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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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The
Lighthouse by P.D. James |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Shining Despite having
guessed the murderer during the first half of P.D. James’ latest novel, The Lighthouse,
I enjoyed each page to the end, thanks to her fine writing. Commander Adam Dalgliesh is called on to investigate the murder of a
prominent novelist on In her flat above the Now she looked out on a
very different The flat, long planned,
prudently mortgaged, was her home, her refuge, her security, the dream of
years solidified in bricks and mortar. No colleague had ever been invited to
the flat and her first and only lover, Alan Scully, had long departed for She stretched in the double
bed. Beyond the transparent curtains the morning sky was a clear pale blue
above a narrow smudge of grey cloud. Yesterday’s forecast had predicted
another late-autumnal day of alternate sun and showers. She could hear small
agreeable sounds from the kitchen, water hissing into the kettle, the closing
of a cupboard door, the clink of china. Detective Inspector Piers Tarrant was
making coffee. Alone for the first time since they had arrived together at
the flat, she relived the last twenty-four hours, not with regret, but with
amazement that it should have happened. The phone call from Piers
had come to her at her office early on Monday. It was an invitation to have
dinner on Friday night. The call had been unexpected; since Piers had left
the Squad to join the anti-terrorist branch they hadn’t spoken. They had
worked together on Dalgliesh’s Special
Investigation Squad for years, respected each other, been stimulated by a
half-acknowledged rivalry which she knew Commander Dalgliesh
had made use of, had occasionally argued, passionately but without acrimony.
She had found him—and still did—one of the most sexually attractive men she
had ever worked with. But even had he sent out tentative well-recognised signals of sexual interest, she wouldn’t have
responded. To have an affair with a close colleague was to risk more than
one’s competence; one of them would have had to leave the Squad. It was her
job that had freed her from Ellison Fairweather
Buildings. She wasn’t going to jeopardise all she
had achieved by going down that seductive but ultimately messy path. She had pocketed her
mobile, a little surprised by her ready acceptance of the invitation and
puzzled by what lay behind it. Was there something, she had wondered, that
Piers needed to ask or to discuss? It seemed unlikely. The Met rumour mill, usually efficient, had disseminated hints of
his dissatisfaction with the new job, but men confided their successes to
women, not their misjudgements. And he had
suggested that they meet at seven-thirty at Sheekey’s
after asking her whether she liked fish. The choice of a highly regarded
restaurant, which couldn’t be expected to be cheap, had sent out a subtle if
confusing message. Was this to be in some way a celebratory evening, or was
this extravagance usual for Piers when he entertained a woman? After all, he
had never given the impression that he was short of money and he was rumoured never to be short of women. He had been waiting for her
when she arrived, and as he rose to greet her she caught his quick appraising
glance and was glad that she had taken trouble, intricately piling up her
strong fair hair, which, when working, she always brushed firmly back and wore either in a pigtail or tied on the nape of
her neck. She was wearing a shirt in dull cream silk and her only expensive jewellery, antique gold earrings each set with a single
pearl. She was intrigued and a little amused to see that Piers had taken
trouble too. She didn’t remember ever having seen him in a suit and tie and
was tempted to say, “Scrub up nicely, don’t we?” They were seated at a
corner table, safe for confidences, but there had been few. Dinner had been
successful, a protracted enjoyment without constraints. He had spoken little
of his new job, but that she had expected. They had talked briefly of the
books they had recently read, films they had found time to see, conventional
exchanges which Kate sensed were no more than the careful social chat of two
strangers on a first date. They had moved to more familiar ground, the cases
they had worked on together, the latest Met gossip, and from time to time confided
small details of their private lives. At the end of the main
course of Kate was secretly amused.
Piers had never successfully concealed his dislike of Francis Benton-Smith.
Kate suspected that it had less to do with “He’s all right. A bit
over-anxious to please perhaps, but weren’t we all when AD took us on? He’ll
do.” “It’s rumoured
that AD might have him in mind for my job.” “Your old job? It’s possible,
I suppose. After all, he hasn’t filled it yet. The top brass may be waiting
to decide what to do about the Squad. They could shut it down, who knows?
