believe he actually had. Someone to turn to. Someone to..." The DS seemed to bring himself up short, perhaps realising he'd gone from relaying information as an officer of the law to advocating action like a social militant. He loosened the tight grip he had on his teacup.
Small wonder that he was upset by the boy's death, Barbara thought. With his present mind-set, she wondered not only how long Gill had been a cop but also how he managed to stay one, facing what he had to face at work every day. She said, "It's not your fault, you know. You did what you could. Fact is, you did more than most cops would've done."
"But as things turned out, I did not do enough. And that is what I must live with now. A boy is dead because Detective Sergeant Gill could not bring himself to do enough."
"But there are millions of kids like Kimmo," Barbara protested.
"And most of them are alive at this moment."
"You can't help them all. You can't save each one."
"That is what we tell ourselves, isn't it?"
"What else should we tell ourselves?"
"That saving all of them is not required of us. What is required is helping the ones whom we come across. And this, Constable, I failed to do."
"Bloody hell. Don't be so hard on yourself."
"Who else," he said, "is there to do so? Tell me that if you will. Because here is exactly what I believe: If more of us were hard on ourselves, more children would live lives all children deserve."
At this, Barbara dropped her gaze from his. She knew she couldn't argue with that. But the fact that she wanted to do so told her how close she herself was to caring too much. And this, she knew, made her more like Gill than she, as part of the team investigating these crimes, could afford to be.
That was the irony about police work. Care too little and more people died. Care too much and you couldn't catch their killer.
"I'D LIKE A WORD," Lynley said. "Now." He didn't add sir and he made no real effort to modulate his voice. Had he been present, Hamish Robson no doubt would have taken note of everything his tone implied about aggression and the need to settle a score, but Lynley didn't care about that. They'd negotiated an arrangement. Hillier hadn't upheld it.
The AC had just concluded a meeting with Stephenson Deacon. The head of the Press Bureau had left Hillier's office looking as grim as Lynley felt. Things were obviously not going smoothly at that end of things, and for a moment Lynley took a perverse pleasure in this. The thought of Hillier eventually dangling in the wind of the Press Bureau's machinations before a pack of baying journalists was deeply gratifying just now.
Hillier said, as if he hadn't spoken, "Where the hell is Nkata? We've a meeting with the media coming up and I want him here in advance." He gathered up an array of papers spread out on his conference table and shoved them at an underling who was still seated there, having attended the meeting that had gone on prior to Lynley's arrival. He was a razor-thin twentysomething in John Lennon spectacles who was continuing to take notes as he apparently tried to avoid becoming the focus of Hillier's exasperation. "They're on to colour," the AC said curtly. "So who the hell over there"-he jerked his finger in what Lynley decided was supposed to be a southerly direction, meaning south of the river, meaning the Shand Street tunnel-"leaked that bit to those predators? I want to know and I want that bugger's head on a dish. You, Powers."
The underling jumped to, leaning in to say, "Sir? Yes, sir?"
"Get that halfwit Rodney Aronson on the phone. He's running The Source these days, and the colour question came in by phone from someone on that rotten little rag. Trace it back to us that way. Put pressure on Aronson. On anyone else you come across as well. I want every leak plugged by the end of the day. Get on to it."
"Sir." Powers scooted from the room.
Hillier went to his desk. He picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers, either oblivious of or indifferent to Lynley's presence and his state of mind. Unbelievably, he began to book himself a massage.
Lynley felt as if battery acid were running through his veins. He strode across the room to Hillier's desk, and he pushed the