Harriman, the department secretary of her division in the Metropolitan Police, was that she would actually enjoy the activity. She’d gone along with the plan merely because she was worn down after listening to relentlessly given arguments on the subject of the benefits of tap dancing as exercise. Although most forms of exercise that didn’t involve pushing a shopping trolley up and down the aisles of the nearest Tesco had long been anathema to Barbara, she’d fairly quickly run out of excuses on the subject of being too busy.
At least she’d managed to remove Dorothea’s hands from her love life or, more specifically, from her lack thereof. To do this, she’d invoked the name of an Italian policeman—Salvatore Lo Bianco—with whom she’d become acquainted during the previous year. That had stirred Dorothea’s interest, which was further stirred when Barbara informed her that she was expecting a visit from Inspector Lo Bianco and his two children round Christmastime. Alas and alack, that hadn’t happened, a sudden appendectomy performed on twelve-year-old Marco having prevented this. But wisely, Barbara hadn’t shared her disappointment with Dorothea. As far as the departmental secretary knew, the visit had occurred and bliss of some acceptable sort was just round the corner.

Dorothea was not to be so moved regarding the tap-dancing lessons, however. Thus, for the last seven months, Barbara had found herself once each week in a dance studio in Southall, where she and Dorothea learned that a shuffle was a brush followed by a spark, a slap was a flap without the weight transfer, and a Maxie Ford involved four different movements that the faint at heart and clumsy of foot were never going to master. Nor were those individuals who did not practise daily between lessons.

At first Barbara had simply refused to practise. As a detective  sergeant at New Scotland Yard, she did not have a plethora of open hours in which she could shuffle off to Buffalo or, frankly, to anywhere else. And while the instructor had been good enough to start his neophyte tappers gently and with mounds of encouragement, he wasn’t entirely pleased with Barbara’s progress, and after the tenth lesson he let her know it.

“One must work at this,” he told her as she and Dorothea were restoring their tap shoes to the cloth bags in which they were religiously carried every week to Southall. “If you consider the progress that the other ladies have made and with far more impediments . . .”

Well, yes. Of course. Righto and all that. Barbara knew he was speaking of the group of young Muslim women who were part of the class in which she and Dorothea had enrolled. They were learning to tap while still maintaining their modest garb, and the fact that more than half of them were actually able to execute a Cincinnati while Barbara could still only manage  a simple slap was due to the fact that they did what they were told to do, which was practise, practise, practise.

“I’ll bring her up to speed,” Dorothea promised their instructor. He was called Kazatimiru—“You are, of course, to call me Kaz”—and for a recent Belarusian immigrant, he spoke astonishingly good English, with only a slight Slavic accent. “You’re not to give up on her,” Dorothea informed him.

Kaz, Barbara knew, was smitten with Dorothea. Men generally fell for her many charms. So when Dorothea prayed, charmingly, that his patience would hold, Kaz was warm putty in her manicured hands. Barbara reckoned she was completely off the hook at that. She could show up, mess about on the tap floor, pretend  she knew  what she was doing as long as she made appropriate noise with her shoes, and all would be forgiven. But she hadn’t taken Dorothea into account.

They were going to hold post-work practice sessions, Dorothea informed her in very short order. No messing about with excuses, Detective Sergeant. There was a list of women eager to enroll in Kaz’s class, and if Barbara Havers did not soon cut the metaphorical mustard with her tap shoes, she was as good as sacked.

It was only by swearing on the life of her mother that Barbara was able to convince Dorothea to relent. The secretary’s plan had been to hold their practice sessions in the stairwell at work, close to the vending machines where there was room enough to shim sham, scuffle, riffle, and riff. That, Barbara had decided, was all she needed to complete the picture of who she was in the eyes of her colleagues. She promised she would practise nightly, and she did so. For at least a month.

She improved enough to earn Kaz’s nod and Dorothea’s dimpled smile. All the time she kept her dancing a secret from everyone else who touched upon her life.
 
