visit to Chelsea. He handed to Simon the manila envelope he'd been carrying in Isabelle's office. Simon opened it and drew out its contents. Isabelle saw it was the photograph of the yellow shirt from the Oxfam bin.
"What d'you make of it?" Lynley asked his friend.
St. James studied it for a minute in silence before he said, "I should think it's arterial blood. The pattern on the front of the shirt? It's a spray."
"Suggesting?"
"Suggesting this was worn by the killer, and he stood quite close to the victim when he struck the fatal blow. Look at the spray on the collar of the shirt."
"What d'you reckon that means?"
St. James thought about this, his expression distant. He responded with, "Oddly enough ... ? I'd say in the midst of an embrace. Anything else and the heaviest spray would surely be on the sleeve, not on the collar and the front of the shirt. Let me show you. Deborah?"
He rose from his chair, no easy business for him because he was disabled. Isabelle hadn't noticed this earlier. He wore a leg brace, which made his movements awkward.
His wife rose as well and stood as directed by her husband. He put his left arm round her waist and drew her to him. He bent as if to kiss her, and as he did so, he lifted his right hand and brought it down on her neck. The demonstration completed, he touched his wife lightly on the hair and said to Lynley with an indication of the photo, "You can see the heaviest part of the spray is high on the right breast of the shirt. He's taller than she was, but not by much."
"Not a defensive wound on her, Simon."
"Suggesting she knew him well."
"She was there with him willingly?"
"I dare say."
Isabelle said nothing. She saw the purpose of this call upon the St. Jameses, and she didn't know whether to be grateful that Lynley hadn't made these points - which she reckoned he'd already deduced from the photo - during the team's meeting at the Met or angry that he had decided to do it this way, in the presence of his friends. She was hardly likely to argue with him here, and he must have known that. It was yet another nail in the coffin of Matsumoto as killer.
She had to regroup and she had to do it in haste.
She stirred in her seat. She nodded sagely and made noises about being grateful for their time and, unfortunately, having to be on her way. There were various things to see to, an early morning, the expectation of a witness to be interviewed, undoubtedly a meeting with Hillier ... ?
They would understand, of course.
Deborah was the one to see her to the door. Isabelle thought to ask her if, on the day of the photo, she remembered anything, anyone, any circumstance remotely unusual?
Deborah said the expected. It had been more than six months ago. She could remember virtually nothing about it other than Sidney - "Simon's sister" - St. James being present. "Oh, and there would be Matt as well," Deborah added. "He was there."
"Matt?"
"Matt Jones. Sidney's partner. He brought her to the cemetery and watched for a few minutes. But he didn't stay. Sorry. I should have mentioned it earlier. I hadn't really considered him till now."
Isabelle was thinking about this as she began to trace the route back to her car. But she hadn't got far in her speculation when she heard her name called. She turned to see Lynley coming towards her down the pavement. She said when he reached her, "Matt Jones."
He said, "Who?" He had the manila envelope in his possession again. She gestured for it.
He handed it over.
"Sidney St. James's boyfriend. Her partner. Whatever. He was there that day, in the cemetery, according to Deborah. She'd forgotten till now."
"When?" And then he put it together. "The day she took the photo?"
"Right. What do we know about him?"
"So far, we know that there're hundreds of Matthew Joneses. Philip was on it but - "
"All right, all right. I take your meaning, Thomas." She sighed. She'd pulled Hale off and forced him to stand watch at St. Thomas' Hospital. If there was critical information out there about Matt Jones, it was still out there, waiting to be uncovered.
Lynley looked towards the river. He said, "Are you interested in dinner, Isabelle? I mean, are you hungry? We could have something in the pub. Or, if you prefer, I don't live