“Daily,” she told him. “You must try it again, Gordie. You gave up far too soon.”

He shook his head. “I’m finished there. Case of looking for love in all the wrong places, if I might coin a phrase.” He gazed mournfully round the mortuary. “Puts them right off, this does, and no getting round it. No dolling it up. I spill the beans and there you have it.”

“What d’you mean?”

He gestured to the room. Another corpse was waiting nearby, a sheet covering its body, a tag on its toe. “When they learn what I do. No one fancies it much.”

Hannaford patted him on the shoulder. “Well, no matter there, Gordie. You fancy it and that’s what counts.”

“You want to give us a try, then?” He looked at her differently, assessing and weighing.

“Don’t tempt me, dear. You’re far too young, and anyway I’m a sinner at heart. I’ll need the paperwork on this”-using her chin to indicate the trolley that had been washed off-“as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll sweet-talk someone,” Lisle said.

They left him. Hannaford examined a hospital plan nearby and ushered Lynley to the cafeteria. He couldn’t think she intended to have a meal after their visit to the morgue, and he found he was correct in this assessment of matters. Hannaford paused in the doorway and looked round the room till she spied a man at a table alone, reading a newspaper. She led Lynley to him.

It was the man, Lynley saw, who’d come to Daidre Trahair’s cottage on the previous night, the same man who’d asked him about New Scotland Yard. He hadn’t been identified then, but Hannaford did the honours now. This was ACC Ray Hannaford from Middlemore, she told him. The assistant chief constable stood and courteously offered his hand.

“Yes,” DI Hannaford then said to Lynley.

“Yes?” Lynley asked.

“He’s a relation.”

“Former,” Ray Hannaford said. “Regrettably.”

“You flatter me, darling,” DI Hannaford said.

Neither of them elucidated further, although the word former spoke a volume or two. More than one cop in the immediate family, Lynley concluded. It couldn’t have been easy.

Ray Hannaford picked up a manila envelope that had been sitting on the table. “Here it is,” he said to his former wife. “Next time you insist on a courier, do tell them where you are for delivery, Beatrice.”

“I did tell them,” the DI replied. “Obviously, whoever the sod was who brought this down from London, he didn’t want the bother of going all the way to Holsworthy or the Casvelyn station. Or,” she asked shrewdly, “did you put in a call for this as well?” She gestured with the manila envelope.

“I didn’t,” he said. “But we’re going to have to talk about a quid pro quo. The account’s growing. The drive from Exeter was bloody murder. You owe me on two fronts now.”

“Two? What’s the other?”

“Fetching Pete last night. Without complaint, as I recall.”

“Did I drag you from the arms of a twenty-year-old?”

“I believe she was at least twenty-three.”

Bea Hannaford chuckled. She opened the envelope and peered inside. She said, “Ah yes. I take it you’ve had a look yourself, Ray?”

“Guilty as suspected.”

She brought the contents out. At once Lynley recognised his own police identification from New Scotland Yard.

He said, “I handed that in. It should have been…What do they do to those things when someone quits? They must destroy them.”

Ray Hannaford was the one who replied. “Apparently, they weren’t willing to destroy yours.”

“Premature was the word they used,” Bea Hannaford added. “A hasty decision made at a bad time.” She offered the Scotland Yard ID to Lynley.

He didn’t take it. Instead he said, “My identification is on its way from my home. I did tell you that. My wallet, along with everything in it, will be here by tomorrow. This”-he indicated his warrant card-“was unnecessary.”

“On the contrary,” DI Hannaford said, “it was entirely necessary. Phony IDs, as you well know, are as easy to get as the clap. For all I know, you’ve spent the morning scouring the streets for the goods.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“I expect you can work that out for yourself, Superintendent Lynley. Or do you prefer the aristo title? And what the hell is someone like you doing working for the Bill?”

“I’m not,” he said. “Not any longer.”

“Tell that to the Yard. You didn’t answer. Which are you called? Which d’you prefer? Personal or professional title?”

“I prefer Thomas. And now that you know I am who I said I was last night-which I suspect you knew already or why else would you have allowed me into the mortuary with you-may I presume I’m free to resume my walk on the coast?”

“That’s the very last thing you may presume. You’re not going anywhere till I tell you otherwise. And if you’re thinking of scurrying off in the dark of night, think again. You’ve a usefulness now I have the proof you are who you claimed to be.”

“Usefulness as a policeman or as a private citizen?” Lynley asked her.

“As whatever works, Detective.”

“Works for what?”

“For our good doctor.”

“Who?”

“The vet. Dr. Trahair. You and I both know she’s lying through those pretty white teeth of hers. Your job is to find out why.”

“You can’t possibly require me-”

Hannaford’s mobile rang. She held up a hand and cut him off. She dug the phone from her bag and walked off a few paces, saying, “Tell me,” into the mobile as she flipped it open. She bent her head as she listened. She tapped her foot.

“She lives for this,” Ray Hannaford said. “She didn’t, at the beginning. But now, it’s what makes her alive. Foolish, isn’t it?”

“That death would make someone alive?”

“No. That I let her go. She wanted one thing; I wanted another.”

“That happens.”

“Not if I’d had my head on straight.”

Lynley looked at Hannaford. Earlier, he’d said regrettably about his status as the inspector’s former husband. “You could tell her,” Lynley said.

“Could and did. But sometimes when you demean yourself in another’s eyes, you can’t recover. I’d like to turn back time, though.”

“Yes,” Lynley said. “Wouldn’t we both.”

The DI returned to them then. Her jaw was set. She gestured with her mobile and said to the ACC, “It’s murder. Ray, I want that incident room in Casvelyn. I don’t care what you have to do to get it and I don’t care what the quid pro quo is going to be either. I want HOLMES set up, an MCIT in place, and an evidence officer assigned. All right?”

“You don’t ask for much, Beatrice, do you?”

“On the contrary, Raymond,” she replied levelly. “As you well know.”

“WE’LL SORT OUT A car for you,” Bea Hannaford said to Lynley. “You’re going to need one.”

They stood outside the entrance to Royal Cornwall Hospital. Ray had gone on his way, after telling Bea that he couldn’t promise her anything and after hearing her retort of “how true,” which she knew was an unfair dig but which she used anyway because she’d long ago learned that when it came to murder, the end of charging someone with a homicide justified any means one employed to get there.

Lynley replied with what sounded to Bea like care. “I don’t believe you can ask this of me.”

“Because you outrank me? That’s not going to count for much out here in the hinterlands, Superintendent.”

“Acting, only.”

“What?”

“Acting superintendent. I was never promoted permanently. I was just stepping in to fill a need.”

“How good of you. The very sort of bloke I’m looking for. You can step in to fill another rather burning need now.” She felt him glance her way as they proceeded towards her car, and she laughed outright. “Not that need,” she said, “though I expect you offer a decent shag when a woman puts a gun to your head. How old are you?”

“The Yard didn’t tell you?”

“Humour me.”

“Thirty-eight.”