She’d lost an entire stone, she found, quite effortlessly. She had to move to a smaller skirt size and the bows she tied on her drawstring trousers were getting larger by the week. Soon she would have to move to a smaller size there as well. Perhaps eventually she’d also become the picture of lithesome beauty, she decided. Stranger things had happened.

On the other hand, that lost stone was the open door to tucking into curry two nights a week.  Plus, it allowed for absolute piles of naan. Not the plain sort, mind you, but naan dripping with garlic butter, naan with butter and spices and honey and almonds, naan any way that she could find it.

She’d been on her way to a massive weight regain when Kaz brought up the Tap Jam. This was seven months into her lessons, and she was thinking about dahl heaped upon naan alongside a lovely plate of salmon tagliatelle (she was not averse to mixing ethnicities when it came to dinner) when Dorothea said to her, “We must go, Detective Sergeant Havers. You’re free on Thursday night, aren’t you?”

Barbara was roused from her vision of carbohydrates gone wild. Thursday night? Free? Could there ever be a different adjective applied to any night in her life? Dumbly, she nodded. When Dorothea cried, “Excellent!” and called out to Kaz, “You can count on us!” she should have known something was up. It was only after the lesson as they were walking to the Tube that she discovered what it was she’d committed herself to.

“It will be such fun!” Dorothea exclaimed. “And Kaz is going to be there. He’ll stay with us on the renegade stage.”

Stage was what informed Barbara that come Thursday night, she would have to invent a sudden debilitating illness directly related to her feet. She had, apparently, just committed herself to some kind of tap-dancing extravaganza, which was among the very last things she wanted to give a place on her bucket list.

So she made a decent attempt at excuses, touching upon fallen arches and bunions gone quite mad. Dorothea’s response was a pretty, “Don’t even attempt to get out of this, Detective Sergeant Havers,” and to make things worse, she let Barbara know that she was to bring her tap shoes to work on the day in question, and if she did not, Dorothea was utterly certain that Detective Sergeant Winston Nkata would be pleased to fetch Barbara home to get them. Or Detective Inspector Lynley. He loved going out and about in his fancy car, didn’t he? A drive up to Chalk Farm would be the very thing.

“All right, all right,” had been Barbara’s surrender. “But if you even think I’m planning to dance, you’re dead wrong on a dish.”
 
Thus she found herself in Soho on a Thursday night.

The streets were packed, not only because tourist season had officially begun, but also because the weather was pleasant and because Soho had long attracted clubbers, theatre-goers, diners, gawkers, dancers, and drinkers. So it was a case of muscling through the hordes to get to Old Compton Street. There, a club called Ella D’s was situated.

On an upper floor of the nightclub, twice each month, a Tap Jam occurred. This, Barbara quickly discovered, comprised a Jam Mash, a Renegade Jam, and a Solo Tap, all of which she vowed to eschew the moment she learned what each one demanded.

The Jam Mash was already in progress when they arrived. They waited outside for a quarter hour to see if Kaz was going to show up and introduce them to the promised delights of Ella D’s. After that, however, Dorothea announced impatiently that “he’s had his chance,” and she led the way into the club where, from above their heads, they could hear music coming, along with what sounded like a herd of newly shoed ponies on the run.

The noise intensified as they climbed. Along with the sound of “Big Bad Voodoo Daddy,” they could hear a woman shouting over a microphone: “Scuffle, scuffle! Now try a flap! Good! Now watch this.”
 
They hadn’t, after all, been abandoned by Kaz. They discovered this as they entered a large room with a raised platform at one end, some two dozen chairs pushed to the walls, and a smaller crowd than Barbara would have hoped. It was clear she wasn’t going to be able to escape notice if she mingled among them.

Kaz was on the platform with a stout-looking woman in swirly 1950s gear. No high heels, naturally, but gleaming tap shoes that she was employing to serious effect. She was calling out the steps and doing them with Kaz. Before the platform three lines of tappers were attempting to duplicate the movements.

