Another clear Monday dawned. Inspector Thomas Lynley rolled over in bed, once again feeling that empty chasm. The alarm clock trilled away to itself. He shut it off gloomily, before climbing out of bed, opening the window and staring out over the City of London.
A pale sun cast watery beams in an azul sky, and held the promise of another hot, humid day. Below him on the street, cars were already negotiating the cobweb of streets to their respective destinations, resembling brightly coloured spiders. Before long, dull exhaust fumes would permeate the fragile atmosphere and obscure the great dome of St Paul's cathedral, just visible in the distance.
Lynley was woken from his reverie by the sound of the phone blasting its discordant notes throughout the house. Denton was away in Greece, visiting relatives, so he padded down the hall and relieved the phone.
"Hello?"
"Lynley." It was Webberly, and he didn't sound all too pleased. "There's been a death on Duck Island, St James' park. We're not too sure what to make of it. Could you get yourself down here A.S.A.P?"
"I'm on my way." The line went dead
A constable bustled over with latex gloves upon Lynley's arrival.
"We think it's a suicide at the moment, sir, but it's hard to tell."
"Thanks, Jo. Where's Webberly?"
"Left. He was only here five minutes. Reckons he knows the victim."
"I can't say I'm surprised. He thinks he knows everyone. Now, let's take a look."
This was the part he hated; human suffering at its most terrible. There was an atmosphere of oppression surrounding the corpse, and it certainly looked to be a suicide; there were deep gashes up and down the arms, and a number of small lacerations punctured the throat and chest.
"Do we have any leads?"
"We've got a wallet, with drivers' license etcetera."
"Verify its authenticity. Meanwhile, the case is suspicious."
"Yes, sir."
As the computer booted up, Lynley looked through his post. Just the usual: a gas bill, a postcard from Denton, and three wrongly delivered letters from the Inland Revenue. There was still no news of Helen. He hadn't heard from her in months.
Dejectedly, he loaded up his homepage, and scrolled down. A note in the adverts caught his eye. Alongside the usual drivel about fabric softeners and ringtones was a small passport photograph, with the words 'have you seen this man? Information required.' in bold type underneath. A telephone number was supplied. Lynley grabbed the phone.
"Hello?" a voice answered,
"Hello. I have news of the man you are looking for."
"You do? What sort of news?"
"I…can't say here. Where can I meet you to…discuss matters?"
"Outside 13, Caistor Street. NW1 3WD. Back door. 7.30 pm tomorrow."
"I'll be there. The person at the other end hung up.
"Hello…Havers, it's me. We've got something."
The doors of New Scotland yard CID slid open. Havers was standing behind them.
"Morning, sir,"
"If you can call it that,"
"Here, this'll brighten you up." She passed Lynley a cardboard cup of coffee. "No news of Helen, then?"
"Not yet." Lynley knew it was pointless to try to keep things from Havers; she could read peoples' minds like a book.
"You're all set for this evening?" Havers snorted derisively,
"Of course."
"Then it's a date." She affectionately hit him over the head with the copy of 'The Independent' she was holding, and strode off down the corridor. Lynley watched her go, grinning.
"Stop gawping at the birds and get some work done." Webberly sauntered past. Lynley tossed his empty cup into the bin and intercepted a passing Constable.
"Tell Jo we're certain that the documents are legitimate next time you see her, would you?"
"Yes sir,"
"Thanks." He ducked into his office and started on the mountain of paperwork towering over his desk.
Havers was already at the house, smoking a cigarette, when he arrived.
"Please, have mercy Sergeant, I implore you!"
"At least I confront my vices. You know you're dying to lick the ashtray clean."
"Fair play," he followed her round to the back through the flaking side gate. A tall man stood there, in a moss green jacket, a deep blue shirt and grey trousers. He had very short, reddish blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and a deep voice, with a slight Nottingham accent. He introduced himself curtly, with a slightly furtive expression,
"Gary Sutton."
