“He’s hurting Mummy!” Simisola said into Tani’s chest. “Tani . . . !”
Tani whispered, “I know, Squeak. We heard. We know.”
“You got to stop him!”
“I will. But you got to come with me and Sophie and you got to do it now.”
“But Mummy!”
“No time, Simi,” Sophie said. “Your dad wants to hurt you. Your only chance to be safe is to come with us.”
“Mum would want you to come,” Tani added. He picked up Simi’s rucksack upon the roar of “You think I do not know what you do? This ends now,” and a terrible cry that Tani knew he would not soon stop hearing.
At that Sophie was out of the window. Tani lifted his sister out as well. Sophie took her hand and fled down the steps. Tani was not far behind.
WESTMINSTER
CENTRAL LONDON
Barbara Havers reckoned that Nkata’s confab with Hillier—no matter its subject—gave her the excuse she’d been looking for. Once he’d headed in the direction of the assistant commissioner’s office, she produced a look as regretful as she could make it and spoke to Dorothea, saying, “It’s not looking like the sketching experience is going to happen, Dee. We’ll be working straight through, you can bet on it. Especially now Hillier’s put a bee in the butter. I reckon the inspector’s going to order all hands on deck.” She frowned and considered what she’d just said, adding, “I think I mixed metaphors or disagreed my verbs or whatever. But you take my meaning, right?”
Dorothea’s perfect posture altered slightly, a deflation of her expectations, as she said, “If I didn’t know you better, Barbara—Detective Sergeant Havers, that is—I’d say you’re trying to get out of this.”
“Never would I dare,” Barbara avowed.
“Hmph. Right. But let me ask you: Is it the sketching part of it that’s putting you off? I did see that you chucked the bag of materials under your desk, by the way.”
“Oh. Well. As to that.” Barbara wasn’t sure where to go from there.
“There’s no reason to be nervous about sketching,” Dorothea assured her. “I expect three quarters of the people there aren’t sketchers at all. They probably don’t even want to become sketchers. I reckon they’re there for the same reason we are: they’re looking for true love.”
This was too much. Barbara said, “Dee, you don’t actually believe in that, do you?”
“In what? In people looking for true love?”
“In true love, full stop. That only happens in fairy tales.”
“And what exactly is wrong with fairy tales?”
“Nothing straight to the end of them,” Barbara told her.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the ‘happily ever after’ bit. It should’ve been ‘happily enough till something came up.’ Believe me: every fairy tale needs a part two.”
“Oh pooh,” Dorothea said. “You give up too easily.”
“Well. Right. You work this job”—with a gesture that took in their surroundings—“you get a bit cynical.”
“I intend to cure you of that.”
“The job or cynicism?”
“Very funny. I see sketching isn’t going to be the thing for you. Give me that bag. I’ll take everything back.”
“Cheers,” Barbara said as she excavated for it beneath her desk and handed it over.
“No worries, Detective Sergeant Havers. I’ll find something else that will work a trick. Just you wait.” On that note, Dee clicked her stiletto-shod way back to her desk near Lynley’s temporary office.
Once she was gone, Barbara placed a call to the forensics lab across the river and, after three tries, she made contact with the tech in charge of the sculptures from Teo Bontempi’s flat. There was nothing, she was told, no joy whatsoever. There were a few fingerprints, but they belonged to the victim, and there was no DNA to suggest that any of the sculptures had been used to bash in anyone’s head. Another damn nonstarter. Barbara made arrangements to fetch the sculptures back to Streatham, rang off, then looked online for the phone number of Taste of Tennessee.
The phone rang for a bit till someone finally barked, “Yeah? Make it bloody quick. The fryer’s ready.”
Barbara hastened to cooperate. Did this individual know the name of the landlord for the building next door? The Metropolitan Police were ringing.
“Why the hell would I know that? And why’s the Met want it anyway?”