They’re always after AD for other and bigger jobs—this national CID they’re
planning, you must have heard the rumours. He’s
always tied up with one top-level meeting or another.” By the time they were
eating their puddings the talk had become desultory. Suddenly Piers said, “I
don’t like drinking coffee too soon after fish.” “Or after this wine, but I
need sobering up.” But that, she thought, had been disingenuous. She never
drank enough to risk losing control. “We could go to my flat.
It’s near enough.” She had said, “Or mine.
I’ve got a river view.” The invitation, his
acceptance had been totally without strain. He said, “Then yours. I just need
to call at my place en route.” He had been absent for only
two minutes, and at her suggestion she had stayed in the car. Twenty minutes
later, unlocking her flat, coming with him into the wide sitting room with its
wall of windows overlooking the Thames, she had seen it with fresh eyes:
conventional, all the furniture modern, no mementoes, no evidence that the
owner had a private life, parents, a family, objects passed down through
generations, as tidy and impersonal as a show flat cunningly arranged for a
quick sale. Without a glance around, he had moved to the windows, then
through the door onto the balcony. “I can see why you chose
it, Kate.” She didn’t go out with him,
but had stood watching his back, seeing beyond him to the black heaving
water, scarred and slashed with silver, the spires and towers, the great
blocks on the opposite bank patterned with oblongs of light. He had come into
the kitchen with her while she ground the coffee beans, set out the two mugs,
heated milk from the fridge. By the time, sitting together on the sofa, they
had finished drinking and he had leaned forward and kissed her gently but
firmly on the lips, she knew what would happen. But, then, hadn’t she known
from that first moment in the restaurant? He said, “I’d like to shower.” She laughed. “How matter-of-fact you
are, Piers! The bathroom’s through that door.” “Why not join me, Kate?” “Not enough room. You go first.” It had all been so easy, so natural, so
devoid of doubt or anxiety, even of conscious thought. And now, lying in bed
in the gentle morning light, hearing the rush of the shower, she thought
back over the night in a sweet confusion of memory and half-spoken sentences. “I thought you only liked mindless
blondes.” “They weren’t all mindless. And you’re
blonde.” She had said, “Light brown, not yellow
blonde.” He had turned again towards her and had
run his hands through her hair, a gesture unexpected, not least in its slow
gentleness. She had expected that Piers would be an
experienced and skilful lover, what she had not expected was how
uncomplicated and unstressed had been their joyous carnality. They had lain
down with laughter as well as with desire. And afterwards, a little distanced
in her double bed, hearing his breathing and feeling the warmth of him flowing
towards her, it had seemed natural that he should be there. She knew that
their lovemaking had begun to soften a hard core compounded of self-mistrust
and defensiveness which she carried on her heart like a weight and which,
after the Macpherson Report, had acquired an
accretion of resentment and a sense of betrayal. Piers, cynical and more
politically sophisticated than she, had shown little patience. “All official committees of inquiry
know what they’re expected to find. Some of the less intelligent do it a
little over-enthusiastically. It’s ridiculous to lose your job over it or to
let it destroy your confidence or your peace.” Daigliesh, with tact and sometimes wordlessly,
had persuaded her not to resign. But she knew that over the past years there
had been a slow draining away of the dedication, commitment and naïve enthusiasm
with which she had entered the police service. She was still a valued and
competent officer. She liked her job and could contemplate no other for which
she was either qualified or suitable. But she had become afraid of emotional
involvement, too self-protecting, too wary of what life could do. Now, lying
alone and hearing the faint sounds of Piers moving about the flat, she felt
an almost forgotten joy. She had been the first to
wake, and for the first time without that childhood vestigial anxiety. She
had lain relishing her body’s contentment for thirty minutes, watching the
strengthening light, aware of the first river sounds of the day, before
slipping out to the bathroom. The movement had woken him. Stirring, he had
reached out for her, then sat up suddenly like a
tousled jack-in-the-box. They had both laughed. In the kitchen together he
had squeezed the oranges while she made tea, and later they had taken hot
buttered toast out to the balcony and thrown the crusts to the shrieking
seagulls in a whirl of wildly beating wings and snapping beaks. Then they had
gone back to bed. The rush and gurgle of the
shower had ceased. Now it was time finally to get up and face the
complications of the day. She had swung her legs out of bed when her mobile
phone rang. It jolted her into action as if she had never heard it before.
