their society. He said, "Somewhere along the line, Havers, we've got to become a country without throwaway children. We've got to move beyond being a place where anything goes and nothing matters. Believe me, I'm happy enough to start by using Mr. Minshall as an object lesson for those who think of twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys as disposable items akin to take-away curry cartons." He paused on one of the landings, then, and looked at her. "Preaching," he said ruefully. "Sorry."
"No problem. You're entitled." She lifted her head to indicate the upper floors of Victoria Block. "But, sir..." She sounded hesitant, which was completely unlike her. She barreled forward. "This Corsico bloke...?"
"Hillier's embedded reporter. We can't get round it. He's not listening to reason any more than he's listened to it all along."
"The bloke's staying in bounds," she reassured him. "It's not that. He's not looking at a thing, and the only questions he's asking are about you. Hillier said he's going to be profiling people, but I'm thinking..." She looked restless. Lynley could tell she wanted a cigarette, which had long been Havers' form of Dutch courage. He finished her thought.
"It's not a good idea. Bringing the investigators into the picture in a public forum."
"It's just not on," she said. "I don't want this bloke fingering through my knicker drawer."
"I've told Dee Harriman to give him enough of an earful about me that he'll be kept busy for days tracking down details from my disreputable past, which she's been instructed to gild as much as she likes: Eton, Oxford, Howenstow, a score of love affairs, upper-crust pursuits like yachting, pheasant shooting, fox-hunting-"
"Bloody hell, do you-"
"Of course not. Well, once when I was ten, and I loathed it. But Dee can talk about that as well as dozens of dancing girls performing at my whimsy if that's what it takes. I want this bloke kept out of everyone else's way for a while. God willing-and if Dee does her job and everyone else Corsico talks to catches on-we'll have this case wrapped up before he even gets on to profiling anyone else."
"You can't want your mug on the front page of The Source," she said as they continued down the stairs. "'The Earl Who's a Cop.' That sort of rubbish."
"It's the last thing I want. But if putting my face on the front of The Source keeps everything else about this case out of The Source, I'm willing to put up with the embarrassment."
They made their way to their separate vehicles, the day growing late and the Holmes Street station being close enough to Havers' bungalow to make it logical for her to return home at the end of their conversation with Barry Minshall. She trailed Lynley across London in her sputtering Mini, after a few breathless moments in the carpark wondering if the car would start at all.
At the Holmes Street station, they were expected. James Barty-the duty solicitor-had to be fetched, which took some twenty minutes while they cooled their heels in an interview room and declined an offer of late-afternoon tea. When Barty finally showed up, with crumbs from a scone studding the corner of his mouth, it shortly became evident that he had no idea why his client had decided to talk. It certainly wasn't something that the solicitor had urged Minshall to do. He preferred to wait until he saw what the police had to offer, Barty informed them. There was generally something behind it all when a charge of murder was as swift as this one had been, didn't the superintendent agree?
Barry Minshall's advent in their midst precluded a reply on Lynley's part. The magician came in, brought from his cell by the duty sergeant. He had on his dark glasses. He was much the same as he'd been on the previous day, save for his cheeks and his chin, which showed white stubble.
"How d'you like the accommodation?" Havers asked. "Growing on you yet?"
Minshall ignored her. Lynley switched the tape recorder on, giving the date, the time, and the people present. He said, "You've asked to speak to us, Mr. Minshall. What is it you'd like to say?"
"I'm not a murderer." Minshall's tongue came out and licked his lips, a lizard movement of colourless flesh against colourless flesh.
"D'you actually think that van of yours isn't going to give us fingerprints from here to Friday?" Havers asked. "Not to mention your flat. When was the last time you cleaned that place, anyway? I reckon it's