spectacles caught the light. He wore a crisp pink shirt and a navy tie striped diagonally in green. His trousers were navy as well and, when he moved from beyond the counter to a second display case, Lynley saw that he had on blindingly white trainers and no socks. Brisk was a very good word to describe him. So, as things turned out, was certain.
Lynley had come to the shop directly from his home rather than going into the Yard. He lived so close that it made more sense, and he'd phoned Isabelle on her mobile to tell her this as a courtesy. They'd spoken briefly, haltingly, and politely. The ground had slightly shifted beneath them.
At the end of their dinner on the previous night, he'd walked with her to her car although she'd told him such a show of good breeding was hardly necessary as she was perfectly adept at defending herself in the unlikely event that she should be accosted in the fashionble Chelsea neighbourhood. Then she seemed to realise exactly what she'd said because she'd stopped completely on the pavement, turned to him, impulsively put her hand on his arm, and murmured,
"Oh my God. I am so sorry, Thomas," which told him she'd connected her remarks to what had happened to Helen, murdered in a neighbourhood not so different from this one and less than a mile away.
He'd said, "Thank you. But you've no need, really ...," and he hesitated about saying more, stumbling rather with, "It's only that ...," before he stopped again, in a search for words.
They stood in the deep shadows of a leafy beech, the pavement beneath it already beginning to collect its leaves, fallen in the hot, dry summer. Once again he was aware of being nearly eye to eye with Isabelle Ardery: a tall woman, slender without being thin, cheekbones prominent - a fact he hadn't noticed before - and eyes large, which he also hadn't noticed. Her lips parted as if to say something.
He held her gaze. A moment passed. A car door slammed nearby. He looked away. He said, "I do want people to have less care with me."
She made no reply.
He said, "They're afraid they'll say something and I'll be reminded. I understand that. I'd probably feel the same. But what I don't understand is how anyone might think I actually need reminding or am afraid of being reminded."
Still, she said nothing.
"What I mean is that she's always there anyway. She's a constant presence. How could she not be? She was doing such a simple thing, bringing in her shopping, and there they were.
Two of them. He was twelve years old, the one who shot her. He did it for no reason really. Just because she was there. They've caught him but not the other and he - the boy - won't name him.
He won't say a word about what happened. He hasn't done since they found him. But the truth is, all I want to know was what she might have said to them before they ...Because somehow I think I might feel ...If I knew ..." He suddenly found his throat was so tight that he knew he would, to his horror, weep if he did not stop speaking. He shook his head and cleared his throat.
He kept his gaze on the street.
Her hand was extraordinarily soft when she touched his. She said, "Thomas. You've no need. Really. Walk along with me."
As if she thought he might not do so, she put her hand at his elbow and with her other hand she held on to his arm. She brought him close to her side and it was oddly comforting. He realised that other than his immediate family and Deborah St. James, no one had touched him for months, aside from shaking his hand. It was as if people had become frightened of him, as if by touching him they believed the tragedy that had visited his life would somehow visit theirs. He found he felt such relief at her touch that he walked with her, and their steps fell into a natural rhythm.
"There," she said when they reached her car. She faced him. "I've had a pleasant evening. You're very good company, Thomas."
"I've my doubts about that," he said quietly.
"Do you?"
"Yes. And it's Tommy, actually. That's what most people call me."
"Tommy. Yes. I've noticed." She smiled and said, "I'm going to hug you now and you're meant to know that this is in friendship." She