Ah yes, Isabelle thought. She said, “I’ve been caught up in things here, Sandra. We’ve had an incident with a bloke in the street.”

“Are you somehow involved in that? How dreadful. I saw the news conference. It interrupted my programme.”

Her programme was medical, Isabelle knew. Not a daily hospital drama, this, but rather an intense scientific exploration of debilitating conditions and numerous afflictions-fatal and otherwise. Sandra watched it religiously and took copious notes as a means of monitoring her children’s health. As a result, she regularly ferried them to their paediatrician in a state of panic, most recently because of a rash on the younger girl’s arm, which Sandra had firmly believed was an outbreak of something called Morgellons disease. Sandra’s obsession with this programme was the single subject that Isabelle and Bob Ardery could actually share a chuckle over.

“Yes, I’m involved in an investigation related to that incident,” Isabelle told her, “which is why I wasn’t able to-”

“Shouldn’t you have been at the press conference? Isn’t that how it’s done?”

“It’s not ‘done’ any particular way. Why? Is Bob monitoring me?”

“Oh no. Oh no.” Which meant that he was. Which meant that he had probably phoned his wife and told her to switch on the telly posthaste because his ex-had blotted her copybook properly this time and the proof was at that very moment being offered up for public consumption on the airwaves. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m phoning.”

“Why are you phoning? Are the boys all right?”

“Oh yes. Oh yes. Not to worry about that. They’re right as rain. A bit noisy, of course, and a bit rambunctious-”

“They’re eight-year-olds.”

“Of course. Of course. I don’t mean to imply…Isabelle, not to worry. I love those boys. You know I do. They’re just wildly different to the girls.”

“They don’t like dolls and tea parties, if that’s what you mean. But you didn’t expect them to, did you?”

“Not at all. Not at all. They’re lovely. We had an outing yesterday, by the way, the girls and the boys and I. I thought they might enjoy the cathedral in Canterbury.”

“Did you?” A cathedral, Isabelle thought weakly. For eight-year-olds. “I wouldn’t think-”

“Well of course, of course, you’re right. It didn’t go quite as well as I’d hoped. I’d thought the Thomas Becket part would appeal. You know what I mean. Murder on the high altar? This renegade priest? And it did, rather. At first. But holding their attention was a bit of a problem. I think they would have preferred a trip to the seaside, but I do so worry about sun exposure what with the ozone layer and global warming and the alarming increase in basal cell carcinoma. And they don’t like sunblock, Isabelle, which I can’t understand. The girls slather it right on, but one would think I’m trying to torture the boys, the way they react to it. Did you never use it?”

Isabelle drew in a steadying breath. She said, “Perhaps not as regularly as I might have done. Now-”

“But it’s crucial to use it. You must have known-”

“Sandra. Is there something particular you’ve phoned about? I’m quite tied up in things here, you see, so if this is just to chat…?”

“You’re busy, you’re busy. Of course, you’re busy. It’s only this: Do come to lunch. The boys want to see you.”

“I don’t think-”

“Please. I do plan to take the girls to my mum’s, so it will be just you and the boys.”

“And Bob?”

“And Bob, naturally.” She was silent for a moment and then she said impulsively, “I did try to get him to see, Isabelle. I told him it was only fair. I said you need time with them. I told him I would cook the lunch and have it ready for you and then we could all be off to my mum’s. We’d leave you with them and it would be just like a restaurant or a hotel only it would be in our house. But…I’m afraid he wouldn’t consider that. He just wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, Isabelle. He means well, you know.”

He means nothing of the kind, Isabelle thought.

“Please come, won’t you? The boys…I do think they’re caught in the middle, don’t you? They don’t understand. Well, how could they?”

“Doubtless Bob has explained it all.” Isabelle didn’t bother to try to keep bitterness at bay.

“He hasn’t, he hasn’t. Not word, not a word. Just that Mummy’s in London settling into a new job. Just as you agreed.”

“I didn’t agree. Where the hell did you get the idea that I agreed?”

“It’s only that he said-”

“Would you have agreed to hand over your children? Would you? Is that the sort of mother you think I am?”

“I know you’ve tried to be a very good mother. I know you’ve tried. The boys dote on you.”

“‘Tried? Tried?’” Isabelle suddenly heard herself and wanted to pound her fist against her skull as she realised she’d begun to sound exactly like Sandra, with her infuriating habit of doubling words and phrases, a nervous tic that always sounded as if she believed the world was partially deaf and in need of her constant reiteration.

“Oh, I’m not saying this right. I’m not saying-”

“I must get back to work.”

“But will you come? Will you consider coming? This isn’t about you and it’s not about Bob. It’s about the boys. It’s about the boys.”

“Don’t you bloody dare tell me what this is about.” Isabelle slammed the phone down. She cursed and dropped her head into her hands. I will not, I will not, she told herself. And then she laughed although even to her own ears she sounded hysterical. It was that bloody doubling of words. She thought she might go mad.

“Uh…guv?”

She looked up although she knew before she did so that the marginal deference in the tone marked the interruption as coming from DI John Stewart. He stood there with an expression on his face that told her he’d overheard at least part of her conversation with Sandra. She snapped, “What is it?”

“The Oxfam bin.”

It took her a moment before she got her brain round that one: Bella McHaggis and her recycling front garden. She said to Stewart, “What about it, John?”

“We’ve got more than a handbag inside it. We’ve something you’re going to want to see.”

THE CONTINUED HEAT wave was, Lynley found, making it a big day at the Queen’s Ice and Bowl, particularly on the ice itself. This was likely the coolest spot in London, and everyone from toddlers to pensioners appeared to be taking advantage of it. Some of them simply clung to the railing at the rink’s edge and pulled themselves along haphazardly. Others more adventurous wobbled round the rink without assistance, the more expert skaters trying to avoid them. In the very middle of the rink, future Olympians practised jumps and spins with varied degrees of success while, negotiating the crowd for space wherever possible, ice-dancing instructors plied their trade with inept partners, making brave attempts to mirror Torvill and Dean.

Lynley had to wait to speak to Abbott Langer, who was giving a lesson in the middle of the ice. He’d been pointed out to Lynley by the skate-hire bloke who referred to Langer as “the git with the hair.” Lynley hadn’t been certain what was meant by that until he caught a glimpse of the instructor. Then he saw there was no other description needed. He’d not seen such a hirsute Swiss roll outside of a photograph, ever.

No matter the case, Langer could certainly skate. He launched himself off the ice in an effortless jump as Lynley watched, demonstrating its ease for a young male pupil who looked round ten years old. The child tried it and landed on his bum. Langer glided over and lifted him to his feet. He bent his head to the child’s, they spoke for a moment, and Langer demonstrated a second time. He was very good. He was smooth. He was strong. Lynley wondered if he was also a killer.

When the lesson finished, Lynley intercepted the skating instructor as he said good-bye to his pupil and put guards on the blades of his skates. Could he have a word? Lynley enquired politely. He showed his identification.