“As it happens, I-” His mobile rang. He looked at it.

“Let it go,” Hillier said.

“It’s Ardery,” Lynley replied. Still, he waited for the assistant commissioner’s sharp nod, telling him to take it.

“We’ve got an ID on the second e-fit,” Ardery told him. “He’s a violinist, Thomas. His brother identified him.”

Chapter Sixteen

BARBARA HAVERS DID THE TELEPHONE WORK AND WINSTON Nkata did the route planning. Without much difficulty, she was able to track down Jonas Bligh and Keating Crawford, the two instructors at Winchester Technical College II-no one was shedding any light on whether there was actually a Winchester Technical College I-and both of these individuals agreed to speak to the Scotland Yard detectives. Both of them also asked what the coming visit from Scotland Yard was about. When she said it was about a bloke called Gordon Jossie for whom a letter of reference had been written, the response of “Who?” was identical.

Barbara repeated Jossie’s name. This would have been eleven years ago, she told them.

Again they were virtual echoes in reply. Eleven years? One could hardly be expected to remember a student from such a long time ago, Sergeant. But each went on to assure her he would be waiting for the detectives to show up.

Meanwhile, Nkata was studying the map to get them up to Winchester, into Winchester, and in the general environs of the college. He was growing less and less happy about being in Hampshire, and Barbara couldn’t blame him. He was the only black person she herself had seen since they’d entered the New Forest, and from the reaction of everyone they’d come into contact with at the hotel in Sway, he appeared to be the first black man they’d ever encountered other than on the telly.

She’d said to him sotto voce at dinner on the previous evening, “First, it’s that people think we’re a couple, Winnie,” to excuse the obvious curiosity of their server.

He said, “Yeah?” and she could sense him bristling. “So wha’ if we are? Something wrong with mixed couples? Something wrong with that?”

“’Course not,” Barbara said at once. “Bloody hell, Winnie. I should be so lucky. And that’s why they’re staring. Him and her? they’re thinking. How’d she score that bloke? Definitely not on her looks, by God. Have a look at the two of us-you and me-having dinner in a hotel. The candlelight, the flowers on the table, the music playing-”

“It’s a CD, Barb.”

“Bear with me, okay? People jump to conclusions based on what they see. You can believe me. I get it all the time when I’m with DI Lynley.”

He seemed to think about this. The hotel dining room was moderately special, even if the music did indeed come from a CD playing old Neil Diamond hits and the flowers on the table were plastic. It remained the only establishment in Sway where one could have anything remotely resembling a romantic evening. Still, he said, “Second?” to which she said, “Huh?”

“You said first. What’s second?”

She said, “Oh. Second, it’s just that you’re tall and you’ve got that scar on your face. Makes you look a type. And then there’s the way you dress contrasted with the way I dress. They also might be thinking you’re ‘someone’ and I’m your secretary or assistant or whatever. Probably a footballer. That would be you, not me. Or maybe a film star. I reckon they’re trying to decide where they saw you last: Big Brother, some game show, maybe on Morse when you were still in nappies.”

He gazed at her, looking mildly amused. He said, “You do this with Inspector Lynley, Barb?”

“Do what?”

“Worry so much. ’Bout him, I mean. Like you’re doing with me.”

She could feel herself colouring. “Was I? I mean, am I? Sorry. Just that-”

“Nice of you,” he told her. “But I been stared at worse’n here, believe me.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well.”

“And,” he added, “you don’t dress half bad, Barb.”

To which she guffawed. “Right. And Jesus didn’t die on the cross. But it’s no matter. Superintendent Ardery is seeing about that. Soon, believe me, I’ll be the Met’s answer to…” She pulled at her lip. “See, that’s the problem. I don’t even know the latest fashion icon. That’s how far out of the loop I am. Well, whatever. It can’t be helped. But life was easier when emulating the dress sense of the Queen was good enough, let me tell you.” Not that she herself had ever emulated the Queen’s dress sense, Barbara thought. Although she did wonder if sensible shoes, gloves, and a handbag looped over her arm would satisfy Superintendent Ardery.

Winchester being a city and not a village, Winston Nkata was not marked for special observation there. Nor was he much noted on the campus of Winchester Technical College II, which they found easily as a result of his advanced planning. Jonas Bligh and Keating Crawford proved to be more challenging, however. Expecting to find them in a department somehow related to thatching, Barbara had neglected to ask their whereabouts. It turned out that Bligh was involved with computers in some arcane fashion while Crawford dealt with telecommunications.

Bligh was “having his surgery hours,” they were told, and they found his office tucked beneath a stairway up and down which, during their initial conversation with him, herds of students pounded incessantly. Barbara couldn’t imagine anyone actually accomplishing anything in this environment, but when they introduced themselves to Bligh, the wax earplugs he removed from his ears explained how he managed to cope with the place. He suggested they get out of there, go for a coffee, have a walk, whatever. Barbara countersuggested that they track down Crawford, a plan that she hoped would save them some time.

That was managed by way of mobile phone, and they met the telecommunications instructor in the car park where a caravan selling ice cream and juice was attracting a crowd. Crawford was one of them. Heavy was a sympathetic way to describe him. He certainly didn’t need the Cornetto he was attacking. He finished it and immediately purchased another, calling over his shoulder, “You lot want one?” to the detectives and to his colleague.

Fully capable of seeing her future when her feet were held to the flames, Barbara demurred. Winston did likewise. So did Bligh, who muttered, “Dead before he’s fifty, just you wait,” although he said pleasantly, “Don’t blame you,” to Crawford in reference to the second Cornetto. “Damned hot summer, eh?”

They went through the usual prefatory conversational motions that were peculiar to the English: a brief discussion of the weather. They strolled to a patch of browning lawn that was shaded by a sturdy sycamore. There were no benches or chairs here, but it was a relief to get out of the sun.

Barbara handed each of the men the letter of reference he’d written for Gordon Jossie. Bligh put on a pair of spectacles; Crawford dropped a dollop of vanilla ice cream on the sheet. He wiped it off on his trouser leg, said, “Sorry, occupational hazard,” and began to read. In a moment, he frowned and said, “What the hell…?” and Bligh simultaneously shook his head. They spoke nearly in unison.

“This is bogus,” Bligh said as Crawford declared, “I didn’t write this.”

Barbara and Winston exchanged a glance. “Are you sure?” she asked the instructors. “Could you have forgotten? I mean, you must be asked to write a lot of letters at the end of students’ course work, right?”

“Naturally,” Bligh agreed. His voice was dry. “But I’m generally asked to write letters in my own field, Sergeant. This is college letterhead, I’ll give you that, but the letter itself deals with Gordon Jossie’s accomplishments in Accounts and Finance, which I don’t teach. And that’s not my signature.”

“You?” Barbara said to Crawford. “I take it…?”

He nodded. “Large appliance repair,” he said, indicating the contents of the letter by extending it to her. “Not my bailiwick. Not even close.”