“It may be, Havers,” Lynley said.
“Good. Then—”
“But, unfortunately, breaking Jimmy Cooper that much is exactly what we need if we’re to get to the truth.”
Barbara was about to argue her own point further when Lynley looked past her and said to the doorway, “Yes, Dee. What is it?”
Dorothea Harriman adjusted one of the frills of her silk jabot. She was a vision in blue this afternoon. “Superintendent Webberly is asking for you and Detective Sergeant Havers,” Harriman said. “Shall I tell him you’ve just left?”
“No. We’ll come along.”
“Sir David’s with him,” Harriman added. “Sir David’s called for the meeting, in fact.”
“Hillier,” Barbara groaned. “God spare us. Sir, it’ll be at least two hours if he builds up a head of steam. Let’s duck out while we can. Dee can make our excuses.”
Harriman dimpled. “More than happy to do it, Detective Inspector. He’s in charcoal, by the way.”
Barbara sank deeper into her chair. Sir David Hillier’s charcoal suits were legendary at New Scotland Yard. Perfectly tailored, creased like newly forged axe blades wherever creases were needed, otherwise unwrinkled, unfrayed, and unmarred, they were what Hillier donned whenever he wanted to project the power of his position as Chief Superintendent. He was always “Sir David” when he arrived in Victoria Street wearing charcoal. On any other day, he was simply “the Guv.”
“Are they in Webberly’s office?” Lynley asked.
Harriman nodded and led the way.
Both Hillier and Webberly were seated at the circular central table in Webberly’s office, and the subject Hillier clearly wished to discuss covered every inch of the table-top, spread out as if perused rapaciously by an inexperienced actor seeking journalistic approbation after opening night. This morning’s newspapers. And, from what Barbara could ascertain from a quick glance as Hillier made much of getting to his feet in the presence of a member of the opposite sex, the chief superintendent had got his hands on yesterday’s as well.
“Inspector, Sergeant,” Hillier said.
Webberly heaved himself from the table and moved behind them to shut the door. The superintendent had enjoyed more than one cigar so far this day, and the atmosphere in his office was fusty, the room overhung with a layer of smoke.
Hillier used a gold pencil in a sweeping gesture to take in the newspapers on the table. The photographs from this morning’s selection featured everything from Mr. Friskin using his arm to shelter Jimmy’s face from the photographers to Jean Cooper pushing her way through a jostling crowd of reporters as she tried to make her way to her car. Additionally, however, readers’ appetites for information had today been fed with a broader array of pictures than those depicting the principals in the case. The Daily Mail was running what appeared to be a photo-essay on the life and times of Kenneth Fleming, complete with pictures of his former home on the Isle of Dogs, his family, the cottage in Kent, the printworks in Stepney, Miriam Whitelaw, and Gabriella Patten. The Guardian and the Independent were going for a more intellectual approach, using a graphic of the crime scene. And the Daily Mirror, the Sun, and the Daily Express were running interviews with sponsors of the England team, Guy Mollison, and the captain of the Middlesex side. But the largest number of column inches—in The Times—had been devoted to the issue of the growing crime rate among teenagers, leaving the reader to conclude what veiled allusions the newspaper was making by running such a story in conjunction with features on the murder of Fleming. No prejudice here, the story declared, but heavy use of the word alleged didn’t deter the paper from honing its story on the possibility of an unnamed sixteen-year-old’s guilt.
Hillier used his pencil a second time, to indicate two chairs opposite his own. When Barbara and Lynley sat cooperatively, he paced to the bulletin board across the room by the door and made much of examining the departmental notices that were hanging there. Webberly wandered over to his desk, but instead of sitting, he leaned his barrel-sized bum against the window-sill and stripped open a cigar.
“Explain,” Hillier said. He spoke to Webberly’s bulletin board.
“Sir,” Lynley said.
Barbara glanced Lynley’s way. His tone was even but not deferential. Hillier wouldn’t like that.
