“Period music. Thirties or forties. Havers, what does that suggest to you?”

“That he could have phoned from inside a lift with Muzak playing above his head and that could be bloody anywhere in town. Sir-”

“He knew about Fu. He said it as well. Christ, if that reporter hadn’t been in the room…This has to be kept away from the press. He wants it. Corsico and the killer as well. They both want it front and centre. Page one with the accompanying headline. And he’s got the victim, Havers. Picked out, already with him, or whatever. And the place as well. Christ, we can’t be sitting ducks for this.”

“Sir. Sir.”

Lynley brought himself round. He could see the anxiety on Havers’ pale face. She said, “Something more, right? There’s something more. What is it? Tell me. Please.”

Lynley didn’t want to give it words because then he knew he would have to face them. And face his responsibility as well. “He mentioned Helen,” he finally said. “Barbara, he mentioned Helen.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

AS BARBARA HAVERS CAME BACK TO THE INCIDENT room, Nkata clocked the expression on her face. He saw her go to DI Stewart and have a few words, after which the DI left the room in a tearing hurry. This, in conjunction with Corsico’s having come from Lynley’s office to fetch Havers, told Nkata something was up.

He didn’t approach Havers to be brought into the picture just yet. Instead he watched her go to the computer on which she’d been digging round for information on the bath-salts bloke from the Stables Market. She did a credible job of setting herself back to the task at hand, but from across the room, Nkata could see that more than bath salts was on her mind. She stared at the computer screen for at least two minutes before she roused herself and picked up a pencil. Then she stared at the screen for two minutes more before she gave up the effort and got to her feet. She headed out of the incident room, and Nkata saw she’d dug her fags from her bag. Sneaking off for a smoke in the stairwell, he thought. This would be a good time for a chat.

But instead of heading for the stairs to light up, she went for coffee, plugging coins into the machine and dismally watching the brew dribble into a plastic cup. She fished a fag out of her packet of Players as well, but she didn’t light it.

He said, “Company?,” and felt round in his pocket for change for the coffee machine.

She turned and said tiredly, “Winnie. Come up with anything?”

He shook his head. “You?”

She did likewise. “The bath-salts bloke-John Miller?-turns out to be squeaky clean. Pays his council tax on time, has a credit card he pays off once a month, has his telly licence squared away, has a house and a mortgage and a cat and a dog, a wife and three grandkids. Drives a ten-year-old Saab and has bad feet. Ask me anything. I’ve become his Boswell.”

Nkata smiled. He plugged his own coins into the coffee machine and punched white with sugar. He said, with a nod back in the direction of the incident room, “Corsico coming for you like that, earlier? I reckoned he picked you for the next profile in the paper. But it’s something else, i’n’t it. He came to get you from the super’s office.”

Barb didn’t even try to misdirect him, another reason Nkata liked her. She said, “He phoned. Guv had him on the line when I got there.”

Nkata knew whom she meant at once. He said, “Tha’s what Stewart got on to?”

She nodded. “He’ll get the records.” She took a sip of her coffee and didn’t grimace at the flavour of the brew. “For what good it’ll do. This bloke’s not stupid. He’s not going to phone from a mobile and he’s not going to ring us up from his bedroom land line, is he? He’s in a call box somewhere and he’s damn sure not going to make it in front of his home, his work, or anywhere else we’re likely to connect him to.”

“Has to be done, though.”

“Right.” She examined the cigarette she’d been intending to light up. She made up her mind and shoved it into her pocket. It broke in half. Part fell to the floor. She looked at it, then gave it a kick under the coffee machine.

“What else?” Nkata asked her.

“This bloke mentioned Helen. Super’s cut up, and who can blame him.”

“Tha’s from the paper. He’s trying to unnerve us.”

“Right. Well. He’s managed that.” Barbara downed her coffee and crumpled the cup with a crunch. She said, “Where is he, anyway?”

“Corsico?” Nkata shrugged. “Digging through someone’s personnel file, I expect. Typing everyone’s name online and seeing what he can come up with next for a good story. Barb, this bloke-Red Van-what’d he say ’bout her?”

“About Helen? I don’t know the details. But the whole idea of anything being printed in the paper about anyone…This isn’t good. Not for us and not for the investigation. How’re you with Hillier, by the way?”

“Avoiding him.”

“Not a bad idea.”

Mitchell Corsico appeared from out of nowhere then, his face brightening when he saw them by the coffee machine.

The reporter said, “DS Nkata. I’ve been looking for you.”

Barb said under her breath to Nkata, “Rather you than me, Winnie. Sorry,” and started back for the incident room. She and Corsico passed each other without a glance. A moment later, Nkata found himself alone with the reporter.

“Could I have a word?” Corsico purchased a tea for himself from the machine: milk and extra sugar. He slurped when he drank it. Alice Nkata would have disapproved.

“Work to do,” Nkata said and made a move to go.

“It’s about Harold, actually.” Corsico’s voice remained as friendly as ever. “I wonder if you’d just like to make a comment about him. The contrast between two brothers…It’ll be a brilliant lead for the story. You’re next, as you’ve probably gathered. You on the one hand and Lynley on the other. It’s sort of an alpha and omega situation that’ll make good reading.”

At the mention of his brother’s name, Nkata had felt his whole body stiffen. He would not talk about Stoney. And a comment about him? Like what? Anything he said-even if he said he had no comment at all-would come back to haunt him. Defend Stoney Nkata and it would go down to blinkers and blacks supporting blacks no matter what. Make no comment and it would go down to a cop disowning his past, not to mention his family.

Nkata said, “Harold”-and how odd his brother’s Christian name sounded when he’d never called him that in his life-“he’s my brother. Tha’s right.”

“And would you like to-”

“I just did,” Nkata said. “Just confirmed it for you. If you’ll ’scuse me, then, I’ve got work to do.”

Corsico followed him down the corridor and into the incident room. He pulled up a chair next to Nkata’s and took out his notebook, referring to the page on which he’d taken down information in what looked like old-fashioned shorthand.

He said, “I began that all wrong. Let me try it again. Your dad’s called Benjamin. He drives a bus, right? How long has he worked for London transport? Which route would he be on, DS Nkata?”

Nkata tightened his jaw and began to sort through the papers on which he’d been recording information earlier.

Corsico said, “Yes. Well. It’s Loughborough Estate, South London, isn’t it? Have you lived there long?”

“All my life.” Still, Nkata did not look at the reporter. His every movement he designed to say, I’m busy, man.

Corsico wasn’t buying. He said with a glance at his notes, “And your mother? Alice? What does she do?”

Nkata swung round in his chair. He kept his voice polite. He said, “Super’s wife ended up in the paper. Tha’s not happening to my fam’ly. No way.”

Corsico apparently took this as a welcome into Nkata’s psyche, which seemed to be of more interest to him anyway. He said, “Tough being a cop with your background, Sergeant? Is that how it is?”