“Tatiana,” she said, “is going to have a father.”

“What about you?”

“My eyes are open. Griffin is who Griffin is.”

They crossed a street and continued north, past the old brewery and into the region of leather shops and bargain prices. Ulrike asked the question she’d come to ask, although at this point she knew how unreliable Arabella’s answer was probably going to be.

“The night of the eighth?” Arabella repeated thoughtfully, offering Ulrike the possibility that she was actually going to hear the truth. “Why, he was home with me, Ulrike.” And then she added deliberately, “Or he was with Emma. Or he was with you. Or he was at the silk-screening business till dawn or later. I’ll swear to any of them, whatever Griff prefers. He, you, and everyone else can absolutely depend upon that.” She paused at the doorway to a large-windowed shop. Inside, customers lined up at a glass-fronted counter behind which an enormous blackboard listed the variety of bagels and the toppings on offer. She said, “I’ve no idea actually, but that’s something I’ll never tell the police, and that you can be sure of.” She looked away from Ulrike to the interior of the shop, wearing the expression of a woman who suddenly sees where she is for the very first time. “Ah,” she said, “here’s the Beigel Bake. Would you like a bagel, Ulrike? It will be my treat.”

HE FOUND A PLACE to park that had logic written all over it. Beneath Marks & Spencer, there was an undergound carpark, and while it had a CCTV camera-what else could one expect in this part of town?-should He ever be witnessed on film from this place, His presence possessed a rational explanation. Marks & Sparks had toilets; Marks & Sparks had a grocery. Either of those would serve as excuse.

To make sure, He went above to the store and put in an appearance in both facilities. He bought a chocolate bar in the grocery and stood wide legged at a urinal in the gents’. That, He thought, should satisfy.

He washed His hands thoroughly-at this time of year, one couldn’t be too careful with all the head colds going round-and He ducked out of the store afterwards and headed in the direction of the square. It formed the intersection of half a dozen streets, the one whose pavement He walked along being the busiest of them, coursing upward in a glut of taxis and private vehicles all struggling southwest to northeast. When He got to the square itself, He crossed over with the traffic lights, breathing the fumes of a number 11 bus.

After Leadenhall Market, He’d been cheesed off, but now He was in a different frame of mind. Inspiration had struck Him, and He’d snatched it up, making a switch in His plans without anyone’s intercession. As a result, there was no chant of ridicule from maggots. There was just the instant when He’d suddenly realised a new way was open to Him, broadcasting itself from every newsstand on every street corner that He passed.

In the square, He went to the fountain. It wasn’t in the centre as design would dictate, but rather towards the southern corner. It was what He came to first, in fact, and He stood looking at the woman, the urn, and the trickle of water she was pouring into the pristine pool beneath her. Although trees lined the square at no great distance from the fountain, He saw that no remainder of their dead leaves decomposed in the water. Someone had long ago fished them out, so the trickle from the urn fell sonorously, without the splat that otherwise would suggest decay. In this part of town, that would be an unthinkable idea: death, decay, and decomposition. That was what made His choice so perfect.

He stood back from the fountain and observed the rest of the square. It was going to present an enormous challenge. Beyond the row of trees that lined a broad central path to a war memorial at the far end, a rank of taxis waited for fares and an underground station disgorged passengers onto the pavement. They made for banks, for shops, for a pub. They sat at window tables of a brasserie nearby or joined a line of ticket buyers at the box office of a theatre.

This was no Leadenhall Market: busy in the morning, at noon, and at the end of a workday, but otherwise not busy at all in the dead of winter. This was a place alive with people, probably well into the early hours of the morning. But nothing was insurmountable. The pub would close, the tube station would be locked and barred eventually, the taxi drivers would go home for the night, and the buses would run far less frequently. By three-thirty, the square would be His. All He had to do, really, was wait.

And anyway, what He had in mind for this location would not take long. He was regretful about the game rails in Leadenhall Market, which He now could not use to make the statement He wished to make, but this was far better. For benches lined the path from the fountain to the war memorial-wrought iron and wood gleaming in the milky sunlight-and He was actually able to picture how it was going to be.

He could see their bodies in this place: one of them redeemed and released and the other not. One of them the observer and the other the observed, so consequently, one of them laid out and the other positioned in an air of watchful…solicitude. But both of them deliciously, delightfully dead.

The plans were in motion inside His head, and He felt filled, as He always did. He felt free. There was no room for the maggot at a time like this. The wormlike thing shrank back, as if trying to escape the sun, which was represented to the hateful creature by His presence and His plan. See, see? He wanted to demand. But that could not come now, and it would have no reason to come till He had the two of them-observer and observed-within the circle that was His power.

All that remained was the waiting, now. Following and finding the moment to strike.

LYNLEY EXAMINED the e-fit, product of Muwaffaq Masoud’s memory of the man who’d bought his van in the summer. He’d been looking at it for a good few minutes, trying to find points of comparison with the sketch they already had of the man who’d visited Square Four Gym in the days before Sean Lavery was murdered. He finally looked up-decision made-picked up the phone, and asked for an alteration in each drawing. On a copy of each, add a peaked cap, spectacles, and a goatee, he said. He wanted to see both individuals thus altered. He knew it was a stab in the dark, but there were times when a stab found flesh.

When that was in hand, Lynley finally had a moment to phone Helen. He’d thought much about his conversation with the serial killer, and he’d considered whether the best course of action was to send Helen home from her wanderings round London, with constables posted at front and back doors. But he knew how unlikely his wife was to embrace this move, and he also knew that overreacting to this could be playing into the killer’s hands. At the moment, their man had no idea where the Lynley home actually was. Far better to put Eaton Terrace itself under surveillance-from rooftops, from the Antelope Pub-and cast out a net into which the killer might well wander. That would take several hours to set up. All he had to do was make sure that Helen took care in the meantime while she was out in the streets.

He reached her in a babble of noise: crockery, cutlery, and women’s chatting. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Peter Jones,” she said. “We’ve paused for sustenance. I’d no idea that hunting for christening garments would be so grueling.”

“You’ve not made much progress if you’ve only got as far as Peter Jones.”

“Darling, that’s completely untrue.” And then obviously to Deborah, “It’s Tommy wondering how far we’ve managed to…Yes, I’ll tell him.” To Lynley, “Deborah says you might demonstrate a bit more faith in us. We’ve already made three stops and we’ve plans to go on to Knightsbridge, Mayfair, Marylebone, and a dear little shop Deborah’s managed to unearth in South Kensington. Designer wear for infants. If we can’t find something there, we’ll not find it anywhere.”