The chief superintendent continued, employing a modulation of voice that suggested he was engaged in a verbal contemplation. “I spent my morning most curiously. Half in fending off the editors of every major daily in the city. Half on the phone with former and future sponsors of the England cricket team. I experienced a less-than-gratifying meeting with the deputy commissioner and went on to partake of an indigestible lunch at Lord’s Cricket Ground with seven members of the MCC. Are you perceiving a pattern in these activities, Lord Asherton?”
Next to her, Barbara could feel Lynley bristle at the use of his title. She could sense the effort it cost him not to take Hillier’s bait.
He said with perfect equanimity, “There’s understandable anxiety on every front that we close this case. But that’s generally the situation when a public figure is murdered. Don’t you agree…Sir David?”
Touché, Barbara thought. Still, she cringed inwardly in anticipation of Hillier’s reply.
As he turned to them, Hillier’s face, always florid, seemed more so, a crimson contrast to his full grey hair. If they were going to play at bandying about titles, he stood to be the loser and all of them knew it. He said, “I don’t need to tell you that it’s been six days since Fleming was murdered, Inspector.”
“But only four days since we’ve had the case.”
“And as far as I can tell,” Hillier continued, “you’ve spent most of your time trekking back and forth from the Isle of Dogs in unnecessary pursuit of a sixteen-year-old boy.”
“Sir, that’s not quite accurate,” Barbara said.
“Then tell me different,” Hillier said with a smile that seemed to aim for deliberate insincerity. “Because although I read the newspapers, that’s not my preferred method of obtaining information from my subordinate officers.”
Barbara began rooting through her shoulder bag for her informal notes. She saw Lynley’s hand move on the arm of his chair and knew he was telling her not to bother. A moment later, she understood why when Hillier continued with:
“According to this lot,” with a manicured hand waved in the direction of the papers, “you’ve a confession on your hands, Inspector. I’ve discovered this morning that that precise information has been leaked throughout this building as well as to the street. I imagine you not only damn well know that but intended it from the first. Am I right?”
“I wouldn’t argue with that conclusion,” Lynley said.
Hillier obviously wasn’t pleased with this response. He said, “Then hear me. Some serious concerns are being voiced at every level about the competency of this entire investigation. And with damned good reason.”
Lynley looked towards Webberly. “Sir?”
Webberly worked the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. He dug his index finger into the frayed collar of his shirt. As it was Hillier’s job to run interference between CID and every other department that might get in the way of CID, it was Webberly’s job to run interference between Hillier and Webberly’s divisional detectives. He had failed in this objective today, and he obviously didn’t like to be reminded of that fact, even by so simple a word as sir. Besides, he knew what that one-syllable question implied: Whose side are you taking? Do I have your backing? Are you willing to adopt a dicey position?
Webberly said gruffly, “I’m behind you, lad. But the Chief Super”—Webberly had never once called Hillier Sir David—“needs something to work with if we’re going to ask him to liaise with the public and the higher-ups.”
“Why haven’t you brought charges against this boy?” Hillier demanded, apparently satisfied with the position that Webberly had taken.
“We’re not ready for that.”
&n
bsp; “Then why the hell have you led the press office into releasing information designed to be interpreted as if an arrest is imminent? Is this some sort of game whose rules only you are privy to? Are you aware of how the facts of this investigation are being interpreted, Inspector? By everyone from the deputy commissioner to the ticket sellers on the underground? ‘If the police have a confession, if they have the evidence, why aren’t they moving?’ How would you have me answer that?”
“By explaining what you already know: that an admission of guilt doesn’t constitute a viable confession,” Lynley said. “We have the one from the boy. We don’t have the other.”
“You trot him into the Yard. You get nowhere with him. You trot him back home. You engage in the process a second and third time to no avail. With reporters following like dogs on your heels. And with the end result being that you—and by inadvertent connection the rest of us—look incompetent for being unable—or is it unwilling, Inspector?—to make a positive move. It looks as if you’re being played for a fool by a simple-minded sixteen-year-old who needs a bath.”
