"Doubtless Bob has explained it all." Isabelle didn't bother to try to keep bitterness at bay.
"He hasn't, he hasn't. Not word, not a word. Just that Mummy's in London settling into a new job. Just as you agreed."
"I didn't agree. Where the hell did you get the idea that I agreed?"
"It's only that he said - "
"Would you have agreed to hand over your children? Would you? Is that the sort of mother you think I am?"
"I know you've tried to be a very good mother. I know you've tried. The boys dote on you."
"„Tried? Tried?'" Isabelle suddenly heard herself and wanted to pound her fist against her skull as she realised she'd begun to sound exactly like Sandra, with her infuriating habit of doubling words and phrases, a nervous tic that always sounded as if she believed the world was partially deaf and in need of her constant reiteration.
"Oh, I'm not saying this right. I'm not saying - "
"I must get back to work."
"But will you come? Will you consider coming? This isn't about you and it's not about Bob. It's about the boys. It's about the boys."
"Don't you bloody dare tell me what this is about." Isabelle slammed the phone down.
She cursed and dropped her head into her hands. I will not, I will not, she told herself. And then she laughed although even to her own ears she sounded hysterical. It was that bloody doubling of words. She thought she might go mad.
"Uh ...guv?"
She looked up although she knew before she did so that the marginal deference in the tone marked the interruption as coming from DI John Stewart. He stood there with an expression on his face that told her he'd overheard at least part of her conversation with Sandra. She snapped, "What is it?"
"The Oxfam bin."
It took her a moment before she got her brain round that one: Bella McHaggis and her recycling front garden. She said to Stewart, "What about it, John?"
"We've got more than a handbag inside it. We've something you're going to want to see."
THE CONTINUED HEAT wave was, Lynley found, making it a big day at the Queen's Ice and Bowl, particularly on the ice itself. This was likely the coolest spot in London, and everyone from toddlers to pensioners appeared to be taking advantage of it. Some of them simply clung to the railing at the rink's edge and pulled themselves along haphazardly. Others more adventurous wobbled round the rink without assistance, the more expert skaters trying to avoid them. In the very middle of the rink, future Olympians practised jumps and spins with varied degrees of success while, negotiating the crowd for space wherever possible, ice-dancing instructors plied their trade with inept partners, making brave attempts to mirror Torvill and Dean.
Lynley had to wait to speak to Abbott Langer, who was giving a lesson in the middle of the ice. He'd been pointed out to Lynley by the skate-hire bloke who referred to Langer as "the git with the hair." Lynley hadn't been certain what was meant by that until he caught a glimpse of the instructor. Then he saw there was no other description needed. He'd not seen such a hirsute Swiss roll outside of a photograph, ever.
No matter the case, Langer could certainly skate. He launched himself off the ice in an effortless jump as Lynley watched, demonstrating its ease for a young male pupil who looked round ten years old. The child tried it and landed on his bum. Langer glided over and lifted him to his feet. He bent his head to the child's, they spoke for a moment, and Langer demonstrated a second time. He was very good. He was smooth. He was strong. Lynley wondered if he was also a killer.
When the lesson finished, Lynley intercepted the skating instructor as he said good-bye to his pupil and put guards on the blades of his skates. Could he have a word? Lynley enquired politely. He showed his identification.
Langer said, "I've spoken to the other two. Black bloke and some dumpy woman. I don't see how I could have anything else to say."
"Loose ends," Lynley told him. "This shouldn't take long." He indicated the cafe that formed a division between the ice rink and the bowling alley. He said, "Let's have a coffee, Mr.
Langer," and he waited till Langer resigned himself to a conversation.