of the lad." She glanced back in the direction of the storage room and then added quietly, "Depression. It will do you in if you aren't careful. I felt it myself when Val's dad died. It wasn't sudden, of course, so at least I had some time to prepare. But you feel it all the same when someone's gone, don't you? There's that void, and there's no getting round it. You're staring into it all day long. Val and I opened this shop because of it."
"Because of...?"
"Her dad's dying. He left us well enough off, I mean with enough to get by on. But one can't sit home and stare at the walls. One has to keep living." She paused and untied her apron. As she folded it carefully and laid it on the top of the counter, she nodded as if she'd just revealed something to herself. "You know, I think I'll have a word with our Robbie about that very subject. Life must go on." She cast a last, furtive look at the storage room. "And she's a good cook, our Val. That's not something a young man of marriageable age ought to turn his nose up at. Just because she's the quiet type...After all, what's more important at the end of the day? Conversation or good food? Good food, correct?"
"Won't get an argument from me," Nkata said.
Clara smiled. "Really?"
"Most men like to eat," he told her.
"Exactly," she said, and he realised she'd begun looking at him with entirely new eyes.
Which told him it was time to thank her for her information and to depart. He didn't want to think of what his mum would say if he showed up at home with a Val on his arm.
"I WANT AN EXPLANATION," were the assistant commissioner's words to Lynley as he walked through the door. He hadn't waited for Harriman to announce him, instead allowing a simple and terse, "Is he in here?," to precede him into the office.
Lynley was seated behind his desk, comparing forensic reports on Davey Benton with those from the killings that had gone before his. He set the paperwork aside, took off his reading spectacles, and stood. "Dee said you wanted to speak to me." He motioned towards the conference table at one side of the room.
Hillier didn't accept that wordless invitation. He said, "I've had a talk with Mitch Corsico, Superintendent."
Lynley waited. He'd known how likely it was that this would come once he thwarted Corsico's intentions of doing a story on Winston Nkata, and he understood the workings of Hillier's mind well enough to realise he had to let the assistant commissioner have his say.
"Explain yourself." Hillier's words were regulated, and Lynley had to give him credit for descending into enemy territory with the intention of holding on to his temper as long as he could.
He said, "St. James has an international reputation, sir. The fact that the Met is pulling out all the stops on this investigation-by bringing in an independent specialist to be part of the team, for example-was something I thought should be highlighted."
"That was your thought, was it?" Hillier said.
"In brief, yes. When I considered how far a profile of St. James could go to boost public confidence in what we're doing-"
"That wasn't your decision to make."
Lynley went doggedly on. "And when I compared that increase in confidence with what could be gained by profiling Winston Nkata instead-"
"So you admit you moved to block access to Nkata?"
"-then it seemed likely that we could make more political hay from letting the public know we've an expert witness on our team than we could make by putting a black officer on display and washing his dirty linen in public."
"Corsico had no intention-"
"He went straight to questions about Winston's brother," Lynley cut in. "It sounded to me as if he'd even been briefed on the subject, so he'd know what angle he ought to take when he wrote the interview. Sir."
Hillier's face took on deep colour. It rose from his neck like a ruby liquid just beneath his skin. "I don't want to think what you're implying."
Lynley made an effort to speak calmly. "Sir, let me try to be clear. You're under pressure. I'm under pressure. The public's stirred up. The press is brutal. Something's got to be done to mould opinion out there-I'm aware of that-but I can't have a tabloid journalist sniffing round the background of individual officers."
"You're not going to be naying or yeaing decisions made above your