“We phoned you last night. The inspector has been trying to reach you all day. He’s half-mad with worry.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…I couldn’t face him.”

“Forgive me for saying so,” Barbara said hesitantly, “but I don’t think the inspector’s taken any pleasure at all from being in the right in this case. Not at your expense.”

She did not go on to mention her afternoon meeting with Lynley, his restless pacing as he set up the surveillance team, his continuous telephone calls to Lady Helen’s flat, to her family’s home in Surrey, to the St. James house. She did not go on to mention his black brooding as the afternoon wore on, or how he jumped for the telephone each time it rang, or how his voice maintained an indifference that was contravened by the tension in his face.

“Will you let me come with you?” Lady Helen asked.

Barbara knew the question was a mere formality. “I don’t see how I can stop you,” she replied.

LYNLEY HAD BEEN at Joy Sinclair’s home in Hampstead since half past four.The members of the surveillance team had arrived not long after, establishing themselves in prearranged locations, two in a dirty van with a fl at tyre parked midway down Flask Walk, another above the bookstore on the corner of Back Lane, another in an herb store, still another on the high street with a view towards the underground station. Lynley himself was in the house, not far from the most logical means of access: the dining-room doors that faced the back garden. He sat in one of the low chairs in the unlit sitting room, monitoring the conversation that came spitting through the radio from his men on the outside.

It was just after eight when the van team announced, “Havers on the lower end of Flask Walk, sir. She’s not alone.”

Perplexed, Lynley got to his feet, went to the front door, and cracked it open just as Sergeant Havers and Lady Helen passed under a street lamp, their faces exposed in its eerie amber glow. After a quick survey of the street, they hurried into the front garden and through the door.

“What in God’s name-” Lynley began hotly once he’d shut the door behind him and they stood in a circle of darkness within the hall.

“I gave her no choice, Tommy,” Lady Helen said. “Denton told me you were on a surveillance. I put the rest together and went to Sergeant Havers’ house.”

“I won’t have you here. Damn it all, anything could happen.” Lynley walked into the sitting room where the radio was, picked it up, and began to speak. “I’m going to need a man here to-”

“No! Don’t do this to me!” Lady Helen reached out desperately but did not touch him. “I did just what you asked of me last night. I did everything you asked. So let me be here now. I need to be, Tommy. I won’t get in your way. I promise. I swear it. Just let me end this the way I need to. Please.” He felt suddenly torn by irrational indecision. He knew what he had to do. He knew what was right. She no more belonged here than caught up in the middle of a public brawl. Words came to his lips-appropriate and dutiful-but before he could say them, she spoke in a manner that struck him to the quick. “Let me get over Rhys the best way I know how. I beg it of you, Tommy.”

“Inspector?” a voice crackled from the radio.

Lynley’s own voice was harsh. “It’s all right. Maintain your positions.”

“Thank you,” Lady Helen whispered.

He couldn’t reply. All he could think of was the single most telling remark she had made. I did everything you asked. Remembering her final words to him last night, he couldn’t bear the thought of what that meant. Unable to respond, he moved past her into a dim corner of the dining room, flicked the curtains a scant inch to view Back Lane, saw nothing, and returned. Their long waiting together began.

FOR THE NEXT six hours, Lady Helen was as good as her word. She did not move from the chair she had taken in the sitting room. She did not speak. There were times when Lynley thought she was asleep, but he could not see her face clearly. It was merely a ghostly blur under the black bandana she wore.

A trick of lighting made her seem insubstantial, as if she were fading from him, the way an image on a photograph does over time.

The soft brown eyes, the arch of brow, the gentle curve of cheek and lips, the frankly stubborn chin-all these became less defi nite as the hours passed. And as he sat opposite her, with Sergeant Havers making a third of their triangle of anticipation, he felt a yearning for her that he had never known before, having nothing at all to do with sex and everything to do with the soul’s calling out to a spirit kindred and essential to the completion of one’s own. He felt as if he had been travelling a great distance, only to arrive where he had started, only to know the place truly and for the very fi rst time.

Yet all along he had the distinct sensation of being too late.

The radio crackled to life at ten past two. “Company, Inspector. Coming down Flask Walk…Keeping hard to the shadows…Oh, very nice technique, that…An eye out for cop-pers…Dark clothes, dark knit cap, collar on the coat pulled up…Stopped now. Three doors down from the nest.” There was a pause of several minutes’ duration. Then the whispered monologue began again. “Crossed the street for another look…Continuing the approach… Crossing over again towards Back Lane…This is our baby, Inspector. No one walks this way down a street at two in the morning in this kind of weather… Giving it over. I’ve lost sight… Turned down Back Lane.”

Another voice picked it up, said only, “Suspect approaching the garden wall…pulling something down over the face…running a hand along the bricks…”

Lynley switched off the radio. He moved noiselessly into the deepest shadows of the dining room. Sergeant Havers followed. Behind them, Lady Helen stood.

At first Lynley saw nothing beyond the dining room doors. And then a black shape appeared against the inky sky as the intruder’s body rose to the top of the garden wall. A leg swung to the inside, then another. Then a soft thud as he hit the ground. No face was visible, which at first seemed impossible since there was light enough from both stars and the street lamps on Back Lane to illuminate the snow, the sketching of the tree against it, the contrast of mortar against the brick wall, even to a certain extent the interior of the house. But then Lynley saw that the man was wearing a ski mask. And suddenly he was so much less of an intruder, so much more of a killer.

“Helen, go back in the sitting room,” Lynley breathed. But she did not move. He looked over his shoulder to see that her wide eyes were fixed upon the figure in the garden, upon his stealthy progress to the door. Her fi st was raised, clenched to her lips.

And then the unbelievable happened.

As he mounted the four steps, reached a hand out to try the door, Lady Helen cried frantically, “No! Oh God, Rhys!”

And chaos erupted.

Outside, the figure froze only for an instant before he bolted for the wall and took it in a single leap.

“Jesus Christ!” Sergeant Havers shouted and headed for the dining room doors, fl inging them open, letting in a rush of freezing night air.

Lynley felt immobilised by the force of disbelief at what Helen had done. She couldn’t have…She hadn’t meant…She would never… She was coming towards him in the darkness.

“Tommy, please…”

Her shattered voice brought him to his senses abruptly. Shoving her to one side, he dashed for the radio and said tersely, “We’ve lost him.” That done, he ran for the front door, raced outside, insensible to the sound of pursuit behind him.

“Up towards the high street!” a voice shouted from above the bookstore across the street as Lynley tore past.

He did not need to hear it. Ahead of him, he saw the black shape running, heard the frantic pounding of his footsteps on the pavement, saw him slip on a patch of ice, right himself, and run on. He was not bothering to seek the safety of the shadows. Instead he dashed down the middle of the street, flashing in and out of the light from the street lamps. The sound of his flight thundered on the night air.