“That can’t be helped,” Lynley said. “And frankly if it doesn’t bother me, Chief Superintendent Hillier, I can’t understand why it bothers you.”
Barbara lowered her head to hide her wince. Out of line, she thought. Lynley might have vastly outranked Hillier in the aristocracy game, but at New Scotland Yard there was a pecking order that had nothing to do with the blueness of one’s blood or the manner in which one received a title: via the New Year’s list or by right of birth.
As Hillier’s face took on the colour of ripe plum skin, he said, “I’m responsible, damn you. That’s why it bothers me. And if you can’t bring this case to a timely close, then perhaps we need another DI on it.”
“That’s your decision, of course,” Lynley said.
“One that I’ll be more than happy to make.”
“If you aren’t bothered by the additional loss in time, then make it.”
“David,” Webberly interceded quickly in a voice that was underscored with entreaty as well as with admonition. It said, Step back, let me handle this. Hillier gave him a bare second’s look of acknowledgement. “No one’s suggesting replacing you, Tommy. No one’s questioning your competence. But we’ve some uneasiness over the procedure. You’re taking an irregular path in dealing with the press, and that’s bound to get some notice.”
“As I intend,” Lynley said.
Hillier added, “May I point out to you that historically there’s been nothing gained by conducting an enquiry into a murder by means of the media?”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then regale us with an explanation of what you’re doing, if you please. Because from what I can see”—another semi-circular sweep of the gold pencil to indicate the newspapers—“whenever Detective Inspector Lynley sneezes, the press is informed just in time to say, ‘God bless.’”
“That’s an unintentional by-product of—”
“I don’t want excuses, Detective Inspector. I want the facts. You may be enjoying your moment in the sun, but bear in mind that you’re a bloody small cog in this operation and easy enough to replace. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Barbara could see Lynley’s hand at rest on the arm of his chair. His ring and little fingers pressed into the worn fabric, but that was the only indication he gave of experiencing a reaction to Hillier’s assault.
In a steady voice and without removing his gaze from the chief superintendent, Lynley related the facts of the case. Where he needed Barbara to interject a comment, he merely said, “Havers,” without looking her way. When he was finished—having covered everything from Hugh Patten’s presence at the Cherbourg Club on the night of Fleming’s death to Amanda Beckstead’s corroboration of Chris Faraday’s whereabouts—he delivered a coup de grace that even Barbara would never have expected to hear him utter.
“I know the Yard would like the case closed,” he said, “but the truth of the matter is that, despite our best efforts and all the manpower available, we might not be able to close it.”
Barbara waited for Hillier to have a stroke. Lynley appeared to have no qualms about causing one, for he continued.
“We have nothing concrete to give to the prosecutors, I’m afraid.”
“Explain yourself,” Hillier said. “You’ve just spent four days and God only knows how many hours of manpower trailing suspects and collecting physical evidence. You’ve just taken twenty minutes to recount both for me.”
“But at the end of trailing suspects and collecting evidence, I still can’t positively identify the killer because there’s no direct link between killer and evidence. I’m not prepared to ask a prosecutor to argue the guilt of someone I can’t prove culpable of committing a crime in the first place. I’d be laughed out of court if I tried. And even if that weren’t the case, I couldn’t live with myself if I sent someone to the dock without believing him guilty.”
Hillier had grown more and more stiff-bodied as Lynley continued. He said, “And God forbid that we should ask you to do something that would make you incapable of living with yourself, Inspector Lynley.”
“Yes,” Lynley said in reply quite evenly. “I shouldn’t care to have that asked of me. Again. Chief Superintendent. Once is enough in any career. Wouldn’t you agree?”
They engaged each other in a lengthy duel of eyeball warfare. Lynley crossed one leg over the other as if settling in for a long postponed but much needed verbal brawl.
