“I’ve told Dee Harriman to give him enough of an earful about me that he’ll be kept busy for days tracking down details from my disreputable past, which she’s been instructed to gild as much as she likes: Eton, Oxford, Howenstow, a score of love affairs, upper-crust pursuits like yachting, pheasant shooting, fox-hunting-”
“Bloody hell, do you-”
“Of course not. Well, once when I was ten, and I loathed it. But Dee can talk about that as well as dozens of dancing girls performing at my whimsy if that’s what it takes. I want this bloke kept out of everyone else’s way for a while. God willing-and if Dee does her job and everyone else Corsico talks to catches on-we’ll have this case wrapped up before he even gets on to profiling anyone else.”
“You can’t want your mug on the front page of The Source,” she said as they continued down the stairs. “‘The Earl Who’s a Cop.’ That sort of rubbish.”
“It’s the last thing I want. But if putting my face on the front of The Source keeps everything else about this case out of The Source, I’m willing to put up with the embarrassment.”
They made their way to their separate vehicles, the day growing late and the Holmes Street station being close enough to Havers’ bungalow to make it logical for her to return home at the end of their conversation with Barry Minshall. She trailed Lynley across London in her sputtering Mini, after a few breathless moments in the carpark wondering if the car would start at all.
At the Holmes Street station, they were expected. James Barty-the duty solicitor-had to be fetched, which took some twenty minutes while they cooled their heels in an interview room and declined an offer of late-afternoon tea. When Barty finally showed up, with crumbs from a scone studding the corner of his mouth, it shortly became evident that he had no idea why his client had decided to talk. It certainly wasn’t something that the solicitor had urged Minshall to do. He preferred to wait until he saw what the police had to offer, Barty informed them. There was generally something behind it all when a charge of murder was as swift as this one had been, didn’t the superintendent agree?
Barry Minshall’s advent in their midst precluded a reply on Lynley’s part. The magician came in, brought from his cell by the duty sergeant. He had on his dark glasses. He was much the same as he’d been on the previous day, save for his cheeks and his chin, which showed white stubble.
“How d’you like the accommodation?” Havers asked. “Growing on you yet?”
Minshall ignored her. Lynley switched the tape recorder on, giving the date, the time, and the people present. He said, “You’ve asked to speak to us, Mr. Minshall. What is it you’d like to say?”
“I’m not a murderer.” Minshall’s tongue came out and licked his lips, a lizard movement of colourless flesh against colourless flesh.
“D’you actually think that van of yours isn’t going to give us fingerprints from here to Friday?” Havers asked. “Not to mention your flat. When was the last time you cleaned that place, anyway? I reckon it’s got more evidence inside it than an abattoir.”
“I’m not saying I didn’t know Davey Benton. Or the others. The boys in the pictures. I knew them. I know them. Our paths crossed and we became…friends, you can call it. Or teacher and pupil. Or mentor and…whatever. So I admit to having them over to my flat: Davey Benton and the boys in the pictures. But the reason was to teach them magic so that when I was invited to a children’s party, there would be no question of…” He swallowed loudly. “Look, people aren’t trusting, and why should they be? Someone dressed up like Father Christmas pulls a child on his knee and puts his hand up her knickers. A clown goes into the children’s ward at the local hospital and takes a toddler into a linen room. It’s everywhere you look, and I need a way to show parents they’ve nothing to fear from me. A boy assistant…He always puts the parents at ease. That’s what I was training Davey to do.”
“To be your assistant,” Havers repeated.
“That’s correct.”
Lynley leaned forward, shaking his head. He said, “I’m concluding this interview…” He glanced at his watch and gave the time. He switched off the recorder and stood, saying, “Havers, we’ve wasted our time. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Havers looked surprised, but she got up as well. She said, “Right then,” and followed him towards the door.
Minshall said, “Wait. I haven’t-”
Lynley swung round. “You wait, Mr. Minshall. You listen as well. Possession and transmission of child pornography. Child molestation. Paedophilia. Murder.”
“I didn’t-”
“I’m not about to sit here and listen to you claim you were operating a training school for child magicians. You were seen with that boy. In the market. At your home. God knows where else, because we’re just beginning. Traces of him will be everywhere associated with you, and traces of you will be all over him.”
“You’re not going to find-”
“We bloody well will. And the barrister who’s even willing to take your case will have the devil of a time explaining it all away to a jury hungry to send you down for putting your filthy hands on a little boy.”
“They weren’t little…” Minshall stopped himself. He fell back in his chair.
Lynley said nothing. Neither did Havers. The room was suddenly as silent as a crypt in a country church.
James Barty said, “Would you like a moment, Barry?”
Minshall shook his head. Lynley and Havers remained where they were. Two more steps and they’d be out of the room. The ball was sailing into Minshall’s court, and he was no fool. Lynley knew he had to see it.
“It meant nothing,” he said. “That word. Weren’t. It isn’t the slip you think it is. Those boys who’ve died-the others, not Davey-you won’t find a thing that connects me to them. I swear to God I didn’t know them.”
“Are we talking biblically?” Havers asked.
Minshall threw her a look. Even from behind his glasses, he transmitted the message: As if you’d understand. Next to him, Lynley felt her bristle. He touched her arm lightly, directing her back to the table. He said, “What have you got to tell us?”
“Turn on the recorder,” Minshall replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“IT ISN’T WHAT YOU THINK,” WERE BARRY MINSHALL’S first words when Lynley had the tape recorder going. “Your sort have an idea fixed in the head, and then you mould the facts to make sure your idea plays out. But how you think it was…? You’re wrong. And how Davey Benton was…? You’re wrong about that as well. But I’ll tell you straightaway, you won’t be able to face what I have to say, because if you do, it topples the way you’ve probably always seen the world. I want some water. I’m parched and this will take a while.”
Lynley hated to give the man anything, but he nodded to Havers and she disappeared to fetch Minshall his drink. She was back in less than a minute with a single plastic cup of water that looked as if she’d taken it directly from the ladies’ toilet, which she probably had. She placed it in front of Minshall and he gazed from her to it as if checking to see if she’d spat in it. Finding it passable, he took a sip.
“I can help you,” he said. “But I want a deal.”
Lynley reached towards the recorder another time, preparatory to switching it off and ending the interview once again.
Minshall said, “I wouldn’t do that. You need me just as much as I need you. I knew Davey Benton. I taught him some elementary magic tricks. I dressed him up as my assistant. He rode in my van, and he visited me in my flat. But that’s the end of it. I never put a hand on him in the way you’re thinking, no matter what he wanted.”
Lynley felt his mouth going dry. “What the hell are you implying?”