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Thomas Lynley, and this is Barbara Havers." He reached out to shake hands. Sutton reached tentatively, but his handshake was hard and businesslike.
"What's the name of the man you want?"
"Phil. I don't…want him. It's more a question of …looking for him. He made me a promise three months back, and I haven't heard from him since."
"Any idea where he went?"
"He was going away. Part of his side of the bargain involved a quick jaunt to the Middle East,"
"Really? And you haven't seen him since?"
"No. I reckon he got nabbed by the officials on the Afghanistan border. Just between you and me, he wasn't all too clever at hiding himself, let alone the heroin. Stupid of me to let him go over there, I guess." He looked across at them, as if waiting for assurance. Strange, Lynley thought. For someone who seemed so hard, he was very uncertain.
Sutton was speaking again.
"I've given out my fair share of information. Now it's my turn to do the asking. What do you know about Phil?" Lynley produced his ID
"I'm Inspector Lynley, and this is Sergeant Havers. Phil was found dead, suspected murder, yesterday morning." Sutton looked shocked, then pensive. He turned away and kicked violently at the rotten fence
"Phil, you idiot!"
"Do you know anything about this?" Havers intervened
"No…nothing." He exhaled deeply, "Good man. He was probably asking for it, though"
"I'm afraid we'll still have to take you down the station, as you've admitted to involvement in drug trafficking." Sutton grinned in what he hoped was a winning way at the Sergeant,
"Trust me and my big mouth." He shrugged, resignedly.
Lynley took him by the shoulders and lead him to the back of the nearby police car, before he and Havers got into his own.
Back at Scotland Yard the next day, Lynley turned over in his mind what information they had managed to glean from Sutton. The victim had been trafficking drugs in the Middle East, the last they knew of him. He'd made a pact with someone; he might have got in with a string of drug dealers. But if he was supposed to be shipping heroin in Afghanistan, what was he doing dead in St James' park? There was something they didn't know. The passports had passed through the check without a glitch; they were obviously genuine. Lynley pondered this, and then closed the file he was looking at and went to find Webberly. It was time he asked him what he knew.
"You said you recognised the man we saw the other day?" Lynley asked as they breezed up the white corridors.
"Yes, I did. Phil was an old colleague from MI6. He got sacked for misconduct. You know the sort of thing: abusing his powers; being a bit free and easy with the information, especially when he'd had a few too many; letting slip his identity and so forth. Why?"
"We spoke to a friend of his yesterday, and he was supposed to be shipping heroin in Afghanistan."
"You spoke to Gary Sutton?
"Yes. You know him?" Lynley was surprised.
"You could say that. He's been in a good three or four times since I've worked here. Last I heard, he was exploiting young girls from Thailand. We've never tripped him up. Probably a good thing for him, too; we've a wealth of evidence to use against him now."
"He's in at this moment."
"What for? He the murderer?"
"He's a suspect, certainly, but there are a few more likely people in. He's here because he shot his mouth off about the drug trafficking."
"It's got to be him. Lynley, think about it: it all adds up. He's the only one you can find who knows about this 'pact'. He's the only one who knows where Phil should have been. It has to be him!"
"That's exactly why we're questioning him. He may be a criminal, but if we can get him to tell us who else is involved in this, he can help us."
Havers stuck her head round the door.
"Sir, he's talking!" Lynley went to follow her, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turned.
"Get him, Lynley; he's guilty."
Havers trudged down Victoria Street. It was barely seven in the morning, yet the sun was already emerging, its intense glare framing the countless office blocks on the horizon. The air felt dry and abrasive. She knew that Sutton was still being questioned. He had named three people, who even now were being tracked down. The body had just come back from the post mortem, and apparently, it was riddled with heroin, carbon monoxide and alcohol. Webberly was still convinced that Sutton was the murderer, but neither she nor Lynley could fathom what lay at the root of this. Havers had taken it upon herself to solve this problem on her own. She wasn't stupid; she knew what Lynley thought of her as a colleague. They were so unlike, sometimes it felt as if they were from opposite ends of the world, let alone London. She wanted to prove herself, and this looked like a very good opportunity.
