Yet none of this kept him from having a chat with DAC Cherson in Personnel Management, although his heart was at its heaviest when he did it. Cherson authorised the temporary release of employment records. Lynley read them and told himself they amounted to nothing. Details that could be interpreted any way one wanted: a bitter divorce, a ruthless child-custody situation, spirit-breaking child support, a disciplinary letter for sexual harassment, a word to the wise about keeping fit, a bad knee, a commendation for extra course-work completed. Nothing, really. They amounted to nothing.

Still, he took notes and tried to ignore the sense of betrayal he felt as he did it. We all have skeletons, he told himself. My own are uglier than those of others.

He returned to his office. From where he’d stowed it on top of his desk, he read the profile of their killer. He thought about it. He thought about everything: from meals eaten and meals skipped, to boys disabled by an unexpected shot of electricity. What he thought was no. What he concluded was no. What he did was turn to the phone and ring Hamish Robson on his mobile.

He found him between sessions in his office near the Barbican, where he met with private clients away from the grim surroundings of Fischer Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It was a sideline dealing with normal people in temporary crisis, Robson told him.

“One can cope with the criminal element only so long,” he confided. “But I expect you know what I’m talking about.”

Lynley asked Robson if they could meet. At the Yard, elsewhere. It didn’t matter.

“I’ve a full diary into the evening,” Robson said. “Can we talk on the phone now? I’ve ten minutes before my next client.”

Lynley considered this, but he wanted to see Robson. He wanted more than merely talking to him.

Robson said, “Has something more…Are you all right, Superintendent? May I help? You sound…” He seemed to shuffle papers on the other end of the line. “Listen, I might be able to cancel a patient or two, or move them round a bit. Would that help? I’ve also got some shopping to do and I’d blocked out time for that at the end of the day. It’s not far from my office. Whitecross Street, where it intersects with Dufferin? There’s a fruit and veg stall where I could meet you. We could talk while I make my purchases.”

It would have to do, Lynley thought. But he could handle the preliminaries over the phone. He said, “What time?”

“Half past five?”

“All right. I can do that.”

“If you wouldn’t mind my asking…so that I might think about it in advance? Is there a new development?”

Lynley considered it. New, he thought. Yes and no, he decided. “How confident are you in your profile of the killer, Dr. Robson?”

“It’s not an exact science, naturally. But it’s very close. When you consider it’s based on hundreds of hours of detailed face-to-face interviews…when you consider the length and extent of the analyses of these interviews…the data compiled, the commonalities noted…It’s not like a fingerprint. It’s not DNA. But as a guide-even as a checklist-it’s an invaluable tool.”

“You feel that sure of it?”

“I feel that sure. But why are you asking? Have I missed something? Is there more information I ought to have? I can only work with what you give me.”

“What would you say to the fact that the first five boys killed had all eaten something within the final hour of their lives, while the last boy had eaten nothing in hours? Would you be able to make an interpretation from that?”

A silence while Robson considered the question. He ultimately said, “Not out of context. I wouldn’t like to.”

“What about the fact that the food eaten by the first five boys was identical each time?”

“That would be part of the ritual, I’d say.”

“But why skip it for the sixth boy?”

“There could be dozens of explanations. Not every boy was positioned identically after death. Not every boy had his navel removed. Not every boy had a symbol on his forehead. We’re looking for markers that make the crimes related, but they won’t be carbon copies of each other.”

Lynley didn’t reply to this. He heard Robson say to someone else, voice away from the phone, “Tell her a moment, please.” His next client had arrived, no doubt. They had little enough time to conclude their conversation.

Lynley said, “Fred and Rosemary West. Ian Brady and Myra Hindley. How common was that? Could the police have anticipated it?”

“Male and female killers? Or two killers working as a team?”

“Two killers,” Lynley said.

“Well of course, the problem was the disappearance factor in both of those examples, wasn’t it? The lack of bodies and crime scenes to gather information from. When people simply disappear-bodies buried in basements for decades, hidden on the moors, what you will-there’s nothing to interpret. In the case of Brady and Hindley, profiling didn’t exist then, anyway. As for the Wests-and this would be the case for all serial-killing couples-there’s one dominant partner and one submissive partner. One kills, one watches. One starts the process, one finishes it off. But may I ask…Is this where you’re heading with the investigation?”

“Male and female? Two males?”

“Either, I suppose.”

“You tell me, Dr. Robson,” Lynley said. “Could we have two killers?”

“My professional opinion?”

“That’s all you’ve got.”

“Then, no. I don’t think so. I stand by what I’ve already given you.”

“Why?” Lynley asked. “Why stand by what you gave us originally? I’ve just given you two details you didn’t have earlier. Why don’t they change things?”

“Superintendent, I can hear your anxiety. I know how desperate-”

“You don’t,” Lynley said. “You can’t. You don’t.”

“All right. Accepted. Let’s meet at half past five. Whitecross and Dufferin. The fruit and veg man. He’s the first stall you come to. I’ll wait there.”

“Whitecross and Dufferin,” Lynley said. He rang off and carefully replaced the receiver.

He found that he was sweating lightly. His palm left a mark on the telephone. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. Anxiety, yes. Robson was right about that.

“Acting Superintendent Lynley?”

He didn’t need to look up to know it was Dorothea Harriman, always appropriate with her appellations. He said, “Yes, Dee?”

She said nothing more. He did look up then. She had an expression asking for forgiveness in advance. He frowned. “What is it?”

“Assistant Commissioner Hillier. He’s on his way down to see you. He rang me up personally and told me to keep you in your office. I said I would, but I’m happy to pretend you were already gone when I got here to tell you.”

Lynley sighed. “Don’t risk your own position. I’ll see him.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. God knows I need something to lighten up my day.”

THE MIRACLE, Barbara Havers found, was that Wendy was not in the clouds this time round. In fact, when Barbara arrived at the woman’s eponymous stall in Camden Lock Market, she was willing to wager that the aging hippie had actually taken the cure. Standing within the confines of her tiny establishment, Wendy still looked like hell on a tricycle-there was something about long grey locks, ashen skin, and multicoloured caftans fashioned from counterpanes of the subcontinent that simply did not appeal-but at least her eyes were clear. The fact that she didn’t remember Barbara’s earlier visit was something of a worry, but she seemed willing to believe her sister when Petula told her from behind the counter of her own establishment, “You were out of it, luv,” at the time of their previous introduction to each other.

Wendy said, “Whoops,” and gave a shrug of her fleshy shoulders. Then to Barbara, “Sorry, dear. It must’ve been one of those days.”

Petula confided to Barbara with no small degree of pride that Wendy was “twelve-stepping it, again.” She’d tried it before and it “hadn’t taken,” but the family had hopes it would this time round. “Met a bloke who gave her the ultimatum,” Petula added under her breath. “And Wendy’ll do anything for a length, you see. Always would. Has the sex drive of a she-goat, that girl.”