“You’ve a full day planned.”

“At the end of it all, we intend to have tea at Claridge’s, the better to look decorative among all that art deco. That was Deborah’s idea, by the way. She seems to think I’m not getting out enough. And, darling, we’ve found one christening outfit already, did I say?”

“Have you?”

“It’s terribly sweet. Although…well, your aunt Augusta might have a seizure watching her great-grandnephew-is that what Jasper Felix will be?-being ushered into Christianity in a miniature dinner jacket. But the nappies are so precious, Tommy. How could anyone complain?”

“It would be unthinkable,” Lynley agreed. “But you know Augusta.”

“Oh pooh. We’ll search on. I do want you to see the dinner jacket, though. We’re buying every outfit we think suitable, so you can help decide.”

“Fine, darling. Let me talk to Deborah.”

“Now, Tommy, you aren’t going to tell her to restrain me, are you?”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Put her on.”

“We’re behaving ourselves…more or less,” was what Deborah said to him when Helen handed over her mobile.

“I’m depending on that.” Lynley gave a moment’s thought to how he wanted to phrase things. Deborah, he knew, was incapable of dissembling. One word from him alluding to the killer and it would be written all over her face, in plain sight for Helen to see and to worry about. He sought a different tack. “Don’t let anyone approach you while you’re out today,” he said. “People in the street…Don’t let yourselves become engaged with anyone. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, really. I’m being a mother hen. Flu going round. Colds. God only knows what else. Just keep an eye out and take care.”

She said nothing on the other end. He could hear Helen chatting to someone.

“Keep an adequate distance from people,” Lynley said. “I don’t want her falling ill when she’s finally got beyond morning sickness.”

“Of course,” Deborah said. “I’ll fend everyone off with my umbrella.”

“Promise?” he asked her.

“Tommy, is there something-”

“No. No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. Have a good day.”

He rang off then, depending upon Deborah’s discretion. Even if she told Helen exactly what he’d said, he knew it would seem to his wife that he was merely being overprotective about her health.

“Sir?”

He looked towards the door. Havers was standing there, her spiral notebook in hand. “What’ve you got?”

“Sod all in a bun,” she said. “Miller’s clean.” She went on to report what she’d managed to unearth on the bath-salts vendor, which was, as she’d said, nothing at all. She finished with, “So here’s what I’ve been thinking. P’rhaps we should consider him more carefully as someone likely to drop Barry Minshall in it. If he knows what we’ve got on Barry-I mean exactly-he might be willing to help. If nothing else, he could maybe identify some of the boys in the Polaroids we found in Barry’s digs. We find those boys, and we’ve got a way to break up MABIL.”

“But not necessarily a way to get the killer,” Lynley pointed out. “No. Turn the MABIL information over to TO9, Havers. Give them Miller’s name and his details as well. They’ll give it all to the relevant Child Protection team.”

“But if we-”

“Barbara,” he said, stopping her before she could get into it, “that’s the best we can do.”

Dorothea Harriman came into the office as Havers groused about letting even part of the investigation go. The departmental secretary had several pieces of paper in her hand, which she turned over to Lynley. She departed in a breeze of perfume, saying, “New e-fits, Acting Superintendent. Straightaway, I was told. He said to let you know he’s done several since you couldn’t tell him what the glasses were like or how thick the goatee was. The peaked cap, he said, is the same on them all.”

Lynley thanked her as Havers approached his desk for a look. The two sketches were now altered: Both of the suspects wore hats, spectacles, and had facial hair. It was little enough to go on, but it was something.

He got to his feet. “Come with me,” he told Havers. “It’s time to go to the Canterbury Hotel.”

“LIKE I SAID FROM THE FIRST TO YOU LOT,” JACK VENESS declared, “I was at the Miller and Grindstone. I don’t know till what time because sometimes I’m there till last orders and sometimes I’m not and I don’t keep a fucking diary of it, okay? But I was there, and afterwards my mate and I went for a take-away. No matter how many times you ask me, I’m going to give you the same flipping answer. So what’s the point of asking?”

“Point,” Winston Nkata replied, “is that more in’eresting events keep piling up, Jack. More we learn about who’s doing what to who in this case, more we have to check out who might’ve done something else. And when. It always comes down to when, man.”

“It always comes down to cops trying to pin something on someone and not caring much who the someone is. You lot got a nerve, you know that? People locked up for twenty years, turns out they been framed, and you never change your approach, do you?”

“’Fraid that’s what’s going to happen?” Nkata asked him. “Why would that be?”

He and the Colossus receptionist were facing off right inside the entrance, where Nkata had followed him from the carpark. There, Jack’d been cadging cigarettes from two twelve-year-olds. He’d lit one, put another in his pocket, and tucked a third behind his ear. At first Nkata had thought he was one of the organisation’s clients. It was only when Veness had stopped him with an “Oy! You! What’re you about?” as he went for the door that Nkata realised the scruffy young man was a Colossus employee.

He’d asked Veness if he could have a word, and he’d offered his identification. He had a list of dates when MABIL had met-helpfully provided by Barry Minshall upon the advice of his solicitor-and he was comparing it to alibis. Trouble was, Jack Veness’s alibi was unchanging, as he’d taken pains to point out.

Now Jack stalked into the reception area, as if satisfied that he’d been cooperative. Nkata followed him. There, a boy was lounging on one of the mangy-looking sofas. He was smoking and trying unsuccessfully to blow rings in the direction of the ceiling.

“Mark Connor!” Veness barked at him. “What’re you about besides getting ready for a boot in your bum? No smoking anywhere inside Colossus, and you know that. What’re you thinking?”

“No one’s here.” Mark sounded bored. “’Nless you plan on grassing me to someone, no one knows.”

“I’m here, got it?” Jack snapped in reply. “Get the fuck out or put out the fag.”

Mark muttered, “Shit,” and swung his legs over the side of the sofa. He got to his feet and shuffled out of the room, the crotch of his trousers hanging nearly to his knees in gangsta fashion.

Jack went to the reception desk and punched a few keys at his computer. He said to Nkata, “What else, okay? If you want to talk to the rest of this lot, they’re out. One and all.”

“Griffin Strong?”

“You have trouble hearing?”

Nkata didn’t answer this. He locked eyes with Veness and waited.

The receptionist relented but made it clear by his tone that he wasn’t happy. “Hasn’t been in all day,” he said. “Probably having his eyebrows plucked somewhere.”

“Greenham?”

“Who knows? His idea of lunch is two hours and counting. So he c’n take Mummy to the doctor, he says.”

“Kilfoyle?”

“He never shows up till he’s made his deliveries, which I hope happens soon since he’s got my salami- and-salad baguette on him and I’d like to eat it. What else, man?” He grabbed up a pencil and tapped it meaningfully against a telephone message pad. As if on cue, the phone rang and he answered. No, he said, she wasn’t in. Could he take a message? He added pointedly, “Truth to tell, I thought she was meeting with you, Mr. Bensley. That’s what she said when she left,” and he sounded satisfied, as if a theory of his had just been proved right.