Piers came out of the kitchen, a towel wrapped round his waist, cafetière in hand. She said, “Oh God! Right on cue.” “It might be personal.” “Not on this phone.” She put out her hand to the
bedside table, picked up the phone, listened intently, said “Yes, sir,” and
switched off. She said, knowing that she couldn’t hide the excitement in her
voice, “It’s a case. Suspected murder. An island off the Cornish coast. It
means a helicopter. I’m to leave my car here. AD is sending one to pick up
Benton and then me. We’re to meet at Battersea Heliport.” “Your murder kit?” Already she was moving,
swiftly, knowing what had to be done and in what order. She called from the
bathroom door, “It’s in the office. AD’ll see it’s
put in the car.” He said, “If he’s sending a
car I’d better move quickly. If Nobby Clark’s
driving and sees me, the drivers’ mafia will have the news within minutes. I
don’t see why we should provide entertainment for the canteen gossips.” Minutes later, Kate dumped
her canvas bag on the bed and began her quick methodical packing. She would
wear, as usual, her woollen trousers and tweed
jacket with a roll-top cashmere jumper. Even if the mild weather continued,
there was no point in packing linen or cotton—an island was seldom
uncomfortably warm. Stout walking shoes went into the bottom with one change
of pants and bra. These could be washed daily. She folded a second, warmer
jumper into the bag and added a silk shirt, carefully rolled. On top came pyjamas and her woollen
dressing gown. She tucked in the spare toilet bag which she always kept ready
with the things she needed. Last of all she threw in two new notebooks, half
a dozen ball-point pens and a half-read paperback. Five minutes later both of
them were dressed and ready to leave. She walked with Piers to the
underground garage. At the door of his Alfa Romeo he kissed her on the cheek
and said, “Thank you for your company at dinner, thank you for breakfast,
thank you for everything in between. Send me a postcard from your mysterious
island. Six words will be enough—more than enough if they happen to be true. Wish you were here, love Kate.” She laughed but didn’t
reply. The Vauxhall leaving the garage before him had a notice in the rear
window, Baby on board. It always
aroused Piers to fury. He grabbed a handwritten card from the glove-box and
stuck it against the glass. Herod on
board. Then he raised his hand in farewell and was gone. Kate stood looking after
him until, hooting a final goodbye, he turned into
the main road. And now a different, less complicated but familiar emotion
took over. Whatever problems this extraordinary night might produce, thinking
about them would have to wait. Somewhere, as yet only imagined, a body was
lying in the cold abstraction of death. A group of people was waiting for the
police to arrive, some distressed, most apprehensive, one surely sharing her
intoxicated mixture of excitement and resolve. It had always worried her that
someone had to die before she could experience this half-guilty exhilaration.
And there would be the part she most enjoyed, the team get-together at the
end of the day when AD, herself and Benton-Smith would ponder over the
evidence, picking up, discarding or clicking the clues into place as they
might the pieces of a jigsaw. But she knew the root of the small sprig of
shame. Although they had never spoken of it she suspected that AD felt the
same. With this jigsaw the pieces were the broken lives of men and women. Three minutes later,
waiting bag in hand outside the flat, she saw the car turn into the driveway.
The working day had begun. James masters
the details of setting, and allows each character to mature, if new, and to behave
with consistency, if familiar. The
Lighthouse will please new and old readers of P.D. James. Steve Hopkins,
April 24, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the May 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Lighthouse.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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