Barbara was thinking, Are you out of your flaming box? as Webberly said, “That’ll do, Tommy.” He lit his cigar. He puffed forth enough smoke to make breathing hazardous. “We’ve all got professional skeletons dangling somewhere. No need to rattle them out at the moment.” He lumbered round his desk to join them at the table where he used his cigar as a pointer in much the same way Hillier had used his pencil. He said to Lynley in reference to the papers, “You’ve climbed out on a limb with all this. Who’s going down with you if it breaks?”
“No one.”
“You keep it that way.” He tipped his head towards the door to dismiss them.
Barbara did her best not to shoot from her seat. Lynley followed her at a leisurely pace. When they were both in the corridor with the door swinging shut behind them, Hillier snapped, “Glib little fanny rat,” in a volume guaranteed to carry. “Christ, how I’d love to—”
“You have done already, haven’t you, David?” Webberly asked.
Lynley, Barbara saw, seemed unperturbed by Hillier’s opprobrium. He was checking the time on his pocket watch. She looked at her own watch. It was half past four.
She said, “Why’d you say that, Inspector?”
He headed towards his office. When he didn’t reply, she said, “Why’d you tell Hillier we might not be able to close the case?”
“Because he wanted the truth and that’s it.”
“How can you say that?” Barbara demanded. Lynley continued to walk, side-stepping a clerk who was rolling a trolley of tea urns and coffee pots in the direction of one of the incidents rooms. He appeared to disregard her question. “We haven’t talked to her yet,” Barbara pressed on. “I mean really talked to her. We haven’t tried to push her. We know more now than we knew when I had her alone on Saturday, and it only makes sense that we see her again. Ask her what Fleming wanted all those times he came to see her. Ask her about the divorce petition. Ask her about acknowledging the divorce petition and what it means that she doesn’t have to acknowledge it now. Ask her for the terms of Fleming’s will and how the will stands now that he died with her his legal and only wife. Get a warrant to search her house and her car. Look for matches. Look for Benson and Hedges. Sir, we don’t even need a complete cigarette. A seal from the package would do for a start.”
Lynley reached his office. Barbara followed him inside. He was flipping through the Fleming paperwork, which was beginning to assume mountainous proportions. Trans
cripts of interviews, background checks, reports on surveillance, photographs, evidence, autopsy information, and a stack of newspapers that was reaching waist height.
Barbara felt impatience creeping down her limbs. She wanted to pace. She wanted to smoke. She wanted to grab the paperwork from his hands and force him to listen to reason. She said, “If you don’t talk to her now, Inspector, you’re playing right into Hillier’s hands. He’d love to stamp dereliction of duty across your next performance evaluation. He’s in a real muck-sweat over you because he knows the day’s coming when you’re going to outrank him and he can’t stand the thought of calling you Guv. As if he ever would.” She drove her fingers into her hairline and yanked hard on her hair. “Time’s wasting,” she said. “Each day that we don’t make a move is a day that makes moving just that much harder. Time gives people a chance to cook up alibis. It gives them an opportunity to embellish their stories. Worse, it gives them a chance to think.”
“Which is what I want,” Lynley said.
Barbara gave up the effort of respecting his tediously smoke-free environment. She said, “Sorry. I’m about to punch my arm through the wall.” She lit up a cigarette and retreated to the doorway where she could blow the smoke into the corridor. She pondered what he’d said.
From what she could see, Inspector Lynley had been doing far too much thinking about this case. Despite his lofty speech to the contrary at dinner on Sunday night, he’d abandoned his usual mode of operation, giving up on gut instinct at the very point in the case when instinct should be carrying him forward. In an odd reversal of their positions, it seemed to Barbara that she was the one who was operating on instinct now while he was the one who for some reason had decided to plod, unwilling even to begin to lift the right foot from the ground unless the left foot was in place solidly from heel to toe. She couldn’t understand the change in him. He wasn’t afraid of censure from the higher-ups. He had no need of this employment in the first place. If they chose to sack him, he’d clean out his desk, take the pictures from the walls of his office, collect his books, turn in his warrant card, depart for Cornwall, and never look back. So why was he being so hesitant now? What the flaming hell did he want to think about? What the flaming hell was there left to think about?