with open arms. We need your expertise, Simon. And the Press Bureau will be only too happy to have Hillier announcing to the media the inclusion of independent forensic scientist Simon Allcourt-St. James, formerly of the Metropolitan police, now an expert witness, university lecturer, public speaker, et cetera. Just the sort of thing to restore public confidence. But don't let that pressure you."
"What would you have me do? My crime-scene days are far and away gone. And God willing, you won't have further crime scenes anyway."
"You'd consult. I won't lie to you and say it wouldn't impinge on everything else you have on your plate. But I'd try to keep the requests to a minimum."
"Let me see what you have, then. You've brought copies of everything?"
Lynley opened his briefcase and handed over what he'd gathered before leaving Scotland Yard. St. James set the paperwork to one side and went through the photographs. He whistled silently. When he looked up at last, he said to Lynley, "They didn't jump to serial killing at once?"
"So you see the problem."
"But these have all the hallmarks of a ritual. The burnt hands alone..."
"Just on the final three."
"Still, with the similarities all along in the positioning of the bodies, they're as good as advertising themselves as serial killings."
"For the latest one-the body in St. George's Gardens?-the DCI on scene marked it as a serial killing at once."
"As to the others?"
"Each body was left on the patch of a different station. In every case, they appear to have gone through the motions of an investigation, but it seems it was easy to call each of them a one-off crime. Gang related because of the race of the victims. Gang related because of the condition of the bodies. Marked in some way with the signature of a gang. As a warning to others."
"That's nonsense."
"I'm not excusing it."
"It's a PR nightmare for the Met, I daresay."
"Yes. Will you help?"
"Can you fetch my glass from the desk? It's in the top drawer."
Lynley did so. A chamois pouch held the magnifying glass, and he brought this to his friend and watched while St. James studied the photographs of the corpses more closely. He spent the most time over the recent crime, and he gazed long upon the face of the victim before he spoke. Even then it seemed he spoke more to himself than to Lynley.
"The abdominal incision on the final body is obviously postmortem," he said. "But the burning of the hands...?"
"Before death," Lynley agreed.
"That makes it very interesting, doesn't it?" St. James looked up for a moment, thoughtfully, his gaze on the window, before he examined victim four another time. "He's not particularly good with the knife. No indecision about where to cut, but surprised to discover it wasn't easy."
"Not a medical student or a doctor, then."
"I shouldn't think so."
"What sort of implement?"
"A very sharp knife will have worked just fine. A kitchen knife, perhaps. That and a certain amount of strength because of all the abdominal muscles involved. And to create this aperture...That can't have been easy. He's quite strong."
"He's taken the navel, Simon. On the final body."
"Gruesome," St. James acknowledged. "One would think he's made the incision just to get enough blood to make the mark on the forehead, but taking the navel discounts that theory, doesn't it? What d'you make of the forehead mark, by the way?"
"A symbol, obviously."
"The killer's signature?"
"In part, I'd say so. But more than that. If the entire crime is part of a ritual-"
"And it looks like that, doesn't it?"
"Then I'd say this is the final part of the ceremony. A full stop after the victim dies."
"It's saying something, then."
"Definitely."
"But to whom? To the police who've failed to grasp that a serial killer's at work in the community? To the victim who's just completed a real trial by fire? To someone else?"
"That's the question, isn't it?"
St. James nodded. He laid the pictures to one side and took up his whisky. "Then that's where I'll begin," he said.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN SHE TURNED OFF THE IGNITION THAT EVENING, Barbara Havers remained inside the Mini, once again listening disconsolately to its sputtering engine. She rested her head on the steering wheel. She was knackered. Odd to think that spending hours upon hours on computers and telephones was more exhausting than hoofing round London to track down witnesses, suspects, reports, and background information, but that was the case. There was something about staring at a computer terminal, reading and highlighting printouts, and running through the