“It doesn’t matter.”

“What? Sit down. Here. I’m getting you a drink. Have you slept? Eaten?” Hillier went for the phone. He punched in a number and said he wanted sandwiches, coffee, and no it didn’t matter what kind, just get it to his office as soon as possible. Fetch the coffee first. And to Lynley again, “How is she?”

“She’s brain dead.” The first time he’d actually said the words. “Helen is brain dead. My wife is brain dead.”

Hillier’s face went slack. “But I was told a chest wound…How is that possible?”

Lynley recited the details, finding that he needed and wanted the pain of telling them one by one. “The wound was small. They didn’t see at first that-” No. There was a better way to say it all. “The bullet went through an artery. Then through parts of her heart. I don’t know the order, the actual path of it, but I expect you get the general idea.”

“Don’t-”

Oh, he would. He would. “But,” he said forcefully, “her heart was still beating at this point, so her chest began to fill with blood. But they didn’t know that in the ambulance, you see. Everything took them too long. So when they finally got her to hospital, she had no pulse, she had no blood pressure. They put a tube down her throat and they shoved another into her chest and that’s when the blood started coming out of her-pouring out-so they knew, you see, at that point they knew.” When he breathed, he could hear it grinding into his lungs and he knew Hillier could hear it as well. And he hated that fact for what it revealed, and for how it could be used against him.

Hillier said, “Sit down. Please. You need to sit down.”

Not that, he thought. Never that. He said, “I asked what they did for her in Casualty. Well, one would ask that, don’t you agree? They told me they opened her up right there and saw one of the holes the bullet had made. The doctor actually stuck his finger in it to stop the flow of blood, if you can picture that, and I wanted to be able to picture it because I had to know, you see. I had to understand because if she was breathing even shallowly…But they said the blood flow was inadequate to her brain. And by the time they controlled it…Oh, she’s breathing now on the machine and her heart’s back to beating, but her brain…Helen’s brain is dead.”

“God in heaven.” Hillier went to the conference table. He pulled out a chair and indicated he meant Lynley to sit. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

Not his name, he thought. He could not bear his name. He said, “He found us, you see. You understand that, yes? Her. Helen. He found her. He found her. You see that. You know how it happened, don’t you?”

“What do you mean? What are you talking-”

“I’m talking about the story, sir. I’m talking about your embedded journalist. I’m talking about putting lives into the hands-”

“Don’t.” Hillier raised his voice. It didn’t seem like something done in anger, though, rather in desperation. A last-ditch effort to stem a tide he could not stop from rising.

“He phoned me after that story appeared. He mentioned her. We gave him a key, a map, whatever, and he found my wife.”

“That’s impossible,” Hillier said. “I read the story myself. There was no way he could have-”

“There were a dozen ways.” His own voice was louder now, his anger fueled by the other’s denial. “The moment you started playing with the press, you created ways. Television, tabloids, radio, broadsheets. You and Deacon-the two of you-thought you could use the media like two crafty politicians, and see where it’s brought us. See where it’s brought us!”

Hillier held up both his hands, palms out: the universal sign to stop. He said, “Thomas. Tommy. This isn’t-” He stopped. He looked towards the door and Lynley could almost read the question in his mind: Where is that bloody coffee? Where are the sandwiches? Where is a useful distraction, for God’s sake, because I have a madman in my office. He said, “I don’t want to argue with you. You need to be at the hospital. You need to be with your family. You need your family-”

“I have no God damn family!” Finally the weir gave way. “She’s dead. And the baby…The baby…They want her on machines for at least two months. More if possible. Do you understand? Not alive, not dead, with the rest of us watching…And you…God damn you. You’ve brought us to this. And there is no way-”

“Stop. Stop. You’re mad with grief. Don’t do and don’t say…Because you’ll regret-”

“What the hell else do I have to regret?” His voice broke horribly and he hated the breaking and what it revealed about how he had been reduced. Man no longer, but something like an earthworm exposed to salt and to sun and writhing, writhing, because this was the end this was surely the end and he hadn’t expected…

There was nothing for it but to lunge for Hillier. To reach him, to grab him, to force him…somewhere…

Strong arms caught him. From behind, these were, so it wasn’t Hillier. He heard a voice in his ear.

“Oh Jesus, man. You got to get away. You got to come with me. Easy, man. Easy.”

Winston Nkata, he thought. Where had he come from? Had he been there all along, unnoticed?

“Take him away.” It was Hillier speaking, Hillier with a handkerchief to his face, held by a hand that was shaking.

Lynley looked at the detective sergeant. Nkata seemed to be behind a shimmering veil. But even then, Lynley could still see his face in the moment before his arms went round him.

“Come with me, guv,” Winston murmured in his ear. “You come with me now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME ULRIKE decided the next approach she wanted to take, having learned from her encounter in Bermondsey with Jack Veness’s aunt that prevarication wasn’t going to serve her purpose. She began with the list of dates she’d got earlier from New Scotland Yard. She took this list and fashioned a multicolumn document from it, using the dates, the victims’ names, and the names of the police’s potential suspects as the columns and the rows. She allowed herself plenty of space to fill in any pertinent fact that came to light about everyone who looked questionable to her.

10 September, she wrote first. Anton Reid.

20 October came after that. Jared Salvatore.

25 November was next. Dennis Butcher. And then more quickly,

10 December, Kimmo Thorne.

18 December, Sean Lavery.

8 January, Davey Benton, who was-she thanked God-not one of theirs. Nor, if it came down to it, was the detective superintendent’s wife, and that had to mean something, didn’t it?

But just supposing what it meant was a killer moving further afield because the heat was too much at Colossus. That was highly possible, and she couldn’t discount it because to discount it-to anyone-could be construed as an attempt to direct suspicion elsewhere. Which was what she wanted to do, of course. But not while looking as if she was doing it.

She realised it had been completely ludicrous to pretend she was interviewing Mary Alice Atkins-Ward in order to see if Jack Veness was ready to be promoted to a more responsible position with Colossus. She couldn’t think how she’d actually come up with such a plan, and she certainly understood why Miss A-W had seen through it. So now she was going to opt for the direct approach, one that had to begin with Neil Greenham, the only individual who’d called in a solicitor, cavalrylike, with the Indians looming. She decided to accost Neil in his classroom, a glance at the clock telling her he’d still be there giving kids the individual help for which he was noted.

He was having a tête-à-tête with a black boy whose name escaped her for the moment. She frowned as she watched and heard Neil say something about the boy’s attendance. Mark, he called him.