The smaller building was a garden shed. There were tools within it, all of them well used, testifying to Daidre’s attempts to create something gardenlike out of her little plot of land, no matter its proximity to the sea.

He was studying these for want of studying something when he heard the sound of a car driving up, its tyres crunching on the pebbles along the verge. He was blocking her driveway, so he left the garden shed to move his vehicle out of her way. But he saw it wasn’t Daidre Trahair who’d arrived. Rather it was DI Hannaford. Barbara Havers was with her.

Lynley felt dispirited at the sight of them. He had rather hoped Havers would have said nothing to Bea Hannaford about what she’d uncovered in Falmouth although he’d known how unlikely that was. Barbara was nothing if not a pit bull when it came to an investigation. She’d run over her grandmother with an articulated lorry if she was on the trail of something relevant. The fact that Daidre Trahair’s past wasn’t relevant would not occur to her because anything odd, contradictory, quirky, or suspicious needed to be tracked down and examined from every angle, and Barbara Havers was just the cop to do it.

Their eyes met as she got out of the car, and he tried to keep the disappointment from his face. She paused to shake a cigarette out of a packet of Players. She turned her back to the breeze, sheltering a plastic lighter from the wind.

Bea Hannaford approached him. “She’s not here?”

He shook his head.

“Sure about that, are you?” Hannaford peered at him intently.

“I didn’t look in through the windows,” he replied. “But I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t answer the door if she were at home.”

“I can. And how’re we coming along with our investigation into the good doctor? You’ve spent enough time with her so far. I expect you’ve something to report.”

Lynley looked to Havers, feeling a curious rush of gratitude towards his former partner. He also felt the shame of having misjudged her, and he saw how much the last months had altered him. Havers remained largely expressionless, but she lifted one eyebrow. She was, he saw, putting the ball squarely into his court and he could do with it what he would. For now.

“I don’t know why she lied to you about the route she took from Bristol,” he told Hannaford. “I’ve not got much further than that. She’s very careful with what she reveals about herself.”

“Not careful enough,” the DI said. “She lied about knowing Santo Kerne, as things turn out. The kid was her lover. She was sharing him with his girlfriend without his girlfriend knowing. At first, that is. She-the girlfriend-had some suspicions on that front so she followed Santo and he led her straight here. He seems to have been a bloke who liked them any way he could get them. Older, younger, and in between.”

Although he found that his heart had begun beating quickly as the DI was speaking, Lynley said in an even tone, “I’m not quite tracking this.”

“Not tracking what?”

“His girlfriend following him and the conclusion you’ve drawn: that he and Dr. Trahair were lovers.”

“Sir…” It was Havers’ monitory tone.

“Are you mad?” Hannaford said to Lynley. “The girlfriend confronted him, Thomas.”

“Confronted him or confronted them?”

“Him or them? What difference does it make?”

“All the difference in the world if she didn’t actually see anything.”

“Really? And what’d you expect the girl to do? Jump through the window with a camera while they were doing the deed? So she would have evidence to back herself up if she ever had to talk to the coppers? She saw enough to have words with him and he told her what was going on.”

“He said that Dr. Trahair was his lover?”

“What the hell do you think-”

“It just seems to me that if he had a taste for older women, he’d want to go after one more readily available to him. Dr. Trahair, according to what she’s said, comes here only for holidays and occasional weekend breaks.”

“According to what she bloody says. My good man, she’s lied about nearly everything so far, so I think we’re God damn safe to assume that if Santo Kerne came to this cottage-”

“Could I have a word, Inspector Hannaford?” Havers broke in. “With the superintendent, I mean.”

Firmly Lynley said, “Barbara, I’m no longer-”

“With his lordship,” Havers corrected herself acidly. “With his earlishness…With Mister Lynley…with whatever he wishes to be called at this point…if you don’t mind, Guv.”

Hannaford threw up her hands. “Take him.” She began to walk towards the cottage, but she paused and pointed her finger at Lynley. “Detective, if I find you’re obstructing this investigation in any way…”

“You’ll have my job,” Lynley said wryly. “I know.”

He watched her stalk towards the cottage and knock on the door. When no one answered, she went round the side of the building, clearly intending to do what she thought Santo’s girlfriend ought to have done: peer through the windows. He turned to Havers.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I wasn’t rescuing you.”

“Not for that.” He indicated Hannaford with a nod towards the cottage. “For not giving her the information from Falmouth. You could have done. You ought to have done. Both of us know that. Thank you.”

“I like to stay consistent.” She drew in deeply on her cigarette before she tossed it to the ground. She removed a bit of tobacco from her tongue. “Why develop a respect for authority at the eleventh hour, if you know what I mean?”

He smiled. “So you see-”

“No,” she said. “I don’t see. At least I don’t see what you want me to see. She’s a liar, sir. That makes her dirty. We came here to take her in for questioning. More, if we need to.”

“More? An arrest? For what? It seems to me that if she was having an affair with this boy, the motive to kill him sits squarely on someone else.”

“Not necessarily. And please don’t tell me you don’t know that.” She glanced at the cottage. Hannaford was gone from view, now at the seaside windows on the west end of the building. Havers drew a deep breath. She coughed a smoker’s cough.

“You’ve got to give up tobacco,” he told her.

“Right. Tomorrow. In the meantime, we have a bit of a problem.”

“Come with me to Newquay.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’ve got a lead on this case and that’s where it is. Santo Kerne’s father was involved in a death some thirty years ago. I think it needs to be checked into.”

“Santo Kerne’s father? Sir, you’re avoiding.”

“Avoiding what?”

“You know.” She cocked her head at the cottage.

“Havers, I’m not. Come with me to Newquay.” The plan sounded so sensible to him. It even had the flavour of old times: the two of them doing some digging around, talking about leads, tossing round possibilities. Suddenly, he wanted the sergeant with him.

“I can’t do that, sir,” Havers said.

“Why not?”

“First of all, because I’m here on loan to DI Hannaford. And second…” She drove her hand through her sandy hair, badly cut as always, and straight as the route of a martyr’s path to heaven. It was filled, as usual, with static electricity. Much of it stood on end. “Sir, how do I say this to you?”

“What?”

“This. You’ve been through the worst.”

“Barbara-”

“No. You’ve bloody well got to listen to me. You lost your wife to murder. You lost your child. For God’s sake, you had to shut off their life support.”

He closed his eyes. Her hand grabbed his arm and held it firmly.

“I know this is hard. I know it’s horrible.”

“No,” he murmured, “you don’t. You can’t.”

“All right. I don’t, and I can’t. But what happened to Helen ripped your world apart and no one-bloody no one, sir-walks away from something like that with his head on straight.”

He looked at her then. “You’re saying I’m mad? Have we come to that?”