“Is that why there are no restraints this time round?” Lynley asked.

“I don’t think so. Rather, prior to this particular murder, the killer thought he’d achieved the degree of omnipotence he’s been seeking for most of his life. This delusional sense of power led him to believe he didn’t even need to immobilize his next victim. But without the restraints, as things turned out, the boy fought him, and that required a personal means of dispatching him. So instead of the garrotte, the killer uses his hands. Only through this personal means can he regain the sense of power, the need for which motivates him to kill in the first place.”

“Your conclusion, then?” Hillier asked.

“You’re dealing with an inadequate personality. He’s either dominated by others or he pictures himself as dominated by others. He has no idea how to get out of any situation in which he perceives himself as less powerful than the people round him, and he particularly has no idea how to get out of the situation he’s currently in.”

“The situation of the killing, you mean?” Hillier clarified.

“Oh no,” Robson said. “He feels perfectly capable of leading the police on a merry chase when it comes to murder. But in his personal life, he’s caught by something. And in such a way as to perceive no escape. This might be employment, a failing marriage, a parental relationship in which he has more responsibility than he likes, a parental relationship in which he has long been the underdog, some sort of financial failure he’s hiding from a wife or life partner. That sort of thing.”

“But you say he knows we’re on to him?” Hillier said. “We’ve spoken to him? Been in touch in some way?”

Robson nodded. “Any one of those is possible,” he said. “And this latest body, Superintendent?” This last he said to Lynley alone. “Everything about this body suggests you’ve come closer to the killer than you realise.”

BARBARA HAVERS WATCHED AS BARRY MINSHALL-AKA Mr. Magic-closed up his stall in the alley. He took his time about it, every movement designed to communicate how much trouble the rozzers were causing him. Down came the display of saucy playthings, all of which had to be placed with undo gentleness in collapsible cardboard boxes that he kept stashed in a pile in a cubbyhole designed for this express purpose above the stall. Put away were the gag items in a similar fashion, as well as a number of the magic tricks. Every object had its particular storage spot, and Minshall made certain it was deposited there in an exact position known only to him. Through all this, Barbara waited in ease. She had all the time he was intent upon demonstrating that he needed. And if he happened to be using that time to concoct a story about Davey Benton and the handcuffs, she herself used it to note those features about the alley that promised to assist her in the coming exchange with Mr. Magic. For there would be an exchange, she knew. This bloke didn’t look the type to stand by idly as she rooted through his van. He was heading for too much trouble for that.

So in the minutes he took to shut up shop, she saw what could help her when the time came to put the thumbscrews on the magician: the CCTV cameras mounted at the mouth of the alley near a Chinese food stall and a bath-salts vendor some six yards away, who was watching Minshall with a great deal of interest even as the vendor devoured a samosa, the grease from which dripped down his hand and into the cuff of his shirt. That bloke, Barbara decided, looked like someone with a tale to tell.

He did, in a manner of speaking, when they passed him a few minutes later on their way out of the alley. He said, “Gotcherself a lady friend, Bar? Now that’s a change, innit? I thought you liked the boys.”

Minshall said pleasantly, “Do go fuck yourself, Miller,” and passed by the stall.

Barbara said, “Hang on,” and paused. She showed her ID to the bath-salts vendor. “Think you could identify some pictures of boys who might’ve hung about his stall in the past few months?” she asked him.

Miller was suddenly cautious. “What sort of boys?”

“The sort who’ve turned up dead all round London.”

He flicked a glance at Minshall. “I don’t want no trouble. I di’n’t know you were a cop when I said-”

“What difference does that make?”

“I di’n’t see anything.” He turned and busied himself with his wares. “It’s dim along here. Wouldn’t know one boy from another anyway.”

“Sure you would, John,” Minshall said. “You spend enough time ogling them, don’t you?” And then to Havers, “Constable, you were interested in my van…?” He continued on his way.

Barbara took note of the vendor’s name. She knew that his remarks about Barry Minshall could mean nothing, as could Minshall’s remarks about him: just the natural animosity that males sometimes have for each other. Or they could have been the result of Minshall’s oddity of appearance and Miller’s schoolboy reaction to that. But in either case, they were worth looking into.

Barry Minshall led her in the direction of the main entrance to the Stables Market. They emerged into Chalk Farm Road as a train rumbled by on the overhead tracks. In the fading light of the late afternoon, the streetlamps glowed against the wet pavement, and the diesel fumes of a passing lorry scented the air with the heavy bouquet that was quintessentially winter London in the rain.

Because of the cold and the damp, the usual suspects-Goths head to toe in black and old-age pensioners wondering what the hell had happened to the neighbourhood-were absent from the pavements. In their places, commuters hurried home from work and shop owners began to move their wares inside. Barbara noted the looks that Barry Minshall got as they passed these people. Even in an area of town known for the general weirdness of its inhabitants, the magician stood out, either for the dark glasses, long coat, and stocking cap he wore, or for an emanation of malevolence that formed an aura round him. Barbara knew which she believed it was. Stripped of the patina of purity suggested by the innocence of his magic tricks, Barry Minshall was a nasty piece of business.

She said to him, “Tell me, Mr. Minshall. What sorts of places do you usually perform? The magic, I mean. Can’t be you only use it to entertain the kids who stop at your stall. I expect you’d get a little rusty round the fingers if you left it to that.”

Minshall shot her a glance. She reckoned he was evaluating not only the question but also the various reactions she might have to his answers.

She offered him options. “Cocktail parties, for example? Ladies’ clubs? Private organisations?”

He made no reply.

“Birthday parties?” she went on. “I expect you’re quite the thing at them. What about at schools, as a special treat for the kids? Church functions? Boy Scouts? Girl Guides?”

He plodded onward.

“What about south of the river, Mr. Minshall? Ever do anything there? Round Elephant and Castle? What about youth organisations? Trips to borstal in the holidays?”

He gave her nothing. He didn’t intend to phone his solicitor about her request to see his van, but he clearly wasn’t going to say a word that might put him in further jeopardy. So he was only half a fool, she decided. No problem. Half was probably enough.

His van turned out to be on Jamestown Road, parked with one tyre on the kerb, facing the oncoming traffic. Fortunately, Minshall had left it beneath a streetlamp, and a pool of yellow light fell directly upon it, enhanced by a security system that switched on brightly at the front of a house some fifteen feet away. That, in addition to the daylight still lingering, made further illumination unnecessary.

“Let’s have a look, then,” Barbara said, with a nod at the van’s rear doors. “D’you want to do the honours, or shall I?” She dug round in her bag and brought out a pair of latex gloves as she spoke.