She was in a meeting, Isabelle told her. Tell the assistant commissioner she would get to him in good time.

Dorothea looked as if that way lies madness was the response on the tip of her tongue, but she scurried off as well as she could scurry on her ridiculous high heels.

Isabelle handed out the e-fits. She’d already anticipated the reactions she was going to get once the officers looked at what Yukio Matsumoto had come up with, so she began talking to head them off. She said, “We’ve got two men. One of them our victim met in the vicinity of the chapel, in the clearing, on a stone bench where she apparently had been waiting for him. They spoke at some length. He then left her and when he left her, she was alive and unharmed. Matsumoto says that Jemima took a phone call from someone at the conclusion of her conversation with this bloke. Shortly after that she disappeared round the side of the chapel, out of Yukio’s view. It was only when man number two appeared, coming from the same direction that Jemima had herself taken, that Yukio went to see where she was. That was when he saw the annex to the chapel and discovered her body within it. Where are we with the mobile phone towers, John? If we can triangulate where that phone call came from just before she was attacked-”

“Jesus. These e-fits-”

“Hang on,” Isabelle cut in. John Stewart was the one who had spoken-no surprise there that he went his own way rather than answer her question-but she could tell from the expression on Winston Nkata’s face that he wished to speak as well. Philip Hale moved restlessly and Lynley had gone to stand by the china boards for a look at something or, perhaps, to hide his own expression, which she had no doubt was deeply concerned. As well he might be. She was concerned herself. The e-fits were nearly useless, but that was not a subject she intended to countenance. She said, “This second man is dark. Dark is consistent with three of our suspects: Frazer Chaplin, Abbott Langer, and Paolo di Fazio.”

“All with alibis,” Stewart managed to put in. He counted them off with his fingers. “Chaplin at home, confirmed by McHaggis; di Fazio inside Jubilee Market at his regular stall, confirmed by four other stall holders and no doubt seen by three hundred people; Langer walking dogs in the park, confirmed by his customers.”

“None of whom saw him, John,” Isabelle snapped. “So we’ll break the goddamn alibis. One of these blokes put a spike through a young woman’s neck, and we’re going to get him. Is that clear?”

“’Bout that spike,” Winston Nkata said.

“Hang on, Winston.” Isabelle continued her previous line of thought. “Let’s not forget what we already know about the victim’s mobile phone calls either. She’s rung Chaplin three times and Langer once on the day of her death. She’s taken one call from Gordon Jossie, another from Chaplin, and another from Jayson Druther-our cigar shop bloke-on the same day and within our window of time when she was killed. After her death, her mobile took messages from her brother, Jayson Druther again, Paolo di Fazio, and Yolanda, our psychic. But not Abbott Langer and not Frazer Chaplin, both of whom fit the description of the man seen leaving the area of the murder. Now, I want the neighbourhoods canvassed again. I want those e-fits shown at every house. Meantime, I want the CCTV films we’ve got from the area looked over once again for a Vespa motorbike, lime green, with transfers advertising DragonFly Tonics on it. And I want that to be part of the house to house as well. Philip, coordinate the house to house with the Stoke Newington station. Winston, I want you on the CCTV films. John, you’ll-”

“Bloody hell, this is stupid,” John Stewart said. “The sodding e-fits are worthless. Just look at them. Are you trying to pretend there’s a single defining characteristic…? The dark bloke looks like a villain in a television drama and the one in the cap and glasses could be a bloody woman, for all we know. D’you actually believe this slant-eye’s tale that-”

“That’ll do, Inspector.”

“No, it won’t. We’d have an arrest if you hadn’t run this bugger into traffic and then hung about waiting to find out he wasn’t the killer in the first place. You’ve bloody well mishandled this case from the first. You’ve-”

“Give it a rest, John.” Of all people, it was Philip Hale speaking. Winston Nkata joined him, saying, “Hang on, man.”

“You lot might start thinking about what’s going on,” was Stewart’s reply. “You’ve been tiptoeing round every mad thing this woman’s said, like we owe the bloody slag allegiance.”

“Jesus, man…” This came from Hale.

“You pig!” was the cry from one of the female constables.

“And you wouldn’t know a killer if he stuck his in you and tickled you with it,” was Stewart’s reply to her.

At this, chaos erupted. Aside from Isabelle, there were five young women in the room, three constables and two typists. The nearest constable came out of her chair as if propelled, and one typist threw her coffee cup at Stewart. He shot up and went for her. Philip Hale held him back. He swung at Hale. Nkata grabbed him. Stewart turned on him.

“You fucking nig-”

Nkata slapped his face. The blow was hard, fast, and loud like a crack. Stewart’s head flew back.

“When I say hang on, I mean it,” Nkata told him. “Sit down, shut your gob, act like you know something, and be glad I didn’t punch your lights and break your goddamn nose.”

“Well done, Winnie,” someone called out.

“That’ll do, all of you,” Isabelle said. She could see that Lynley was watching her from his place by the china board. He hadn’t moved. She was grateful for this. The last thing she wanted was his intervention. It was bad enough that Hale and Nkata had had to sort out Stewart when it was her job to do the sorting. She said to Stewart, “In my office. Wait there.” She said nothing more until he’d slammed his way out of the room. Then, “What else do we have, then?”

Jemima Hastings had possessed a gold coin-currently missing from her belongings-and a carnelian that were Roman in origin.

Barbara Havers had recognised the murder weapon and-

“Where is Sergeant Havers?” Isabelle asked, realising for the first time that the dowdy woman wasn’t among the officers in the room. “Why isn’t she here?”

There was silence before Winston Nkata said, “Gone to Ham’shire, guv.”

Isabelle felt her face go rigid. She said, “Hampshire,” simply because she could not think of another response in the circumstances.

Nkata said, “Murder weapon’s a crook. Barb an’ I, we saw ’ em in Ham ’shire. It’s a thatcher’s tool. We got two thatchers on our radar down there, and Barb thought-”

“Thank you,” Isabelle said.

“’Nother thing is crooks’re made by blacksmiths,” Nkata continued. “Rob Hastings’s a blacksmith and since-”

“I said thank you, Winston.”

The room was silent. Phones were ringing in another area, and the sudden sound of them served as an unwelcome reminder of how out of control their afternoon briefing had become. Into this silence, Thomas Lynley spoke, and it became immediately apparent that he was defending Barbara Havers.

“She’s unearthed another connection among Ringo Heath, Zachary Whiting, and Gordon Jossie, guv,” he said.

“And how do you come to know this?”

“I spoke with her on her way to Hampshire.”

“She rang you?”

“I rang her. I managed to catch her when she’d stopped on the motorway. But the important thing is-”

“You’re not in charge here, Inspector Lynley.”

“I understand.”

“By which I take it that you also understand how out of order you were to encourage Sergeant Havers to do anything other than to get her bum back to London. Yes?”

Lynley hesitated. Isabelle locked eyes with him. The same silence came over the room again. God, she thought. First Stewart, now Lynley. Havers gallivanting to Hampshire. Nkata coming to blows with another officer.