Then what he’d said was, “He fought him, then. Like he was meant to. Like I taught him. He fought the bastard.”

“This is your son, Mr. Benton?” Lynley asked, the formality not only an automatic question but also a way to avoid the onslaught of restrained emotion-that could never actually be adequately restrained-that he felt trying to burst from the other man.

“Said from the first that the world can’t be trusted,” Benton replied. “Said from the first it’s a brutal place. But he never wanted to listen like I tried to get him to listen, did he. And this is what happens. This. I want ’em here, the rest ’f ’em. I want ’em to see.” His voice broke then and he went on in anguish. “Bloke tries his best to teach his kids what’s what out there. Bloke lives to make them understand that they got to take a care, be on their guard, know what could happen…Tha’s what I told him, our Davey. And no coddling from Bev either ’cause they’re meant to be tough, the lot of them. You look like that and you got to be tough, you got to be aware, you got to know…You got to understand…Listen to me, you little sod. Why don’t you see it’s for your own bloody good…?” He wept then, collapsing against a wall and then hitting that wall with his fist, saying, “Damn you to hell,” with his voice catching as his sobbing trapped the words in his throat.

There was no comfort, and Lynley honoured Max Benton’s grief by not offering him any. He just said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Benton,” before he guided the broken man away.

Now, in the carpark, Lynley took the time he needed to recover, knowing he had been touched more deeply than ever before in the face of a parent’s loss of a child because he too would soon join the ranks of men with sons in whom their fathers sometimes unwisely invest their dreams. Benton was right, and Lynley knew it. A man’s duty was to protect his offspring. When he failed in that duty-failed spectacularly, as was the failure felt by any parent who lost a child to murder-his guilt was second only to his grief. Marriages broke down as a result; loving families were torn asunder. And everything once held dear and secure was shattered by the advent of an evil every parent feared might alight upon his child, but one that no one could anticipate.

There was no recovering from such an event. There was no waking up some future morning, having successfully swum all night in the Lethe. That did not happen-ever-to the parents of a child whose life was taken by a killer.

Six now, Lynley thought. Six children, six sets of parents, six families. Six and all the media counting.

He went, as requested, up to AC Hillier’s office. By now Robson would have informed the assistant commissioner of Lynley’s refusal to allow him onto the crime scene, and Hillier would doubtless be in a state about that.

The AC was in a meeting with the head of the Press Bureau. So Hillier’s secretary informed Lynley. However, the AC had left explicit orders that, on the off chance that Acting Superintendent Lynley put in an appearance whilst the meeting was ongoing, he should join them at once. “He’s bearing…” Judi MacIntosh hesitated. It seemed more for effect than out of the necessity to find the perfect words. “He’s bearing a certain degree of animosity towards you at the moment, Superintendent. Forewarned and so on?”

Lynley acknowledged her with a polite nod. He often wondered how Hillier had managed to acquire a secretary so perfectly matched to his style of leadership.

Stephenson Deacon had brought two young assistants with him to his meeting with Hillier, Lynley discovered when he joined them. One male and one female, they both looked like interns: fresh scrubbed, eager, and solicitous. Neither Hillier nor the acidulous Deacon-who’d come along from the Directorate of Public Affairs bearing a litre of soda water for some reason-offered any introductions.

“You’ve seen the circus, I take it,” Hillier said to Lynley without preamble. “The established briefings aren’t giving satisfaction. We’re countering with something to head them off.”

The male intern, Lynley noted, was religiously writing down Hillier’s every word. The female, on the other hand, was studying Lynley with a discomfiting intensity, giving the job the rapt attention of a predator.

“I thought you were doing Crimewatch, sir,” Lynley said.

“The Crimewatch decision was before all this. Obviously, it’s not going to suffice by itself.”

“Then what?” Lynley hadn’t given the assistant commissioner the information about the CCTV footage, and he didn’t do so now. He wanted to wait till he heard from Havers about her interview at the Stables. “You’re not going to feed them misinformation, I hope.”

Hillier didn’t look pleased with this remark, and Lynley realised it had been ill advised. “That’s not my habit, Superintendent,” the AC said. And then to the head of the Press Bureau, “Tell him, Mr. Deacon.”

“Embedding.” Deacon uncapped his soda water and took a swig. “Buggers’ll have sod all to complain about then. Begging your pardon, Miss Clapp,” he added to the young woman, who looked nonplussed to be on the receiving end of this social nicety.

Lynley thought he understood, but he didn’t want to. He said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Embedding,” Deacon repeated, his tone impatient. “Placing a journalist inside the inquiry. A firsthand witness to how the police investigate on crime of this scale. The sort of thing they sometimes do in wartime, if you know what I mean.”

“Surely you’ve heard of this, Superintendent?” Hillier asked.

Lynley had, of course. He merely couldn’t believe that the Press Bureau was considering adopting something so foolhardy. He said to Hillier, “We can’t do that, sir,” endeavouring to be as polite as possible, which was something of an effort. “It’s unheard of and-”

“Certainly it’s never been done, Superintendent,” Stephenson Deacon said with a specious smile. “But that’s not to say that it can’t be done. We have in the past, after all, invited the media along on coordinated arrests. This merely takes it one step further. Placement of a diligently chosen reporter-from a broadsheet, mind you, we’ll draw the line at tabloid journalists-can turn the tide of public opinion. Not only towards this particular investigation but also towards the entire Met. I don’t have to point out to you how agitated the public are becoming over this case. The front page of today’s Daily Mail, for example-”

“-will be used to line someone’s rubbish bin tomorrow,” Lynley said. He addressed his next remarks to Hillier, and he tried to sound as rational as Deacon. “Sir, this sort of thing could create unimaginable difficulties for us. How could the team-at a morning meeting, for example-speak freely when they know that any word they say might end up on the front page of the next edition of the Guardian? And how do we address the problem of the Contempt of Court Act if a journalist’s among us?”

“That,” Hillier said quite evenly, although he was keeping his eyes on Lynley and had been doing so from the moment Lynley had entered the room, “is the journalist’s problem, not ours.”

“Have you any idea how often we toss about names?” Although Lynley could feel himself losing the edge he had on his temper, he believed the issues involved were more important than his ability to express them with Holmesian dispassion. “Can you imagine what the reaction is going to be from an individual who finds himself named as ‘helping with police inquiries’ when that isn’t the case at all?”

“That would be down to the broadsheet involved, Superintendent,” Deacon said smugly.

“And in the meantime, if the individual named is actually the killer we’re looking for? If he then goes to ground?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that you wish him to keep on killing so that you might find him,” Deacon said.