"Morning, sir," she grinned at Webberly as he joined her in the smoking room with a cup of coffee.
"Good morning, Havers. How're you keeping?"
"Well. You?"
"Good enough." The formalities over, she sunk onto a chair. He remained standing.
"I was just wondering, sir, about what you said about Sutton."
"Ah yes, Sutton. To quote Portia, 'at best he is a little worse than a man, and at worst he is little better than a beast.' My entourage, I'm sure, will agree with that statement."
"But why so hostile?"
"It's a long story, and one I would rather not tell, but I will give you the fundamentals of it. Quite apart from the fact that he is a drug-dealer that we can't get our hands on, and a people-trafficker into the bargain, we were at MI6 together. I did something which, I must admit, I am not proud of, but what he did to 'neutralise' it was far worse. I've never forgiven him for it."
"But surely you're able to bury the hatchet?"
"I should be. That's probably what I should do. The only problem is that I can't. I don't want to forget. If I forget, he forgets. He won't forget until he's where he deserves – banged up. Preferably with Beadle, but that's optional."
Havers overlooked this attempt at a joke. It was futile, even by her standards.
"Then why not just confront him about it? He's just down the corridor."
"I can't. Too stubborn. The both of us."
Webberly's mobile rang. "Sorry, I've got to go."
Lynley walked into the room then, and sat down heavily.
"Havers…"
"Sir?"
"Look at this." He handed her a large brown envelope, and sat, with his head in his hands. She scanned the official-looking documents inside.
"Sir, I'm sorry."
"She's left me, Havers. She's filed for a divorce. I knew I shouldn't have stayed the hours." Havers moved across to sit next to him.
"It's not your fault, Sir"
"How would you know?" he snapped. Then his shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry, Havers…Barbara. I just…"
"Don't worry about it, Sir. If you ask me, it's her loss."
"As if anyone would be interested in me."
"I know loads of women who'd go for you."
"Oh, really?"
"Yep. Come on; they aren't going to go for you looking like a weekend in Bognor. A weekend in Bognor's what you should look like round my place over a nightcap."
"Really?"
"Yep. Half eight on Friday?"
"Sure…thank you… Barbara" They caught each other's eye, and paused, for a fraction of a second.
Then Lynley stood up, suddenly businesslike.
"Now, what've we got so far?" She filled him in on the current proceedings with Webberly, and he sat down again.
"You know what this means, don't you?"
"I'm afraid not."
"We got the results from forensics late last night. Size eleven Doc Marten prints left, right and centre, not to mention a wealth of blue polyester fibres…"
"No…"
"We thought he'd just been careless when he first arrived on the scene. This proves otherwise. Webberly evidently wasn't telling you everything-"
"-and that's why he wanted us to shop Sutton so badly!"
"We've arrived at the grim conclusion, I'm afraid."
The time seemed to pass by in a blur for Lynley. People rushed to and from the questioning rooms. Webberly was held for two days, and finally confessed. He was arrested, as were the two young Afghans whom he had had carry out the deed, and Sutton. It turned out that Sutton had sent him out to Afghanistan, but had cold feet at the last minute and tried to call Phil back. In Afghanistan, Phil had been intoxicated with heroin and alcohol, before being carted back into Europe in the back of a van. He was weak with blood poisoning, and it had taken Webberly only a few well-placed incisions to finish him off. Events culminated in all four getting a twelve-year sentence. The authorities were scouting for a suitable candidate for the now-vacant post of Superintendent.
'All's well that ends well' he thought as he knocked on the battered cream front door. It opened, and he went inside.
"Nightcap?" Barbara asked,
"Thanks." He replied.