And there she was in Cornwall, standing before a portrait in the gallery, his mother at her side. They were looking upon a grandfather with too many greats in front of him to know exactly how far back he was in time. But that didn’t matter because her concern was centred on genetics and she was saying to his mother, D’you think there’s any chance that terrible nose could pop up again somewhere along the line?

It’s rather ghastly, isn’t it? his mother murmured.

At least it shades his chest from the sun. Tommy, why didn’t you point this picture out to me before you proposed? I’ve never seen it before.

We kept it hidden in the attic.

That was very wise.

The Helen of her. The Helen.

You cannot know someone for seventeen years and not have a swarm of memories, he thought. And it was the memories that he felt might kill him. Not that they existed but that there would be no more of them from this point forward and that there were others he’d already forgotten.

A door opened in the room, somewhere behind him. A soft hand took his, shaping his fingers round a hot cup. He caught the scent of soup. He looked up to see his mother’s tender face.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t do that, Tommy.”

“If I let her…Mum, how can I let her…them? And if I do that, is it ego? Or is it ego if I don’t? What would she want? How can I know?”

She came close to him. He turned back to his wife. His mother curved her hand round his head so she cradled his cheek. “Dearest Tommy,” she murmured. “I would take this from you if I could.”

“I’m dying. With her. With them. And that’s what I want, actually.”

“Believe me. I know. No one can feel what you feel, but all of us can know what you feel. And, Tommy, you must feel it. You can’t run away. It won’t work like that. But I want you to try to feel our love as well. Promise you’ll do that.”

He felt her bend and kiss the top of his head, and in that action, although he could hardly bear it, he also knew there was healing as well. But that was even worse than what lay before him in the immediate future. That he might stop feeling this agony someday. He didn’t know how he could live through that.

His mother said, “Simon’s come back. Will you speak to him? I think he has news.”

“I can’t leave her.”

“I’ll stay. Or I’ll send Simon to you. Or I can get the message if you’d like.”

He nodded numbly and she waited in silence for him to make up his mind. He finally handed the cup back to her, the soup untouched. “I’ll go to him,” he said.

His mother took his place at the bed. He turned at the door and saw her lean towards Helen’s head and touch the dark hair that fell back from her temples. He left her to maintain a vigil over his wife.

St. James was just outside in the corridor. He looked less haggard than the last time Lynley had seen him, which suggested he’d gone home for some sleep. Lynley was glad of this. The rest of them were operating on nerves and caffeine.

St. James suggested they find the café and when they reached it, the smell of lasagne suggested the hour of the day to be somewhere between noon and eight o’clock at night. Inside the hospital, Lynley had long since lost track of time. Where Helen was, the lights were dim, but elsewhere it was forever fluorescent daytime, with only the changing faces of staff members with each new shift suggesting that hours were passing normally for the rest of the world.

Lynley said, “What time is it, Simon?”

“Half past one.”

“Not in the morning, though.”

“No. Afternoon. I’m getting you something.” He nodded to the stainless steel and glass of the buffet. “What would you like?”

“It doesn’t matter. A sandwich? I’m not hungry.”

“Consider it medicinal. It’ll be easier that way.”

“Egg mayonnaise, then, if they have it. Brown bread.”

St. James went to fetch it. Lynley sat at a small table in the corner. Other tables were occupied by staff, by members of patients’ families, by ministers, and in one case by two nuns. The café reflected the sombre nature of what went on in the building it served: Conversation was hushed; people seemed careful not to clatter their crockery and cutlery.

No one glanced his way, for which Lynley was grateful. He felt raw and exposed, as if he had no protection from the knowledge of others and the judgements that they could pass upon his life.

When St. James returned, he brought egg sandwiches on a tray. He’d bought one for himself as well, and he’d picked up a bowl of fruit and a Twix bar along with two cartons of Ribena.

They ate first, in companionable silence. They’d known each other for so many years-from their very first day at Eton, in fact-that words would be superfluous at the moment. St. James knew; Lynley could tell that in his face. Nothing needed to be said.

St. James nodded his approval when Lynley finished the sandwich. He moved the bowl of fruit in his direction and followed that with the chocolate bar. When Lynley had eaten as much of both as he could stand, his friend finally relayed his information.

“Belgravia have the gun. They found it in one of the gardens, along the route from the mews where that Range Rover had been dented, to the house where the au pair reported a break-in. They had to leap one brick wall after another to get away. They lost the gun along the route in some shrubbery, evidently. They wouldn’t have had time to go back for it, even if they knew it was missing.”

Lynley looked away from St. James’s face because he knew his friend was watching him carefully and gauging him with every word. He’d want to make sure he told Lynley nothing that might push him over the edge again. This told Lynley he knew about Hillier and New Scotland Yard, in what seemed now like another lifetime.

“I won’t storm the Belgravia station,” he said. “You can say the rest.”

“They’re fairly certain the gun they found is the one that was used. They’ll do the ballistics study on the bullet they took from…from Helen, naturally, but the gun-”

Lynley turned back to him. “What kind is it?”

“Handgun. Twenty-two calibre,” St. James said.

“Black-market special.”

“It looks that way. It hadn’t been there long, in the garden. The home owners claimed to know nothing about it, and a look at the shrubbery supported their claim. It was freshly broken up. In the other gardens along the way as well.”

“Footprints?”

“Everywhere. Belgravia are going to catch them, Tommy. Soon.”

“Them?”

“There were definitely two of them. One of them was mixed race. The other…They’re not sure yet.”

“The au pair?”

“Belgravia have spoken to her. She says she was with the baby she looks after when she heard a window being broken down below, at the back of the house. By the time she got down to see what was going on, they were inside and she met them at the bottom of the stairs. One of them was already at the front door, heading out. She thought they’d burgled the house. She started screaming, but she also tried to stop them from getting away, God only knows why. One of them lost his hat.”

“Is someone getting an e-fit made?”

“I’m not sure that’s going to be necessary.”

“Why?”

“The house on Cadogan Lane with the CCTV cameras? They’ve got images. They’re being enhanced. Belgravia are going to run them on television and the papers will print the best of the lot. This is…” St. James raised his head ceilingward. Lynley saw how difficult this was for his friend. Not only the knowledge of what had happened to Helen but also the gathering of information to pass on to Helen’s husband and her family. The effort left him no time for grief. “They’re putting everything they have into this, Tommy. They’ve more volunteers than they can use, from stations all over town. The papers…You’ve not seen them, have you? It’s been an enormous story. Because of who you are, who she is, your families, everything.”