the vans from which video cameras were being unloaded-had begun to gather. A press officer was directing them to one side. She said, "According to Hartell, Brick Lane did sod all, which is why he wanted out of the place. He says it's an endemic problem. Now, could be he just has an axe he's grinding on the reputation of his ex-guv over there, or could be those blokes've been sleeping at the wheel. But in either case, we've got some sorting to do." She hunched her shoulders and drove her mittened hands into the pockets of her down jacket. She nodded at the news people. "To say they're going to have a field day if they twig all that...Between you, me, and the footpath, I thought it best we look like we've got coppers from bottom to top crawling all over this."
Lynley eyed her with some interest. She certainly didn't look like a political animal, but it was clear that she was quick on her feet. Nonetheless he felt it wise to ask, "You're sure about what Constable Hartell is claiming, then?"
"Wasn't at first," she admitted. "But he convinced me quick enough."
"How?"
"He didn't get as close a look at the body as I did, but he took me aside and asked about the hands."
"The hands? What about the hands?"
She gave him a glance. "You didn't see them? You best come with me, Superintendent."
CHAPTER TWO
DESPITE THE EARLY HOUR AT WHICH HE ROSE THE NEXT morning, Lynley found that his wife was already up. He found her in what was going to be their baby's nursery, where yellow, white, and green were the colours of choice, a cot and changing table comprised the furniture delivered so far, and photographs clipped from magazines and catalogues indicated the placement of everything else: a toy chest here, a rocking chair there, and a chest of drawers moved daily from point A to point B. In her first trimester, Helen was nothing if not changeable when it came to the appearance of their son's nursery.
She was standing before the changing table, her hands massaging the small of her back. Lynley joined her, brushing her hair away from her neck, making a bare spot for his kiss. She leaned back against him. She said, "You know, Tommy, I never expected impending parenthood to be so political an event."
"Is it? How?"
She gestured to the surface of the changing table. There, Lynley saw, the remains of a package lay. It had obviously come by post on the previous day, and Helen had opened it and spread its contents upon the table. These consisted of an infant's snowy christening garments: gown, shawl, cap, and shoes. Next to them lay yet another set of christening garments: another gown, shawl, and cap. Lynley picked up the postal wrapping that had covered the box. He saw the name and the return address. "Daphne Amalfini," he read. She lived in Italy, one of Helen's four sisters.
He said, "What's going on?"
"Battle lines are being drawn. I hate to tell you, but I'm afraid that soon we'll have to choose a side."
"Ah. Right. I take it that these...?" Lynley indicated the set of garments most recently unpacked.
"Yes. Daphne sent them along. With a rather sweet note, by the way, but there's no mistaking the meaningful subtext. She knows that your sister must have sent us the ancestral Lynley baptismal regalia, being so far the only reproductive Lynley of the current generation. But Daph seems to think that five Clyde sisters procreating like bunnies is reason enough why the Clyde apparel should be sufficient unto the christening day. No, that's not right. Not sufficient unto the day at all. More like de rigueur for the day. It's all ridiculous-believe me, I know-but it's one of those family situations that ends up being blown out of proportion if one doesn't handle it correctly." She looked at him and offered a quirky smile. "It's utterly stupid, isn't it? Hardly comparable to what you're dealing with. What time did you actually get home last night? Did you find your dinner in the fridge?"
"I thought I'd eat it for breakfast, actually."
"Take-away garlic chicken?"
"Well. Perhaps not."
"Any suggestions you care to make about the christening clothes, then? And don't suggest we forego the christening altogether, because I don't want to be responsible for my father's having a stroke."
Lynley thought about the situation. On the one hand, the christening garments from his own family had been used for at least five-if not