“Bad night?” he asked her and added with a smile, “All that worry over christening clothes?”

“Stop,” she grumbled. “I dreamed our Jasper Felix was doing backflips in my stomach.”

She came to him and slipped her arms round his waist, yawning as she rested her head against his shoulder. “What are you doing dressed at this hour? The Press Bureau haven’t taken to offering predawn press briefings, have they? You know what I mean: See how diligently we work at the Met; we’re up before the sun on the scent of malefactors.”

“Hillier would ask for that if he thought of it,” Lynley replied. “Wait another week. It’ll occur to him.”

“Misbehaving, is he?”

“Just being Hillier. He’s parading Winston in front of the press like Rod Hull. Except poor Emu doesn’t get to speak.”

Helen looked up at him. “You’re angry about this, aren’t you? It’s not like you not to be philosophical. Is this about Barbara? Winston’s getting the promotion instead of her?”

“That was rotten of Hillier, but I should have seen it coming,” Lynley said. “He’d love to get rid of her.”

“Still?”

“Always. I’ve never known quite how to protect her, Helen. Even doing the superintendent bit temporarily, I feel at a loss. I haven’t a quarter of Webberly’s skill at this sort of thing.”

She released herself from his embrace and went to the cupboard where she took out a mug, which she filled with skimmed milk and put into the microwave to heat. She said, “Malcolm Webberly has the advantage of being Sir David’s brother-in-law, darling. That would have counted for something when they knocked heads on an issue, wouldn’t it?”

Lynley grumbled, neither agreement nor dissent. He watched his wife take her warmed milk from the microwave and stir a spoonful of Horlicks into it. He finished off his coffee and was rinsing out the cup when the front doorbell buzzed.

Helen turned from the work top, saying, “Who on earth…?” as she looked towards the wall clock.

“That’ll be Havers.”

“You are going to work, then? Really? At this hour?”

“Going to Bermondsey.” He left the kitchen and she followed, Horlicks in hand. “The market.”

“Tell me it’s not to shop,” she said. “Bargains are bargains, and you know I’d never turn away from one myself, but surely one ought to draw the line at bargains reached before the sun comes up.”

Lynley chuckled. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? The odd piece of priceless porcelain for twenty-five pounds? The Peter Paul Rubens hidden beneath two centuries of grime, with nineteenth-century household cats painted over it by a six-year-old?” He crossed the marble tiles of the entrance and opened the door to find Barbara Havers leaning against the iron railing, a knitted cap pulled low on her brow and a donkey jacket wrapped round her stubby body.

Havers said to Helen, “If you’re seeing him off at this hour, the honeymoon has definitely gone on too long.”

“My restless dreams are seeing him off,” Helen said. “That and general anxiety over the future, according to my husband.”

“Haven’t decided on the christening clobber yet?”

Helen looked at Lynley. “Did you actually tell her, Tommy?”

“Was it confidential?”

“No. Just inane. The situation, that is, not your telling it.” And then to Barbara, “We may have a small fire in the nursery. It will, unfortunately, burn both sets of clothes beyond use and recognition. What do you think?”

“Sounds just the ticket to me,” Havers said. “Why go for family compromise when you can have arson?”

“Our very thought.”

“Better and better,” Lynley said. He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “Lock up behind me,” he instructed her. “And go back to bed.”

Helen spoke to her small bump. “Do not haunt my dreams again, young man. Mind your mummy.” And then to Lynley and Barbara, “And you mind how you go,” before she shut the door behind them.

Lynley waited to hear the bolts shoot into place. Next to him, Barbara Havers was lighting a cigarette. He eyed her with disapproval, saying, “At half past four in the morning? Even in my worst days, Havers, I couldn’t have managed that.”

“Are you aware there’s nothing more sanctimonious than a reformed smoker, sir?”

“I don’t believe it,” he replied, leading them down the street in the direction of the mews, where his car was garaged. “There must be something else.”

“Nothing,” she said. “There’ve been studies done on it. Even your basic Mary Magdalenes living now as nuns don’t rate a sausage compared to your former weed fiends.”

“It must be our concern for the health of our fellows.”

“More like your desire to inflict your misery on everyone else. Give it up, sir. I know you want to rip this out of my hand and smoke it to the nub. How long have you gone without at this point?”

“So long I can’t even remember, actually.”

“Oh, bloody right,” she said to the sky.

They set off in the blessing of early morning London: There was virtually no other vehicle on the streets. Because of this, they zipped through Sloane Square with all traffic lights in their favour, and in less than five minutes they saw the lights of Chelsea Bridge and the tall brick smokestacks of Battersea Power Station rising into the charcoal sky across the Thames.

Lynley chose a route along the embankment that kept them on the wrong side of the river as long as possible, where he was more familiar with the turf. Here too there were very few vehicles, just the odd cab heading into the centre of town for the day’s work and the occasional lorry getting a head start on deliveries. Thus they wended their way to the massive grey fortress that was the Tower of London before crossing over, and from there it was no difficult feat to find Bermondsey Market, not overly far along Tower Bridge Road.

Using the illumination of tall streetlamps, as well as torches, fairy lights strung round the occasional stall, and other localised lights of dubious origin and weak wattage, vendors were in the final stages of setting up for business. Their day would begin shortly-for the market opened at five in the morning and was a thing of memory by two in the afternoon-so they were intent upon the assembly of the poles and tables that defined their stalls. Around them in the darkness waited boxes of countless treasures, which were stacked on carts that had been wheeled into position from vans and cars along the nearby streets.

Already, there were people waiting to be the first to browse through everything from hairbrushes to high-button shoes. No one officially held them back, but it was clear from watching the vendors at work that customers would not be welcome until the goods were fully displayed beneath the predawn sky.

As in most London markets, the vendors occupied the same general area every time Bermondsey was open for business. So Lynley and Havers began at the north end and worked their way south, asking for someone who could talk to them about Kimmo Thorne. The fact that they were police did not garner them the quick cooperation they had hoped for under circumstances that involved the death of one of the vendors’ own. But this they knew was likely due to Bermondsey’s reputation for being a clearing ground for stolen property, a place where the trade part of “in the trade” frequently meant breaking and entering.

They’d spent more than an hour quizzing vendors when a seller of ersatz Victorian dressing-table sets (“This’s guaranteed one hunderd p’rcent the genuine article, sir and madam”) recognised Kimmo’s name, and after declaring both the name and the person in possession of it, “an odd l’tle sod, you ask me,” he directed Lynley and Havers to an elderly couple at a silver stall. “You talk to the Grabinskis over there,” he said, using his chin to indicate the direction. “They’ll be able to tell you what’s what with Kimmo. Dead sorry about wha’ happened to the l’tle sod. Read about it in the News of the World.”