The Wages of Desire Read Free Page A

Claire O’Hare had left a note saying that she had killed herself because her husband, Sean, had abandoned her and taken with him the couple’s five-year-old twin sons, Jack and John. The last time anyone in Winstead had reported seeing the twins was on the morning of their disappearance as they walked down the narrow dirt road that led to the farm on which the government now was building the prison—a farm that, at the time of the O’Hare incident, had been occupied by a family named Tigue.
    Lawrence Tigue nodded at his compatriot with the shotgun. “This is Mr. Samuel Built,” he said. “He is a member of the LDV and our acting police constable. The police have yet to replace our former constable, Nate Goodson, who was killed in Belgium last summer.”
    Tigue smiled slightly. Lamb sensed that Tigue was not complaining about the police not yet having replaced Nate Goodson as much as he was merely informing Lamb of the fact that the village hadn’t had a proper bobby for the past year, which was why he and Built had taken into their hands the matter of securing the scene of the crime.
    â€œI’m sorry about the constable,” Lamb said. “We’ll have to look into correcting that.”
    Tigue smiled again. “That would be much appreciated, certainly, Chief Inspector.”
    â€œWhich of you arrived first?” Lamb asked the men.
    â€œI did,” Built said. He nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the church. “The vicar found the body and called for me. I had to put my uniform on, so as to look official. Otherwise the lot hanging by the fence would have run all over the place.” He paused, then added, “We haven’t had a proper constable here since the war.” Built looked at Wallace and said, “He were about your age, was Nate.”
    Wallace thought he knew what Built was implying. Since the war had begun, others also had implied it—or said it outright—when they first met him: Why are you, an obviously healthy young man, not in uniform, as is my husband, son, brother, friend, lover?
    The idea that Britain might still require a functioning police force, despite the war, seemed not to have occurred to people such as Built, Wallace thought. Even so, Built’s words stung his conscience.
    â€œWe’re sorry about Mr. Goodson,” Lamb said, coming to Wallace’s relief. “I’m sure he was a fine man.” Lamb also understood what Built had been implying with his remark to Wallace—that perhaps Wallace, as an obviously healthy young man, should have been fighting for England. Because he was a police officer, the government had granted Wallace and other men on the force of his age an occupational deferment from conscription, a fact that Built might have been unaware of or simply chosen to ignore, Lamb thought. That said, Lamb had learned many years earlier, during his service in France, that no good way existed to respond to people who bluntly informed you that the war had snuffed out the life of someone they had known or loved. It was best to move on from the subject as soon as decorum allowed. With that, Lamb turned his attention back to Lawrence Tigue.
    â€œI take it you arrived soon after Mr. Built, sir?” he said.
    â€œYes. Mr. Built called me.”
    â€œAnd where did you get your Webley?”
    Tigue looked at the pistol as if he had forgotten he was wearing it. “Oh, this,” he said. “I bought it secondhand shortly after the war began.” He straightened his shoulders a bit. “It seemed a good idea, especially last summer, when there was no telling when or if Jerry would drop in.”
    â€œYes, that’s wise,” Lamb said. “And where is the vicar now?”
    â€œVicarage,” Built said. “The whole business has given his wife a shock.”
    â€œWhat exactly did the vicar tell you when he called you, Mr. Built?” Lamb said.
    Built looked