C. Doyle. The possibilities were endless.
So, for that matter, were the million and one coincidences that happened every day. But still the name remained, taunting him. J. S. Mill. Catch me if you can. John Stuart Mill. John Stuart. John Stewart.
There was no use denying it to himself: Lynley had felt a quivering in his palms when Havers had said the name. That quivering translated to the questions that police work-not to mention life itself-always prompted the wise man to ask. How well do we ever know anyone? How often do we let outward appearances-including speech and behaviour-define our conclusions about individuals?
I don't need to tell you what this means, do I? Lynley could still see the grave concern on St. James's face.
Lynley's answer had taken him places he didn't want to go. No. You don't need to tell me a thing.
What it all really meant was asking that the cup be passed along to someone else, but that wasn't going to happen. He was in too far, truly "steep'd in blood so deep," and he couldn't retrace a single one of his steps. He had to see the investigation through to its conclusion, no matter where each single branch of it led. And there was decidedly more than one branch to this matter. That was becoming obvious.
A compulsive personality, yes, he thought. Driven by demons? He did not know. That restlessness, the occasional anger, the ill-chosen word. How had the news been received when Lynley-ahead of everyone else-had been handed the superintendent's position after Webberly was struck down in the street? Congratulations? No one congratulated anyone over anything in those days that had followed Webberly's attempted murder. And who would have thought to, with the superintendent fighting for his life and everyone else trying to find his assailant? So it was not important. It meant absolutely nothing. Someone had to step in, and he'd been tapped to do it. And it wasn't permanent, so it could hardly have been an important enough detail to make anyone want...decide...be pushed to...No.
Yet everything took him back inexorably to his earliest days among his fellow officers: the distance they'd originally placed between themselves and him who would never be one of the lads, not really. No matter what he did to level the playing field, there would always be what they knew about him: the title, the land, the public school voice, the wealth and the assumed privilege it brought, and who bloody cared except everyone did at the end of the day and everyone probably always would.
But anything more than that-dislike evolving to grudging acceptance and respect-was impossible to consider. It was disloyal, even, to entertain such thoughts. It was divisive and nonproductive, surely.
Yet none of this kept him from having a chat with DAC Cherson in Personnel Management, although his heart was at its heaviest when he did it. Cherson authorised the temporary release of employment records. Lynley read them and told himself they amounted to nothing. Details that could be interpreted any way one wanted: a bitter divorce, a ruthless child-custody situation, spirit-breaking child support, a disciplinary letter for sexual harassment, a word to the wise about keeping fit, a bad knee, a commendation for extra course-work completed. Nothing, really. They amounted to nothing.
Still, he took notes and tried to ignore the sense of betrayal he felt as he did it. We all have skeletons, he told himself. My own are uglier than those of others.
He returned to his office. From where he'd stowed it on top of his desk, he read the profile of their killer. He thought about it. He thought about everything: from meals eaten and meals skipped, to boys disabled by an unexpected shot of electricity. What he thought was no. What he concluded was no. What he did was turn to the phone and ring Hamish Robson on his mobile.
He found him between sessions in his office near the Barbican, where he met with private clients away from the grim surroundings of Fischer Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It was a sideline dealing with normal people in temporary crisis, Robson told him.
"One can cope with the criminal element only so long," he confided. "But I expect you know what I'm talking about."
Lynley asked Robson if they could meet. At the Yard, elsewhere. It didn't matter.
"I've a full diary into the evening," Robson said. "Can we talk on the phone now? I've ten minutes before my next client."
Lynley considered this, but he wanted to see