Desperate Measures: A Mystery by Jo Bannister Page A

husband’s sacrifice had not been for nothing, and a resentment so deep that she could hardly contain it, even knowing how unreasonable it was.
    What Cathy thought of being met by this young woman who had been her husband’s friend, there was no way of knowing. Her face was closed, all her emotions tightly contained. For four years her life had depended on her ability to keep her thoughts to herself. To absorb developments and react, if she reacted at all, only after considering the consequences. Of course her ability to express her feelings had been compromised.
    Intimidated by the wide-open spaces, perhaps, Ash’s sons stuck close by their mother’s side. The taller would be Gilbert, now eight years old; Guy was six. Gilbert was the most like his father, but both of them had inherited their mother’s slender frame. Hazel had expected they would all be deeply tanned, but they weren’t, only touched with a little gold, as if they’d been on holiday. The reason was obvious: they’d spent most of their time in Africa inside locked rooms. The boys glanced at her suspiciously, Guy clutching Cathy’s hand, as Hazel went forward to greet them.
    Graves performed the introductions. “Mrs. Cathy Ash, this is Constable Best.” The faint emphasis on her title puzzled Hazel until she remembered that the last time they met she’d let him think he was dealing with someone very much more senior. “And this is Gilbert, and Guy.”
    Hazel smiled at them. “I’m here to take you home.”
    “Home?” Cathy sounded uncertain, as if she’d all but forgotten what one of those was.
    “To Norbold.”
    But Cathy and her sons had never lived in Norbold. Their home had been in London. Hazel felt a twinge of embarrassment for forgetting that. “For now,” she added quickly. “Until you get things sorted out. Gabriel kept your flat in Covent Garden, but he let it out. It may be a little while before you can get it back. In the meantime, we’ll get you settled in his mother’s house.”
    Cathy nodded. She was around Hazel’s height but slimmer, would have been even without four years of living on kidnappers’ rations. Her hair was cut short, the color somewhere between fair and brown, her eyes the washed-out blue of old denim. She wore no makeup. She was wearing a cream shirt and linen skirt, and though they had obviously been bought for the journey, they were hardly any different from what she’d been wearing when Hazel saw her last, on the computer screen in Cambridge. She looked around warily, eyes skating over Hazel, over the police officers, over the airport buildings, unable to settle for more than a moment at a time. She was free, and she was back in England, but Hazel thought it would be a long time before she lost that hunted look.
    Turning to Graves, Hazel said evenly, “What about you? Are you coming back with us?”
    Graves flicked her a somber little smile. “No. There are people waiting for me, too.” He nodded resignedly at the police contingent. “I’m in a certain amount of trouble. Just how much remains to be seen.”
    “You did what you felt you had to do,” said Hazel.
    “I got people killed.”
    “And saved Mrs. Ash and her sons. Mr. Graves, I have no idea how this will all work out. But I do know that actions taken under duress can’t be compared with those undertaken willingly. Get yourself a good lawyer. Make sure everyone understands why you did what you did.”
    “Thank you,” he said. “I will. And…”
    Hazel had half turned away. She turned back, one eyebrow raised.
    “I’m sorry about Ash.”
    “Yes,” she said after a moment. “We all are.”
    *   *   *
    The easiest thing was to concentrate on Ash’s sons. There was no ambivalence in how Hazel felt about them. She could see Ash in both boys, but particularly in Gilbert, who was dark, quiet, and solemn, and who watched the world carefully from a pair of deep, dark eyes exactly like his father’s. He said very little. Hazel