“Oh, isn’t this brilliant!” Dorothea exclaimed.

For reasons obscure, she had costumed herself for this event. Whereas she had so far always gone to their lessons garbed in a leotard and tights—the leotard covered over by trousers till she reached the dance floor—tonight she’d decided on a period kit. It featured a poodle skirt, a blouse tied up beneath her breasts, and a perky ribbon round her head à la Betty Boop. Barbara had decided it was an effort at incognito, and she wished she’d thought along those lines herself.

Dorothea wasn’t, however, incognito to Kaz. He clocked them within about thirty seconds, and he leapt off the platform and Cincinnatied in their direction. With the sixth sense of a seasoned dancer, he spun round just as he reached their immediate vicinity. Another two steps and he would have knocked both of them to the floor.

“What a vision!” he exclaimed. He was, of course, speaking of Dorothea. Barbara had gone for simplicity: trainers, leggings, and a T-shirt printed with I’M NOT LAUGHING AT YOU. I JUST FORGOT TO TAKE MY MEDS.

Dorothea dimpled and brought forth a quick curtsy. She said, “You looked brilliant!” in clear reference to his dancing. “Who’s she?” she asked.

“That,” he said with some pride, “is KJ Fowler, the number one tapper in the UK.”
 
KJ Fowler was still calling out the steps. When the music ended, another piece began. “Johnny Got a Boom Boom,” came over the speakers. Kaz said to them, “Put your shoes on, ladies. It’s time to buck.”
 
He bucked his way back to the platform, where KJ Fowler was executing a series of steps that made the efforts of those attempting to follow her look like the Underground in rush hour. Dorothea’s eyes were alight. “Shoes,” she told Barbara.

At the side of the room, they put on their tap shoes. While Barbara desperately sought a believable reason for sudden paralysis, Dorothea pulled her onto the floor. A cramp roll was being executed on stage by KJ Fowler, and Kaz followed this—upon her instruction—with a dizzying combination of steps that only a fool would have attempted to emulate. Nonetheless there were takers, Dorothea among them. Barbara stepped to one side to observe. She had to admit it: Dorothea was good. She was, in fact, on her way to a solo. And with Barbara and the Muslim women as her main competitors, she was going to be there before she knew it.

They managed close to twenty minutes in the Jam Mash. Barbara was dripping sweat and thinking about the possibility of making an escape without Dorothea noticing when the music stopped—for which she fervently thanked God—and KJ Fowler informed them that time was up. At first Barbara thought this meant a blessed escape. But then KJ announced a real treat for them all. It seemed that Tap Jazz Fury were paying a visit to Ella D’s.

Shouts and applause greeted this news as a small jazz band appeared out of nowhere. The assembled crowd got to it when the band did its stuff. Some of the dancers, Barbara had to admit, were so fleet of foot that she gave half a thought  to continuing with tap, just to see if she could become one tenth as skilled.

It was, however, only half a thought, and it was interrupted by a vibration emanating from the area of her waistband. There she’d tucked her mobile phone, for although she’d committed to this Thursday evening extravaganza of tap dancing, she was still on rota. A vibrating phone meant only one thing. The job was ringing her.

She excavated for the phone and glanced at it. Detective Chief Superintendent Isabelle Ardery. She generally rang Barbara only when Barbara had committed some malefaction or another, so before answering, Barbara did a quick look-see at her conscience. It seemed clear.
Considering the level of noise, she knew she’d have to take the call elsewhere, so she tapped Dorothea on the shoulder, held up the mobile, and mouthed Ardery. Dorothea wailed, “Oh no,” but of course she knew there was nothing for it. Barbara had to answer.

Still, she wasn’t able to get to it before the call went to message. She shouldered her way out of the room and made for the ladies’, down the corridor. Once inside, she listened, and the DCS’s message was brief. “You’re being called off rota, ring me at once, and why the devil aren’t you answering in the first p...