He handed her his cigarette case absently and went to the bookshelves, running his eyes over them, seeking a volume of Shakespeare. He found it and began looking.

“Is Daze a redhead, Inspector?”

It took a moment for the odd question to strike him. When he looked up, Havers was back at the door, running her fi ngers meditatively against the wood, apparently indifferent to whatever answer he might give. “I beg your pardon?”

She flipped open the cigarette case and read its inscription. “‘Darling Thomas. We’ll always have Paris, won’t we? Daze.’” Coldly, she met his eyes. It was then that he noticed how pale she was, how the skin beneath her eyes was dark with fatigue, how the gold case shook in her hand. “Aside from her rather hackneyed use of Bogart, is she a redhead?” Havers repeated. “I only ask because you seem to prefer them. Or is the truth that anyone will do?”

Horrified, Lynley realised too late what the change in her was and his own responsibility for having brought it about. There was nothing he could say. There was no quick answer he could give. But he could tell at once that none was necessary, for she had every intention of continuing without his response.

“Havers-”

She held up a hand to stop him. She was deathly white. Her features looked fl at. Her voice was tight. “You know, it’s really poor form not to go to the woman’s room for your trysts, Inspector. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. With your experience I should think that a little social nicety like that would be the last thing you’d forget. Of course, it’s just a small lapse, and it probably doesn’t really bother a woman at all, not when it’s compared with the ecstatic experience of fucking you.”

He recoiled from the brutal ugliness that her tone gave the word. “I’m sorry, Barbara,” he said.

“Why be sorry?” She forced a guttural laugh. “No one thinks about listeners in the heat of passion. I know I never do.” She gave a brittle smile. “And it certainly was the old heat of passion last night, wasn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when you two started banging away on a second go. And so soon! Lord, you barely gave it a rest.”

He watched her move to the shelf and run a finger along the spine of a book. “I didn’t know you could hear us. I apologise, Barbara. I’m terribly sorry.”

She swung back to him quickly. “Why be sorry?” she repeated, her voice louder this time. “You aren’t on duty twenty-four hours a day. And besides, it’s not really your fault, is it? How were you to know Stepha would howl like a banshee?”

“Nonetheless, it was never my intention to hurt your feelings-”

“You haven’t hurt my feelings at all!” She laughed shrilly. “Where on earth did you get an idea like that? Let’s say you’ve merely piqued my interest. As I listened to you sending Stepha to the moon-was it three times or four?-I wondered if Deborah used to howl as well.”

It was a wild shot in the dark, but the barb had gone home. He knew that she saw it, for her face blazed with triumph. “That’s hardly your concern, is it?”

“Of course not! I know that! But during your second session with Stepha-it was at least an hour, wasn’t it?-I couldn’t help thinking about poor old Simon. He must have to struggle like hell to follow your act.”

“You’ve certainly done your homework, Havers. I’ll say that much for you. And when you take off the gloves, you do shoot to kill. Or am I mixing my metaphors?”

“Don’t you patronise me. Don’t you dare!” she shouted. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“Your superior officer, for a start.”

“Oh, that’s right, Inspector. Now’s the time to pull rank. Well, what shall I do? Shall I get to work in here? Don’t mind if I’m not quite up to par. I didn’t sleep well last night.” She pulled a book angrily from the shelf. It toppled to the floor. He could see she was struggling not to cry.

“Barbara-” She continued to pull books down, to turn the pages savagely, to drop them to the floor. They were mildewed and damp, filling the air with the unpleasant odour of neglect. “Listen to me. You’ve done good work so far. Don’t be foolish now.”

She pivoted, trembling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have a chance to be back in CID. Don’t throw it away because you’re angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you! I don’t give a shit about you.”

“Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that you did.”

“We both know why I was assigned to you anyway. They wanted a woman on the case and they knew I was safe.” She spat the word out. “The minute this is over, I’m back on the street.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Inspector, I’m not stupid. I’ve looked in a few mirrors.”

He was astonished at the implication behind her words. “Do you think you’ve been brought back to CID because Webberly believes I’d take any other female officer to bed?” She didn’t respond. “Is that what you think?” he repeated. The silence continued. “Dammit, Havers-”

“It’s what I know!” she shouted. “But what Webberly doesn’t know is that any blonde or brunette is safe with you these days, not just pigs like me. It’s redheads you’ve a taste for, redheads like Stepha, replacements for the one that you’ve lost.”

“That has nothing to do with this conversation!”

“It has everything to do with it! If you weren’t so desperate to have Deborah back, you wouldn’t have spent half the night pounding Stepha into pulp and we wouldn’t be having this whole, bleeding discussion!”

“Then let’s drop it, shall we? I’ve apologised. You’ve made your feelings and beliefs- bizarre as they are-absolutely clear. I think we’ve said enough.”

“Oh, that’s damned convenient to call me bizarre,” she cried bitterly. “What about you? You won’t marry a woman because her father’s in service, you watch your very own friend fall in love with her instead, you spend the rest of your life racked with misery over it, and then you decide to call me bizarre.”

“Your facts aren’t quite straight,” he said icily.

“Oh, I’ve got all the facts I need. And when I string them together, bizarre is just the word I’d use to describe them. Fact one: you’re in love with Deborah St. James, and don’t bother to deny it. Fact two: she’s married to someone else. Fact three: you obviously had a love affair with her, which leads us inescapably to fact four: you damn well could have married her but you chose not to and you’re going to pay for that stupid, narrow-minded upper-class decision for the rest of your bleeding, god-damn life!”

“You seem to have a great deal of confi dence in my fatal attraction for women. Any woman who sleeps with me is only too willing to become my wife. Is that correct?”

“Don’t you laugh at me!” she shrieked, her eyes squeezed shut in rage.

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m also not spending another moment discussing this with you.” He started for the door.

“Oh that’s it! Run away! That’s just what I’d expect of you, Lynley! Go have it off with Stepha again! Or what about Helen? Does she pop a red wig on so you can get it up? Does she let you call her Deb?”

He felt anger like a current shooting through his veins. He drove himself towards calm by looking at his watch. “Havers, I’m going to Newby Wiske to see the results of St. James’s tests. That gives you about-shall we say- three hours to tear this house apart and fi nd me something-anything, Havers-that leads me to Gillian Teys. Since you have such a remarkable ability to gather facts out of thin air, that should prove to be no problem whatsoever for you. If, however, you have nothing to report within three hours, consider yourself sacked. Is that clear?”

“Why not sack me right now and have done with it then?” she shrilled.

“Because I like to look forward to my pleasures.” He walked over to her, took his cigarette case from her limp hand. “Daze is blonde,” he said.