“Won’t get an argument from me,” Nkata said.
Clara smiled. “Really?”
“Most men like to eat,” he told her.
“Exactly,” she said, and he realised she’d begun looking at him with entirely new eyes.
Which told him it was time to thank her for her information and to depart. He didn’t want to think of what his mum would say if he showed up at home with a Val on his arm.
“I WANT AN EXPLANATION,” were the assistant commissioner’s words to Lynley as he walked through the door. He hadn’t waited for Harriman to announce him, instead allowing a simple and terse, “Is he in here?,” to precede him into the office.
Lynley was seated behind his desk, comparing forensic reports on Davey Benton with those from the killings that had gone before his. He set the paperwork aside, took off his reading spectacles, and stood. “Dee said you wanted to speak to me.” He motioned towards the conference table at one side of the room.
Hillier didn’t accept that wordless invitation. He said, “I’ve had a talk with Mitch Corsico, Superintendent.”
Lynley waited. He’d known how likely it was that this would come once he thwarted Corsico’s intentions of doing a story on Winston Nkata, and he understood the workings of Hillier’s mind well enough to realise he had to let the assistant commissioner have his say.
“Explain yourself.” Hillier’s words were regulated, and Lynley had to give him credit for descending into enemy territory with the intention of holding on to his temper as long as he could.
He said, “St. James has an international reputation, sir. The fact that the Met is pulling out all the stops on this investigation-by bringing in an independent specialist to be part of the team, for example-was something I thought should be highlighted.”
“That was your thought, was it?” Hillier said.
“In brief, yes. When I considered how far a profile of St. James could go to boost public confidence in what we’re doing-”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
Lynley went doggedly on. “And when I compared that increase in confidence with what could be gained by profiling Winston Nkata instead-”
“So you admit you moved to block access to Nkata?”
“-then it seemed likely that we could make more political hay from letting the public know we’ve an expert witness on our team than we could make by putting a black officer on display and washing his dirty linen in public.”
“Corsico had no intention-”
“He went straight to questions about Winston’s brother,” Lynley cut in. “It sounded to me as if he’d even been briefed on the subject, so he’d know what angle he ought to take when he wrote the interview. Sir.”
Hillier’s face took on deep colour. It rose from his neck like a ruby liquid just beneath his skin. “I don’t want to think what you’re implying.”
Lynley made an effort to speak calmly. “Sir, let me try to be clear. You’re under pressure. I’m under pressure. The public’s stirred up. The press is brutal. Something’s got to be done to mould opinion out there-I’m aware of that-but I can’t have a tabloid journalist sniffing round the background of individual officers.”
“You’re not going to be naying or yeaing decisions made above your head. Do you understand?”
“I’ll be doing whatever naying or yeaing is necessary and I’ll be doing it every time something occurs that could affect the job done by one of my men. A story on Winston-featuring his pathetic brother because you and I know The Source was intending to put Harold Nkata’s face right there next to Winston’s…Cain and Abel, Esau and Jacob, the unreturned and unreturnable prodigal…whatever you want to call him…And a story on Winston just at the moment when he’s already got to contend with being on public display at press conferences…It’s just not on, sir.”
“Are you daring to tell me that you know better than our own people how to manage the press? That you-speaking no doubt from the great height you alone happen to occupy-”
“Sir.” Lynley didn’t want to get into mudslinging with the AC. Desperately, he sought another direction. “Winston came to me.”
“Asking you to intervene?”
“Not at all. He’s a team player. But he mentioned that Corsico was going after the good brother-bad brother angle on the story, and his concerns were that his parents-”
“I don’t care about his God damn parents!” Hillier’s voice rose precipitately. “He’s got a story and I want it told. I want it seen. I want that to happen and I want you to ensure that it does.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You bloody well-”
“Wait. I’ve said it wrong. I won’t do that.” And Lynley went on before Hillier had a chance to respond, telling himself to stay calm and to stay on message. “Sir, it was one thing for Corsico to dig round about me. He did it with my blessing and he can go on doing it if that’s what it’ll take to help our position here at the Met. But it’s another thing for him to do that to one of my men, especially one who doesn’t want that happening to himself or to his family. I’ve got to respect that. So do you.”
He knew he shouldn’t have said that last, even as his lips formed the words. It was just the remark Hillier had apparently been waiting for.
“You’re God damn out of order!” he roared.
“That’s your way of seeing it. Mine is that Winston Nkata doesn’t want to be part of a publicity campaign designed to soothe the very people who’ve been betrayed by the Met time and again. I don’t blame him for that. I also won’t fault him. Nor will I order him to cooperate. If The Source intends to smear his family’s trouble across the front page some morning, then it’s-”
“That’s enough!” Hillier was teetering on the edge. Whether what he fell into was rage, a seizure, or an action they both would regret remained to be seen. “You God damn bloody disloyal piece of…You come in here from a life of privilege and you dare…you bloody well dare…you to tell me…”
They both saw Harriman at the same time, standing white faced in the doorway that had been left open when Hillier entered. No doubt, Lynley thought, every ear on the floor was being assaulted by the strength of the animosity that the AC felt for him and he for the AC.
Hillier shouted at her, “Get the hell out of here! What’s wrong with you?” And made a move to the door, likely to slam it in Harriman’s face.
Incredibly, she put out a hand to stop him, doing just that as they both reached for the door at once.
He said, “I’ll see you in-”
Which she interrupted with, “Sir, sir. I need to speak to you.”
Lynley saw, unbelievably, that she was talking not to him but to Hillier. The woman’s gone mad, he thought. She means to intervene.
He said, “Dee, that’s not necessary.”
She didn’t look at him. She said, “It is,” with her eyes fixed on Hillier. “It is. Necessary. Sir. Please.” The last word came from somewhere in her throat, where it caught and seemed nearly to lodge.
That got through to Hillier. He grabbed her by the arm and took her from the room.
Then things moved, both quickly and incomprehensibly.
There were voices outside his office and Lynley headed for the door to see what in God’s name was going on. He got only two steps in that direction, though, when Simon St. James came into the room.
St. James said, “Tommy.”
And Lynley saw. Saw and somehow understood without wanting to begin to understand. Or to give St. James’s purpose in his office-arriving unannounced to him but certainly announced and fully forewarned to Harriman…