“What?” she cried. “What on earth were you thinking?”

“He hurt you, he was a first-class wanker and he needed to be taught-”

“Who asked you to be his teacher? I never. I never. Did you…My God. What else did you do to him? Did you kill him as well? Is that it?”

“You don’t know what it means, do you?” Will asked her. “That I even hit him once. That I…You don’t know.”

“What? That you’re Sir Bloody Whoever in Sodding Armour? That I’m supposed to be happy about that? Grateful? Thrilled? Your handmaiden forever? What exactly don’t I know?”

“I could’ve gone back inside,” he said dully.

“What’re you talking about?”

“If I so much as tripped some bloke on the street. Even accidentally. I could go back inside. But I was willing to do it, because of you. And I was willing to sort him because he needed sorting. But you didn’t know that and even if you did know-now that you do know-it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. I don’t matter. I never did, did I?”

“Why the hell did you think…”

Will looked at Cadan. Madlyn looked at Will. And then she, too, looked at Cadan.

For his part, Cadan thought it was a very good moment to give little Pooh his walkies for the evening.

BEA WAS STRETCHING WITH the aid of a kitchen chair, doing her part to keep an ageing back more or less pain free when she heard a key in the front door. The sound of the key was followed by a familiar knock-bim bim BIM boom BOOM-and then Ray’s voice, “You here, Bea?”

“I’d say the car’s a fairly good indication of that,” she called out. “You used to be a much better detective.”

She heard him coming in her direction. She was still wearing her pyjamas, but as they comprised a T-shirt and the trousers to her tracksuit, she was not bothered by someone’s coming upon her in her morning deshabille.

Ray was done up to the nines. She looked at him sourly. “Hoping to impress some bright young thing?”

“Only you.” He went to the fridge where she had left a jug of orange juice. He held it to the light, gave it a suspicious sniff, found it apparently to his liking, and poured a glass.

“Do help yourself,” she said sardonically. “There’s always more where that came from.”

“Cheers,” he replied. “D’you still use it on your cereal?”

“Some things never change. Ray, why’re you here? And where’s Pete? Not ill, is he? He has school today. I hope you’ve not let him talk you into-”

“Early day,” he said. “He has something going on in his science course. I got him there and made sure he went inside and wasn’t planning to bunk off and sell weed on the street corner.”

“Most amusing. Pete doesn’t do drugs.”

“We are blessed in that.”

She ignored the plural. “Why’re you here at this hour?”

“He’s wanting more clothes.”

“Haven’t you washed them?”

“I have. But he says he can’t be expected to wear the same thing after school day after day. You sent only two outfits.”

“He has clothes at your place.”

“He claims he’s outgrown them.”

“He wouldn’t notice that. He never gives a toss what he’s wearing anyway. He’d be in his Arsenal sweatshirt all day if he had the option, and you know that very well. So answer me again. Why are you here?”

He smiled. “Caught me. You’re very good at grilling the suspect, my dear. How’s the investigation faring?”

“You mean how is it faring despite the fact I’ve no MCIT?”

He sipped his orange juice and put the glass on the work top, which he leaned against. He was quite a tall man, and he was trim. He’d look good, Bea thought, to whatever bright young thing he was dressing himself for.

“Despite what you believe, I did do the best I could for you with regard to manpower, Beatrice. Why d’you always think the worst of me?”

She scowled. She didn’t reply at once. She dipped into a final stretch and then rose from the chair. She sighed and said, “It isn’t going far or fast. I’d like to say we’re closing in on someone, but each time I’ve thought that, either events or information have proved me wrong.”

“Is Lynley being of any help? God knows he has the experience.”

“He’s a good man. There’s no doubt of that. And they’ve sent his partner down from London. I daresay she’s here more to keep an eye on him than to help me, but she’s a decent cop, if somewhat unorthodox. She’s rather distracted by him-”

“In love?”

“She denies it, but if she is, it’s a real nonstarter. Chalk and cheese doesn’t begin to describe them. No. I think she’s worried about him. They’ve been partnered for years and she cares. They have a history, however bizarre it may be.” Bea pushed away from the table and carried her cereal bowl to the sink. “At any rate, they’re good cops. One can tell that much about them. She’s a pit bull and he’s very quick. I’d like it a bit more if he had fewer ideas of his own, however.”

“You’ve always liked your men that way,” Ray noted.

Bea regarded him. A moment passed. A dog barked in the neighbourhood. She said, “That’s rather below the belt.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Pete wasn’t an idea. He was-he is-a person.”

Ray didn’t avoid her gaze or her comment. Bea marked this as the first time he’d actually done neither. “You’re right.” He smiled at her in fond if rueful acknowledgement. “He wasn’t an idea. Can we talk about it, Beatrice?”

“Not now,” she said. “I’ve work. As you know.” She didn’t add what she wanted to add: that the time to talk was fifteen years gone. Nor did she add that he’d chosen his moment with scant consideration for her situation, which was damn well typical of how he’d always been. She didn’t think what it meant that she let such an opportunity pass, though. Instead, she went into morning mode and got ready for work.

Nonetheless, on her drive even Radio Four didn’t divert her enough that she failed to realise Ray had just as good as admitted his inadequacy as a husband at long last. She wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge, so she was grateful when she walked into the incident room to a ringing phone that she scooped up from its receiver before anyone from the team could do likewise. They were milling round, waiting for their assignments. She was hoping that someone on the end of the phone was going to give her an idea of what to tell them to do next.

It turned out that Duke Clarence Washoe from Chepstow was on hand with the preliminaries about the comparison of hairs she’d provided him. Was she ready for that?

“Regale me,” she told him.

“Microscopically, they’re close,” he said.

“Just close? No match?”

“Can’t do a match with what we have. We’re talking cuticle, cortex, and medulla. This isn’t a DNA thing.”

“I’m aware of that. So what can you say?”

“They’re human. They’re similar. They might be from the same person. Or a member of the same family. But ‘might’ is as far as we go. I’ve got no problem putting myself on record with the microscopic details, mind. But if you want further analysis, it’s going to take time.”

And money, Bea thought. He wasn’t saying that, but both of them knew it.

“Shall I carry on, then?” he was asking her.

“Depends on the chock stone. What d’you have on that?”

“One cut. It went straight through without hesitation. No multiple efforts involved. No identifying striations, either. You’re looking for a machine, not a hand tool. And its blade is quite new.”

“Certain about that?” A machine for cutting cable narrowed the field considerably. She felt a mild stirring of excitement.

“You want chapter and verse?”

“Chapter will do.”

“Aside from possibly leaving striations, a hand tool’s going to depress both the upper and the lower parts of the cable, crimping them together. A machine’s going to make a cleaner cut. Resulting ends’ll be shiny as well.” He was, he said, expressing this unscientifically to her. Did she want the proper lingo?