THE VOICE ON the phone was unfamiliar to him, as was the name. “It’s Gigi,” a young woman said. “You told me to ring you?”
He said, “Who?”
She said, “Gigi. From Gabriel’s Wharf? Crystal Moon?”
The association brought him round quick enough, for which he was grateful. He said, “Gigi. Right. Yeah. Wha’s happened?”
“Robbie Kilfoyle’s been in.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “He made a purchase.”
“You got paperwork on it?”
“I got the till receipt. Right here in front of me.”
“Hang on to it,” Nkata told her. “I’m on my way.”
LYNLEY SENT the message to Mitchell Corsico immediately after he talked to St. James: The investigation’s independent forensic specialist would make a fine second profile for The Source, he told him. Not only was he an international expert witness and a lecturer at the Royal College of Science, but he and Lynley shared a personal history that began at Eton and had spanned the years since then. Did Corsico think a conversation with St. James would be profitable? He did, and Lynley gave the reporter Simon’s contact number. This would be enough to remove Corsico, his Stetson, and his cowboy boots from sight, Lynley hoped. It would keep the rest of the investigation’s team out of the reporter’s mind, as well. At least for a time.
He returned to Victoria Street then, details from the past several hours roiling round in his head. He kept going back to one of them, one offered by Havers in their phone conversation.
The name on the letting agreement at the estate agency-the only name aside from Barry Minshall’s that they could associate with MABIL-was J. S. Mill, Havers had told him. He’d supplied the rest, although she’d already got there: J. S. Mill. John Stuart Mill, if one wished to continue the theme set up at the Canterbury Hotel.
Lynley wanted to think that it was all part of a literary joke-wink wink, nudge nudge-among the members of the organisation of paedophiles. Sort of a slap in the collective face of the unwashed, unread, and uneducated general public. Oscar Wilde on the registration card at the Canterbury Hotel. J. S. Mill on the letting agreement with Taverstock & Percy. God only knew who else they would find on other documents relating to MABIL. A. A. Milne, possibly. G. K. Chesterton. A. C. Doyle. The possibilities were endless.
So, for that matter, were the million and one coincidences that happened every day. But still the name remained, taunting him. J. S. Mill. Catch me if you can. John Stuart Mill. John Stuart. John Stewart.
There was no use denying it to himself: Lynley had felt a quivering in his palms when Havers had said the name. That quivering translated to the questions that police work-not to mention life itself-always prompted the wise man to ask. How well do we ever know anyone? How often do we let outward appearances-including speech and behaviour-define our conclusions about individuals?
I don’t need to tell you what this means, do I? Lynley could still see the grave concern on St. James’s face.
Lynley’s answer had taken him places he didn’t want to go. No. You don’t need to tell me a thing.
What it all really meant was asking that the cup be passed along to someone else, but that wasn’t going to happen. He was in too far, truly “steep’d in blood so deep,” and he couldn’t retrace a single one of his steps. He had to see the investigation through to its conclusion, no matter where each single branch of it led. And there was decidedly more than one branch to this matter. That was becoming obvious.
A compulsive personality, yes, he thought. Driven by demons? He did not know. That restlessness, the occasional anger, the ill-chosen word. How had the news been received when Lynley-ahead of everyone else-had been handed the superintendent’s position after Webberly was struck down in the street? Congratulations? No one congratulated anyone over anything in those days that had followed Webberly’s attempted murder. And who would have thought to, with the superintendent fighting for his life and everyone else trying to find his assailant? So it was not important. It meant absolutely nothing. Someone had to step in, and he’d been tapped to do it. And it wasn’t permanent, so it could hardly have been an important enough detail to make anyone want…decide…be pushed to…No.
Yet everything took him back inexorably to his earliest days among his fellow officers: the distance they’d originally placed between themselves and him who would never be one of the lads, not really. No matter what he did to level the playing field, there would always be what they knew about him: the title, the land, the public school voice, the wealth and the assumed privilege it brought, and who bloody cared except everyone did at the end of the day and everyone probably always would.
But anything more than that-dislike evolving to grudging acceptance and respect-was impossible to consider. It was disloyal, even, to entertain such thoughts. It was divisive and nonproductive, surely.
Yet none of this kept him from having a chat with DAC Cherson in Personnel Management, although his heart was at its heaviest when he did it. Cherson authorised the temporary release of employment records. Lynley read them and told himself they amounted to nothing. Details that could be interpreted any way one wanted: a bitter divorce, a ruthless child-custody situation, spirit-breaking child support, a disciplinary letter for sexual harassment, a word to the wise about keeping fit, a bad knee, a commendation for extra course-work completed. Nothing, really. They amounted to nothing.
Still, he took notes and tried to ignore the sense of betrayal he felt as he did it. We all have skeletons, he told himself. My own are uglier than those of others.
He returned to his office. From where he’d stowed it on top of his desk, he read the profile of their killer. He thought about it. He thought about everything: from meals eaten and meals skipped, to boys disabled by an unexpected shot of electricity. What he thought was no. What he concluded was no. What he did was turn to the phone and ring Hamish Robson on his mobile.
He found him between sessions in his office near the Barbican, where he met with private clients away from the grim surroundings of Fischer Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It was a sideline dealing with normal people in temporary crisis, Robson told him.
“One can cope with the criminal element only so long,” he confided. “But I expect you know what I’m talking about.”
Lynley asked Robson if they could meet. At the Yard, elsewhere. It didn’t matter.
“I’ve a full diary into the evening,” Robson said. “Can we talk on the phone now? I’ve ten minutes before my next client.”
Lynley considered this, but he wanted to see Robson. He wanted more than merely talking to him.
Robson said, “Has something more…Are you all right, Superintendent? May I help? You sound…” He seemed to shuffle papers on the other end of the line. “Listen, I might be able to cancel a patient or two, or move them round a bit. Would that help? I’ve also got some shopping to do and I’d blocked out time for that at the end of the day. It’s not far from my office. Whitecross Street, where it intersects with Dufferin? There’s a fruit and veg stall where I could meet you. We could talk while I make my purchases.”
It would have to do, Lynley thought. But he could handle the preliminaries over the phone. He said, “What time?”
“Half past five?”
“All right. I can do that.”
“If you wouldn’t mind my asking…so that I might think about it in advance? Is there a new development?”
Lynley considered it. New, he thought. Yes and no, he decided. “How confident are you in your profile of the killer, Dr. Robson?”
“It’s not an exact science, naturally. But it’s very close. When you consider it’s based on hundreds of hours of detailed face-to-face interviews…when you consider the length and extent of the analyses of these interviews…the data compiled, the commonalities noted…It’s not like a fingerprint. It’s not DNA. But as a guide-even as a checklist-it’s an invaluable tool.”