Corsico made an adjustment to the volume on his tape recorder and nodded thoughtfully. “That does bring us to Harold then, doesn’t it? He shot that bloke in the back of the head, as I understand. Made him kneel at the edge of the pavement, then put the barrel of the gun to his skull.”

Nkata reached for the tape recorder. He dropped it onto the floor and slammed his foot into it.

“Hey!” Corsico cried. “I am not responsible-”

“You listen to me,” Nkata hissed. Several heads turned their way. Nkata ignored them. He said to Corsico, “You write your story. With or without me, I c’n see you’re set on doing it. But my brother’s part of it, my mum’s or my dad’s picture in that paper, one word ’bout Loughborough Estate…and I’m coming after you, unnerstan? And I ’xpect you know enough about me already to get what I mean.”

Corsico smiled, completely unfazed. It came to Nkata that this was the reaction the reporter had been seeking. He said, “Your speciality was the flick knife, as I understand it, Sergeant. You were what? Fifteen years old? Sixteen? Did a knife seem less traceable to you than…say…a pistol of the sort your brother used?”

Nkata wouldn’t take the bait this time. He got to his feet. “This isn’t going to be part of my day,” he told the reporter. He slid a pen into his jacket pocket, preparatory to heading for Lynley’s office to get back to what he’d intended to do.

Corsico got to his feet as well, perhaps with the intention of following. But that was when Dorothea Harriman came into the room, looked round for someone, and chose Nkata.

She said, “Is Detective Constable Havers-?”

“Not here,” Nkata said. “What’s wrong?”

Harriman gave a glance to Corsico before she took Nkata by the arm. She said meaningfully to the reporter, “If you don’t mind… Some things are personal,” and she waited until he retreated to the other side of the room. Then she said, “Simon St. James just phoned. The superintendent’s left the hospital. He’s meant to go home and rest, but Mr. St. James thinks he may head here at some point today. He’s not sure when.”

“He’s coming back to work?” Nkata couldn’t believe this was the case.

Harriman shook her head. “If he comes here, Mr. St. James thinks he’ll go to the assistant commissioner’s office. He thinks someone needs to…” She hesitated, her voice uncertain. She raised a hand to her lips and said in a more determined tone, “He thinks someone needs to be ready to look after him when he gets here, Detective Sergeant.”

BARBARA HAVERS cooled her heels in the interview room at the Holmes Street station while the solicitor serving the interests of Barry Minshall was rounded up. A sympathetic special constable in reception had taken one look at her and said, “Black or white?,” when she’d first entered the station. Now she sat with the coffee-white-in front of her, her hands curved round a mug that was shaped into the caricatured visage of the Prince of Wales.

She drank without tasting much of the brew. Her tongue said hot, bitter. That was it. She stared at her hands, saw how white her knuckles were, and tried to loosen her grip on the mug. She didn’t have the information she wanted and she didn’t like being in the dark.

She’d phoned Simon and Deborah St. James at the most reasonable hour she could manage. She’d ended up listening to their answer machine, so she reckoned they’d either never left the hospital on the previous night or had returned there before dawn to wait for further news about Helen. Deborah’s father wasn’t in, either. Barbara told herself he was walking the dog. She’d rung off on the answer machine without leaving a message. They had better things to do than phone her with news, which she might be able to get in another way.

But ringing the hospital was even worse. Mobile phones could not be used inside, so she was left having to speak to someone in charge of general information, which was no information at all. Lady Asherton’s condition was unchanged, she was told. What did that mean? she asked. And what about the baby she was carrying? There was no reply to this. A pause, a shuffling of papers, and then, Terribly sorry, but the hospital was not allowed…Barbara had hung up on the sympathetic voice, mostly because it was sympathetic.

She told herself that work was the anodyne, so she gathered her things and left her bungalow. At the front of the house, however, she saw that lights were on in the ground-floor flat. She didn’t pause to ask the shoulds of herself. At the sight of movement behind the curtains covering the French windows, she changed direction and crossed to them. She knocked without thinking, merely knowing that she needed something and that something was real human contact, no matter how brief.

Taymullah Azhar answered, manila folder in one hand and briefcase in the other. Behind him somewhere in the flat, water ran and Hadiyyah sang, off-key but what did it really matter: “Sometimes we’ll sigh, sometimes we’ll cry…” Buddy Holly, Barbara realised. She was singing “True Love Ways.” It made her want to weep.

Azhar said, “Barbara. How good to see you. I’m so very glad…Is something wrong?” He set down his briefcase and put the manila folder on top of it. By the time he’d turned back to her, Barbara had got a better grip on herself. He wouldn’t necessarily know yet, she thought. If he hadn’t looked at a newspaper and if he hadn’t turned on the radio or seen the television reports…

She couldn’t bring herself to talk about Helen. She said, “Working hard. Bad night. Not much sleep.” She remembered the peace offering she’d bought-it seemed like another lifetime to her-and she dug round in her shoulder bag till she found it: the five-pound-note trick meant for Hadiyyah. Astound your friends. Amaze your relations. “I picked this up for Hadiyyah. Thought she might like to try it out. It’ll take a five-pound note to do it. If you’ve got one…She won’t hurt it or anything. At least not when she gets good. So in the beginning I s’pose she could use something else. For practice. You know.”

Azhar looked from the magic trick in its plastic covering back to Barbara. He smiled and said, “You are very good. To Hadiyyah. And for Hadiyyah. This is not something I have told you, Barbara, and I apologise for that. Let me get her now so that you-”

“No!” The intensity of her word surprised both of them. They stared at each other in some confusion. Barbara knew she’d puzzled her neighbour. But she also knew she couldn’t explain to Azhar how the kindness of his words had seemed like a blow from which she felt in sudden danger. Not from what the words implied but from what her reaction to them told her about herself.

She said, “Sorry. Listen, I’ve got to go. About a dozen things on my plate and I’m juggling them all at once.”

“This case,” he said.

“Yeah. What a way to earn a living, eh?”

He observed her, dark eyes set in skin the colour of pecans, expression grave. He said, “Barbara-”

She cut him off. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Despite her need to escape the kindness in his tone, though, she reached out and clasped his arm. Through the sleeve of his neat white shirt she could feel the warmth of him and his wiry strength. “I’m dead chuffed you’re back,” she said, the words coming thickly. “See you later.”

“Of course,” he replied.

She turned to go, but she knew he was watching. She coughed and her nose began to run. She was God damn falling apart, she thought.

And then the blasted Mini wouldn’t start. It hiccuped and sighed. It spoke to her of arteries hardening with oil too long unchanged in its system, and she saw that from the French windows Azhar was still observing her. He took two steps outside and in her direction. She prayed and the god of transport listened. The engine finally sprang to life with a roar and she reversed down the drive and into the street.