But the other fought him. He who was destruction itself, known by Sodom, called Hero of God. But he was Mercy as well, and he claimed to sit at the left hand of God, unlike the other. Incarnation, conception, birth, dreams. These were his offerings. Come with me. But a price would be paid.
I am Raphael and it is you who are called.
I am Gabriel and it is you who are chosen.
Then there was a chorus of them, a veritable flood of voices, and they were everywhere. He worked against being taken by them. He worked and he worked till the sweat poured from him and still they came on. They descended till there was one mighty being above all, and he approached. He would not be denied. He would overcome. And to this there was no other answer that might be given so he had to escape he had to run he had to find a place of safety.
He himself gave the cry against the multitude that he now knew was indeed the Eighth Choir. There was a stairway that emerged from the light and he made for this, for wherever it headed. To the light, to God, to some other Deity, it didn’t matter. He began to climb. He began to run.
“Yukio!” came the cry from behind him.
“SO I HAVE the impression the engagement is all in Paolo di Fazio’s head,” Lynley said. “Dominique did a bit of eye rolling when I offered her my congratulations.”
“Now that’s an interesting bit,” Isabelle Ardery said. “Well, I did think six times engaged was rather pushing the envelope in the human relationship area. I mean, I’ve heard of six times married-well, perhaps only with American film stars in the days when they actually did get married-but it’s rather odd that with all the engagements, he’s never made it to the altar. It does make one wonder about him. How much is real and how much is imagined.”
“He may have done.”
“What?” Ardery turned to him. They’d stopped at the delicatessen, which occupied one of the railway arches. She was making a purchase of olives and meats. She’d already bought a bottle of wine at the wine cellar.
Lynley reckoned these would likely stand in place of her dinner. He knew the signs, having worked for so many years with Barbara Havers and having thus become accustomed to the single policewoman’s eating habits. He considered extending an invitation to the superintendent: dinner at his home in Eaton Terrace? He rejected the idea, as he couldn’t imagine as yet sharing his dining table with anyone.
“He may have made it to the altar,” he said. “Married. Philip Hale will be able to tell us. Or perhaps John Stewart. We’re developing a rather long list for the background checks. John can help out there if you’ve a mind to move him.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d adore that assignment.” The superintendent took her bag of goods, said thanks to the shop girl, and headed for her car. The day was heating up. Surrounded by and composed of bricks, concrete, and macadam, possessing all the possible charms that overfull wheelie bins and rubbish on the street could provide, the area immediately round the railway arches was like a wrestler’s armpit: steaming and malodorous.
They got into the car before Isabelle Ardery said more. She cranked down the window, cursed that she did not have air-conditioning, pardoned herself for cursing, and then said, “What d’you make of him, then?”
“Isn’t there a song about it?” Lynley said. “Looking for love in all the wrong places?” He wound down his window as well. They headed off. His mobile rang. He looked at the number and felt an unaccustomed moment of dread. Assistant Commissioner Hillier was phoning, or at least his office was.
Where was the inspector and could he come to the AC’s office? Hillier’s secretary wanted to know. And welcome back to New Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector. This is an unofficial meeting, by the way. No need to mention it to anyone.
Code for don’t mention this meeting to Isabelle Ardery, and why, accordingly, didn’t you let the assistant commissioner know you would be returning to work? Lynley didn’t much like the inference that could be drawn from it all. He said that he was out at the moment but he would come in to see the assistant commissioner as soon as he could. He included the words assistant commissioner with a slow deliberation. He felt Ardery glance in his direction.
He said to her as he ended the call, “Hillier. Wanting a word.”
She drove on, her gaze on the road. She said, “Thank you, Thomas. Are you always so decent?”
“Virtually never.”
She smiled. “I meant John Stewart, by the way.”
“Pardon?”
“When I asked what you make of him.”
“Ah. Right. Well. He and Barbara have nearly come to blows over the years, if that’s any help.”
“Women in general, then? Or women coppers?”
“That’s something I’ve never been able to work out. He was married once. It ended badly.”
“Ha. I expect we know who wanted to end it.” Isabelle said nothing more till they’d crossed over the river again. And then, “I’m going to want a warrant, Thomas.”
“Hmm. Yes. I expect that’s the only course. And he knows his rights rather too well, doesn’t he. Hillier would call it an unfortunate sign of the times.”
It came to Lynley as he spoke that he’d followed Ardery’s line of thought with ease. They’d gone smoothly from John Stewart to Paolo di Fazio without the need for clarification and without the further need for Ardery to explain why a search warrant was required: They were going to want to gather up the artist’s sculpting tools. Indeed, they were going to need the tools of every one of the artists with whom Paolo di Fazio shared space. Forensic examinations would have to be done on everything.
“Paolo,” Lynley noted, “isn’t going to be popular with his mates.”
“Not to mention what this will do to his ‘engagement’ to Dominique. Did she alibi him, by the way?”
“She didn’t. Except to say she reckoned he was at Covent Garden. If it’s afternoon you’re talking about, that’s where he usually is, she said, and someone there will have seen him. She also knew why I was asking. And contrary to what di Fazio said, she did know Jemima, at least by sight. She called her ‘Paolo’s ex.’”
“No jealousy? No concern?”
“Not that I could see. She seemed to know-or at least to believe-that it was finished between them. Between Jemima and Paolo, I mean.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence, and they were in the underground car park at New Scotland Yard when Isabelle Ardery spoke again, gathering up her purchases from the railway arches. She said, “What d’you make of Paolo’s declaration that Frazer Chaplin was involved with Jemima?”
“Anything’s possible at this point.”
“Yes. But it also supports what Sergeant Havers said about the bloke.” She slammed the door and locked it, adding, “And that, frankly, comes as something of a relief. I have my concerns about Barbara Havers and her reaction to men.”
“Do you?” Lynley walked at her side. He was unused to a woman so tall. Barbara Havers didn’t reach to his collarbone and while Helen had been of above-average height, she had not been nearly as tall as Isabelle Ardery. He and the acting superintendent were shoulder to shoulder. He said, “Barbara has very good instincts about people. You can generally rely on her input.”
“Ah. What about you, then?”
“My input is, I hope-”
“I meant your instincts, Thomas. How are they?” She looked at him. It was an even gaze.
He wasn’t sure what to make of her question. Nor was he sure how he felt about it. “When the wind is southerly, I generally know my hawks and handsaws,” he settled on saying.
Back in the incident room, bits of information were filtering in: Jayson Druther had indeed been present in the cigar shop when Jemima Hastings was killed in Stoke Newington, and he’d provided the names of three customers to confirm this. He’d gone on to alibi his father, if there was interest in that. “Betting lounge,” John Stewart reported, “in the Edgware Road.” Abbott Langer had finished up his afternoon lessons at the ice rink, walked dogs in Hyde Park, and then returned to the ice rink for his evening clients. But the dog-walking bit gave him a good-size window to get up to Stoke Newington because there was no dog owner to swear the family canine had been walked. Obviously, a dog walker was employed when no one was at home.