“No,” she told him. “The police know, Griff.”
“Know what exactly?”
“That Jared Salvatore was one of ours. They took the reception book yesterday. They’ll have seen his name.”
Silence. Then, “Shit,” on a breath. Then a whisper, “God damn it. Why didn’t you think of that?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Anton Reid,” she said.
Silence again.
“Griffin,” she told him, “you need to understand something. You’ve been an exceptional fuck, but I won’t let anyone destroy Colossus.”
She replaced the phone, carefully and quietly. Let him hang there, she thought.
She turned to her computer. On it, she accessed the electronic information they had on Jared Salvatore. It wasn’t as extensive as had been the documents in his file, but it would do. She chose the print option. Then she picked up the number that Detective Constable Eyre had given her only minutes ago.
He answered immediately, saying, “Eyre.”
She said, “Constable, I’ve come up with some information. You’ll probably want to pass this along.”
NKATA LET THE computer do the work for him on the postal codes amassed by the owner of Crystal Moon. While Gigi-the shop’s owner-would use them to prove the need for a branch of her business in a second location somewhere in London, Nkata intended to use them to make a match between the customers of Crystal Moon and the body sites. After reflecting on what Barb Havers had said on the subject of body sites, however, he decided to expand his search to include a comparison between the postal codes gathered by Crystal Moon and the postal codes of all Colossus employees. This took him more time than he’d expected. At the Colossus end of things, giving out postal codes to the cops was not an idea that anyone immediately embraced.
When he finally had what he wanted, he printed out the document and studied it contemplatively. Ultimately, he passed it over to DI Stewart to relay along to Hillier when he made his request for the manpower to run more surveillance. He was donning his overcoat to head back out, over to Gabriel’s Wharf to see to the next part of his assignment, when Lynley came to the door of the incident room and said his name quietly, adding, “We’re wanted upstairs.”
We’re wanted upstairs meant only one thing. The fact that Hillier was asking for them now-a few hours after the press conference called by Reverend Bram Savidge-suggested the meeting was not going to be pleasant.
Nkata joined Lynley, but he did not remove his overcoat. “I was heading to Gabriel’s Wharf,” he told the acting superintendent, hoping this would be enough to get him off the hook.
“This won’t hold you up long,” Lynley said. It sounded like a promise.
They took the stairs. Nkata said as they climbed, “I think Barb’s right, guv.”
“About?”
“Colossus. I got a match on one of the postal codes from Crystal Moon. I passed it along to DI Stewart.”
“And?”
“Robbie Kilfoyle. He’s got the same postal code as someone who shopped in Crystal Moon.”
“Does he indeed?” Lynley stopped on the stairs. He seemed to think about the information for a moment. Then he said, “Still, it’s only a postal code, Winnie. He shares it with…what? How many thousand people? And his employment is on the wharf as well, isn’t it?”
“Directly next to Crystal Moon,” Nkata admitted. “The sandwich shop.”
“Then I don’t know how much weight we can give it, as much as we’d like to. It’s something, I agree-”
“Which is what we need,” Nkata cut in. “Something.”
“But unless we know what he bought…You see the difficulty, don’t you?”
“Yeah. He works there on the wharf for God knows how long. He’s prob’ly bought something off that shop and every other shop over time.”
“Exactly. But speak to them, all the same.”
In Hillier’s suite, Judi MacIntosh ushered them in at once. Hillier was waiting for them, standing framed by the multiple panes of his windows and the view they offered of St. James’s Park. He was studying this view as they entered. At his fingertips on the credenza beneath the window, a newspaper lay neatly folded.
Hillier turned. As if for an unseen camera, he picked up the paper and let it fall open so that he held the front page like a towel that covered his genitals. He said evenly, “How did this happen?”
Nkata saw it was the latest Evening Standard. The story on the front page dealt with the press conference that Bram Savidge had called earlier in the day. The headline spoke of a foster father’s anguish.
Anguish had not been among the reactions to Sean Lavery’s death that Nkata would have ascribed to Savidge. But he realised that “anguish” was more likely to sell copies of the paper than was “justifiable fury at police incompetence.” Although, truth to tell, it would have been close.
Hillier went on, tossing the Standard onto his desk. He said to Lynley, “You, Superintendent, are supposed to be managing the victims’ families, not giving them access to the media. It’s part of the job, so why aren’t you doing it? Have you any idea what he’s said to the press?” Hillier stabbed at the paper as he made each following declaration: “Institutional racism. Police incompetence. Endemic corruption. All accompanied by calls for a thorough investigation by the Home Office, a Parliamentary sub committee, the Prime Minister, or anyone else who’s willing to take up the subject of house sweeping, which is what he accuses us of needing round here.” He brushed the paper off of his desk and into the rubbish basket next to it. “This bugger’s got their attention,” he said. “I want that changed.”
There was something self-satisfied about Hillier’s expression that was out of keeping both with his tone and with what he was saying. It came to Nkata as he observed this that Hillier’s look had to do with the performance that he was giving, rather than with his outrage. He wanted to dress Lynley down in front of a subordinate officer, Nkata realised. He had the excuse of making that subordinate officer Nkata because of the press briefings that had gone before when Nkata had sat obediently at his side, second cousin to a performing dog.
He said to Hillier before Lynley could respond, “’Scuse me, guv. I was at that briefing. Truth to tell, I di’n’t even think to stop it. My thought was he c’n call the press whenever he wants to call the press. His right to do it.”
Lynley glanced his way. Nkata wondered if Lynley’s pride would allow him to carry off an intervention like this. He wasn’t sure, so before there was an opportunity for the acting superintendent to add something, Nkata went on.
“I could’ve stepped up to the mike right after, ’f course, when Savidge was done with his piece. Could be that’s what I should’ve done ’s well. But I di’n’t think it’d be something you’d really want me to do. Not without you being there.” He smiled affably at the end of this: Little Black Sambo come to London.
Next to him, Lynley cleared his throat. Hillier shot him a look, then one at Nkata. He said, “Get things under control, Lynley. I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry running to the press over this.”
“We’ll work on that angle specifically,” Lynley said. “Is that all, sir?”
“The next press briefing-” Hillier gestured rudely towards Nkata. “I want you down there ten minutes prior.”
“Got it,” Nkata said, tapping his skull with his index finger.
Hillier started to say more, but then he dismissed them. Lynley made no comment till they were out of the office, beyond Hillier’s secretary, and crossing to Victoria Block. Then it was only, “Winston. Listen,” as his footsteps slowed. “Don’t do that again.”
There was the pride, Nkata thought. He’d expected as much.
But then Lynley surprised him. “There’s too much risk for you in taking Hillier on, even obliquely. I appreciate the loyalty, but it’s more important for you to watch your back than to watch mine. He’s a dangerous enemy. Don’t make him into one.”