Lynley thought it over. The reality was that van was going to contain a treasure trove of evidence. Find it and they had their killer. But the trouble was that the situation remained unchanged: Publicising the van’s exact description, its number plates, and the writing on its side also allowed the killer to see their hand. He would either hide the vehicle in any one of the thousands of lockups round the city or he would clean and abandon it. They had to pursue the middle course in this matter.

He said, “Get the details out to every station in town.”

He made additional assignments, then, and Barbara received hers with as much good grace as she could muster, considering that the first half of the assignment required her to compile her report on John Miller, the bath-salts vendor at the Stables Market. The second half got her out in the street where she preferred to be, however. Canterbury Hotel in Lexham Gardens. Find the night clerk and talk to him about who paid for a room for a single night on the evening that Davey Benton died.

Lynley was going on to the other assignments-everything from obtaining Minshall’s mobile phone records to tracing the attendees at the last meeting of MABIL in St. Lucy’s Church, by fingerprints if necessary-when Dorothea Harriman ushered Mitchell Corsico into the incident room.

She looked apologetic about it. Her expression clearly said, Orders from above.

Lynley said, “Ah. Mr. Corsico. Come with me please,” and he left the squad to get back to work.

Barbara heard the steel in his voice. She knew that Corsico was about to get an earful.

LYNLEY HAD A copy of The Source. It had been supplied him by the guard in the kiosk when he’d arrived a short while earlier. He’d looked it over and had seen the error of his ways: How much hubris had he actually demonstrated, he wondered, in assuming he could outsmart a tabloid? The tabloids’ bread and butter was produced through the means of digging up useless information, so he’d expected the lordship business, the Cornwall business, and the Oxford and Eton business as well. But he hadn’t expected to see a photograph of his London home gracing the paper, and he was determined that the reporter would put no other officers in jeopardy by giving them the same treatment.

“Ground rules,” he said to Corsico when he and the reporter were alone.

“You didn’t like the profile?” the young man asked, hitching up his jeans. “There wasn’t even the ghost of a suggestion about the incident room or what you’ve got on the killer. Or haven’t got,” he added with a sympathetic smile that Lynley wanted to smear across his face.

“These people have wives, husbands, and families,” Lynley said. “Back off from them.”

“Not to worry,” Corsico said helpfully. “You’re by far the most interesting of the lot. How many cops can boast an address a stone’s throw from Eaton Square? I had a phone call this A.M. from a DS up in Yorkshire, by the way. Can’t give you his name, but he said he had some information we might want to print as a follow-up to today’s piece. Care to comment?”

That would be DS Nies, Lynley thought, of the Richmond police. He would no doubt have loved to bend the reporter’s ear about time spent rubbing elbows with the Earl of Asherton in the nick. And the rest of Lynley’s squalid past would come oozing out of the woodwork as well: drink driving, a car wreck, a crippled friend, all of it.

He said, “Listen to me, Mr. Corsico,” and the phone rang on his desk at that moment. He snatched it up, said, “Lynley. What?”

He heard in reply: “I don’t look at all like that sketch, you know.” It was a man’s voice, perfectly friendly. Some sort of tea-dancing music played in the background. “The one on telly. And what is it that you prefer to be called: superintendent or m’lord?”

Lynley hesitated, a deadly calm come over him. He was all too aware of Mitchell Corsico’s presence in the room. He said to his caller, “Would you wait a moment please,” and was about to tell Corsico to give him a few minutes’ privacy when the voice continued.

“I’ll ring off if you try that, Superintendent Lynley. There. I suppose I’ve made my decision about what to call you, haven’t I.”

“Try what?” Lynley asked. He looked towards his office door and the corridor, fixed upon flagging someone down. Failing that, he reached for a yellow pad on his desk to write the necessary note.

“Please. I’m not a fool. You won’t be able to trace this call because I won’t be on long enough for you to do it. Just listen.”

Lynley waved Corsico over to his desk. Corsico feigned misunderstanding, pointing at his own chest and frowning. Lynley wanted to strangle the man. He waved him over again, “Fetch DC Havers” on the paper he finally shoved at him. “Now,” he said, covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

“You’ll get the computer records of this call anyway, won’t you?” the voice asked him pleasantly. “That’s how you work. But by the time you do it, I will have already impressed you once again. Indeed, I’ll have absolutely dazzled you. You’ve a beautiful wife, incidentally.”

Although Corsico had already gone for Havers, Lynley said to his caller, “I’ve a reporter in my office. I’d like to usher him out. Will you hang on while I do that?”

“Come now, Superintendent Lynley, you can’t expect me to fall for that.”

“Shall I put him on the line to convince you? He’s called Mitchell Corsico and-”

“And unfortunately I can’t get a glimpse of his identification, although I’m sure you’d like to arrange that. No. There’s no need. I intend to be brief. First, I’ve signed a letter to you. The mark of Fu. The reason for this doesn’t matter, but does the information itself suffice to convince you who I am? Or shall I add a reference to navels as well?”

Lynley said, “I’m convinced.” Those details were among the few which the papers had no knowledge of. They identified the caller as the real thing or as someone close to the investigation, in which case Lynley knew the voice would have been familiar to him, which it was not. He had to get a trace on this call. But a single wrong move on his part and he knew that the killer would break the connection before Havers got to the room.

“Good. Then hear me, Superintendent Lynley. Out I went looking for a spot to thrill you another time. It was difficult to find, but I wanted you to know I have it now. Sheer inspiration. A bit risky, but it’ll make a real splash. I’m planning an event you won’t soon forget.”

“What are you-”

“I’ve already made my selection too. I thought you’d like to know that, fair being completely fair.”

“May we talk about this?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Then why have you-”

“Few words, much action, Superintendent. Trust me. It’s better this way.”

He rang off. Just as Havers came into the room with Corsico half a step behind her.

Lynley said to Corsico, “Get out.”

“Hang on. I’ve done what you-”

“What follows is none of your business. Get out.”

“The assistant commissioner-”

“Will survive the news that I’ve escorted you from my office for the moment.” Lynley took the reporter by the arm. “I suggest you follow up on the information from Yorkshire. Believe me, it will make good reading for your next edition.” He thrust him into the corridor and shut the door. He said to Havers, “He’s phoned.”

She knew. “When? Just now? Is that why…?” She jerked her head towards the door.

“Get on to the records. We need to find out where he phoned from. He’s got another victim.”

“In his possession? Sir, those records…It’s going to take-”

“Music,” Lynley said. “I could hear dance music in the background. But that was it. Tea-dancing music. That’s what it reminded me of.”

“Tea…Not at this hour of the day. Are you thinking-”