on into the bedroom and from there to the storage cabinet at the top of the stairs where Barbara could hear him rooting systematically through the assortment of belongings. It was after four o'clock when she concluded her search of the files and rested back on her heels, satisfied with the validity of her hypothesis. Her only decision now was whether to tell Lynley or to hold her tongue until she had more facts, facts that he would be incapable of brushing aside.
Why, she wondered, had he not noticed it himself? How could he possibly have missed it? With the glaring absence of material right before his eyes, he was seeing only what he wanted to see, what he needed to see, a trail of guilt leading directly to Rhys Davies-Jones.
This guilt was so seductive a presence that it had become for Lynley an effective smokescreen hiding the one crucial detail that he had failed to note. Joy Sinclair had been in the midst of writing a play for Stuart Rintoul, Lord Stinhurst. And nowhere in the study was there a single reference to it. Not a draft, not an outline, not a list of characters, not a scrap of paper.
Someone had been through the house before them.
"I'LL DROP YOU in Acton, Sergeant," Lynley said when they were back outside. He headed down the street towards his car, a silver Bent-ley that had collected a small group of admiring schoolboys who were peering into its windows and running pious hands along its gleaming wings. "Let's plan on an early start out to Porthill Green tomorrow. Half past seven?"
"Fine, sir. But don't bother about Acton. I'll catch the Tube. It's just up on the corner of Heath Street and the high."
Lynley paused, turned back to her. "Don't be ridiculous, Barbara. That'll take an age. A change of stations and God only knows how many stops. Get in the car."
Barbara heard it as the order it was and looked for a way to deflect it without raising his ire. She couldn't possibly waste the time of having him drive her all the way home. Her day was far from over, in spite of what he thought.
Without considering how unlikely it would sound to him, she took a stab with the fi rst excuse that came into her mind. "Actually, I've a date, sir," she said. And then knowing how ridiculous the idea was, she smoothed over the absurdity with, "Well, it's not a date exactly. It's someone I've met. And we thought...well, perhaps we'd have dinner and see that new film at the Odeon." She winced inwardly at that last piece of creativity and took a moment to pray that there was a new film at the Odeon. Or at least if there wasn't, that he wouldn't be the wiser.
"Oh. I see. Well. Anyone I know?"
Hell, she thought. "No, just a bloke I met last week. At the supermarket, actually. We banged trolleys somewhere between tinned fruit and tea."
Lynley smiled at that. "Sounds exactly the way a meaningful relationship starts. Shall I drop you at the Tube?"
"No. I could do with the walk. I'll see you tomorrow, sir."
He nodded, and she watched him stride towards his car. In an instant he was surrounded by the eager children who had been admiring it.
"This your car, mister?"
"How much it cost?"
"Those seats leather?"
"C'n I drive it?"
Barbara heard Lynley laugh, saw him lean against the car, fold his arms, and take a moment to engage the group in friendly conversation. How like him, she thought. He's had all of three hours sleep in the last thirty-three, he's facing the fact that half of his world may be as good as in ruins, and still he takes the time to listen to children's chatter. Watching him with them-fancying from this distance that she could see the lines of laughter round his eyes and the quirky muscle that crooked his smile-she found herself wondering what she might actually be capable of doing to protect the career and integrity of a man like that.
Anything, she decided, and began her walk to the Tube.
SNOW WAS FALLING when Barbara arrived at the St. James home on Cheyne Row in Chelsea that evening at eight. In the tawny glow of the street lamps, snowflakes looked like slivers of amber, floating down to blanket pavement, cars, and the intricate wrought iron of balconies and fences.The flurry was mild by way of winter storms, but even so, enough to snarl the traffic on the