“Wendy’s Cloud,” Barbara said numbly. “But she may not be open because-”
“Then you can bloody well track her down! And until you do, I don’t want to see your face, hear your voice, or know you exist on the planet. Is that clear?”
Barbara stared at him. Her stare turned into an observation. She’d worked with Lynley for long enough to know how wildly out of character his outburst was, no matter how richly she deserved being sorted. She did a mental riffling through the reasons he was on the edge: another murder, a row with Helen, a run-in with Hillier, trouble with his younger brother, flat tyre on the way to work, too much caffeine, not enough sleep…But then it came to her, as easily as knowing who Lynley was.
She said, “He’s got in touch with you, hasn’t he? He saw your name in the paper and he bloody got in touch.”
Lynley observed her for a moment before making his decision. He moved round his desk. There he took a paper out of a manila folder. He handed it to her, and Barbara saw it was a copy of an original, which, she presumed, was already on its way to forensics.
THERE IS NO DENIAL, ONLY SALVATION was printed neatly in block letters on a single line across the page. Beneath this was not a signature but rather a marking that looked not unlike two squared-off but separated sections of a maze.
“How’d it get here?” Barbara asked, returning it to Lynley.
“By post,” Lynley said. “Plain envelope. Same printing.”
“What d’you make of the marking? A signature?”
“Of sorts.”
“Could be some bugger just wanting to play games, couldn’t it? I mean, he doesn’t actually tell us anything to show he knows something only the killer would know.”
“Except the salvation bit,” Lynley said. “It suggests he knows that the boys-at least the ones we’ve identified-have been in trouble with the law one way or another. Only the killer knows that.”
“Plus everyone at Colossus,” Barbara pointed out. “Sir, that bloke Neil Greenham had a copy of the Standard.”
“Neil Greenham and everyone else in London.”
“But you were named in the Standard, and that’s the edition he showed me. Let me dig around his-”
“Barbara.” Lynley’s voice was patient.
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“‘It’?”
“Handle Camden Lock Market. I’ll deal with the rest.”
She was about to protest-better judgement be damned-when the phone rang and Lynley picked it up. He said, “Yes, Dee?,” to the departmental secretary. He listened for a moment, then said, “Bring him up here, if you will,” before ringing off.
“Robson?” Barbara asked.
“Simon St. James,” Lynley replied. “He’s got something for us.”
HE RECOGNISED that his wife, at this point, was his anchor. His wife and the separate reality that she represented. It was, to Lynley, nothing short of miraculous that he could go home and-for the few hours he was there-become, if not consumed, then at least diverted by something as ridiculous as the drama of trying to keep peace between their families over the idiotic question of christening clothes.
“Tommy,” Helen had said from the bed as she’d watched him dressing for the day, an early morning cup of tea balanced on her growing bump, “did I mention your mother phoned yesterday? She wanted to report that she’d finally found the christening booties after spending days rooting round the apparently spider-and-poisonous-snake-infested attics in Cornwall. She’s sending them along-the booties, not the spiders and the snakes-so be prepared to find them in the post, she said. A little yellowed with age, I’m afraid, she said. But certainly nothing that a good launderer couldn’t sort out. Of course, I didn’t know what to tell her. I mean, if we don’t use your family’s christening clothes, will Jasper Felix even be a proper Lynley?” She yawned. “Lord, not that tie, darling. How old is it? You look like an Etonian on the loose. First free weekend across the bridge to Windsor and trying to look like one of the lads. Wherever did you get it?”
Lynley unlooped it and replaced it in the wardrobe, saying, “The astonishing thing is that, as bachelors, men actually dress themselves for years not knowing they’re completely incompetent without a woman at their sides.” He took out another two ties and held them up for her approval.
“The green,” she said. “You know I love the green for work. It makes you look so Sherlockian.”
“I wore the green yesterday, Helen.”
“Pooh,” she said. “No one will notice. Believe me. No one ever notices men’s ties.”
He didn’t point out to Helen that she was contradicting herself. He merely smiled. He went across to the bed and sat on the edge of it. “What’ve you got on for today?” he asked her.
“I’ve promised Simon to work a few hours. He’s overextended himself again-”
“When has he not?”
“Well, he’s begging for help preparing a paper on a chemical whatsit applied to whosit to produce thisorthat. It’s all beyond me. I just go where he points and attempt to look decorative. Although”-and here she gazed fondly at her bump-“that’s soon going to be impossible.”
He kissed her forehead and then her mouth. “You’ll always look decorative to me,” he told her. “Even when you’re eighty-five and toothless.”
“I plan to keep my teeth right to the grave,” she informed him. “They’ll be perfectly white, completely straight, and my gums will not have receded so much as a millimeter.”
“I’m impressed,” he told her.
“A woman,” she replied, “should always have some kind of ambition.”
He laughed, then. She could always make him laugh. It was why she was a necessity to him. Indeed, he could have done with her this morning, diverting his thoughts from what was clearly Barbara Havers’ death wish.
If Helen was a miracle to him, Barbara was a puzzle. Every time he thought he’d got her on the road to professional redemption at last, she did something to disabuse him of that notion. A team player she was not. Assign her to any action like any other member of an investigation and she was likely to go one of two ways: embellish upon the activity until it was unrecognisable or drift her own way and ignore it altogether. But right now, with five murders demanding action before there was a sixth, there was too much at stake for Barbara to do anything but what she was told to do when she was told to do it.
Still, for all her maddening ways, Lynley had learned the wisdom of valuing Barbara’s opinion. Quite simply, she’d never been anyone’s fool. So he allowed her to remain in his office as Dee Harriman went to fetch St. James up from the lobby.
When the three of them were together and St. James’s demurral to Dee’s offer of coffee had sent her on her way, Lynley indicated the round conference table, and they sat there as they’d done so often in the past in other locations. Lynley’s first words were the same, as well.
“What do we have?”
St. James took a sheaf of papers from the manila envelope he’d carried with him. He made two piles of them. One held autopsy reports. The other consisted of an enlargement of the marking that had been made in blood on the forehead of Kimmo Thorne, a photocopy of a similar symbol, and a neatly typed, albeit brief, report.
“It took a while,” St. James said. “There’re an inordinate number of symbols out there. Everything from universal road signs to hieroglyphics. But on the whole, I’d say it’s a fairly straightforward business.”
He handed Lynley the photocopy and the enlargement of the mark that had been made upon Kimmo Thorne. Lynley laid them side by side as he reached in his jacket for his reading glasses. The parts of the symbol were all present in both of the documents: the circle, the two lines crisscrossing each other within and then extending beyond the circle, the cruciform tips at the end of the two lines.