Lynley waited in his office for the call from Nkata. As he did so, Havers was directing the DCs who were engaged in several haystack searches. One of these involved every minicab company south of the river as well as every car-hire service and every black taxi, a task that would take forever to accomplish if the investigation wasn’t able to bring things to a conclusion in another manner. The other of these involved the name and location of every pier or wharf on the south bank of the Thames between King’s Stairs and London Bridge, as well as the location of every CCTV camera for each of them, should there even be a CCTV camera nearby. It was grueling work. But it was also critical, and Lynley made that clear the moment Winston Nkata had left them to accompany Deborah St. James to Deptford. At this point, and barring something truly conclusive, he didn’t anticipate an admission of guilt from anyone when it came to Teo Bontempi’s death. There were far too many moving parts in the investigation to be hopeful about anything.
It was two and a quarter hours into the slog being carried out by the DCs when the phone call from Nkata finally came. After speaking with him, Lynley rang the Met’s station in Westferry Road, arranged for an interview room for questioning, and told his colleagues there to expect him, along with DS Barbara Havers. With thanks, he said. Sometimes necessary conversations with suspects worked quite well in their own environments, and sometimes they did not. This, he reckoned, was going to be one of the latter.
He collected Havers, who asked him sardonically if he had the first idea how many docks and piers there were along the river. Dozens, he expected. But if the DCs perused the map and made contact with their colleagues at Wapping River Station, that should go some distance towards telling them which of the piers and docks were most easily used by casual boaters. She passed the information along to the DCs and joined him at the lift.
They set out in Lynley’s car. It was midafternoon and neither of them had taken time for lunch. Havers fished in her bag, saying she was bloody well famished. After a dedicated search, which involved removing an astonishing number of belongings from her shoulder bag, she brought forth a Twix and, after casting a speculative glance at him, handed over half of it. They munched companionably, after which she dug a flapjack from among her belongings, and they munched again. She followed this up with a packet of custard creams. She was again generous with it, and he half expected her to produce a Pop-Tart next. It certainly wouldn’t be something more wholesome like—in an utter change of culinary character—a piece of fruit. She didn’t disappoint, although it turned out that, post custard creams, she had only four Starburst sweets left in her cache, two of which had come unwrapped and bore a disturbing fur-like evidence of this. He demurred on these as his teeth were beginning to ache, and although he assumed this was psychosomatic, he thought it best to heed their warning. By the time they reached the station in Westferry Road, they admitted to each other that short of murder, they would both do anything for a cup of tea. Havers’s suggestion was stopping at “the nearest wherever, guv,” as she put it. For Lynley’s part, he said with certainty that the station would doubtless have a suitable canteen that would be available to them.
The station was large, its entrance taking up a street corner, the wings of the building stretching in both directions. Once they parked and made themselves known at reception, a uniformed constable came to fetch them. All was ready, they were informed.
They went first to the canteen—called Peeler’s, what else?—where they ordered three cups of tea to take away. Havers availed herself of the opportunity to replenish her stock of pre-packaged comestibles, after which they followed the constable to the interview room that had been set aside for their use.
She was waiting inside, and she wasn’t happy.
She said, “You two. I should have guessed. Is this really necessary?”
“You’ve not asked for a solicitor?” Lynley asked. He and Havers took seats opposite Dr. Weatherall. He switched on the tape recorder, gave the time and each of their names, and repeated his question as Havers passed one of the three takeaway teas to the surgeon. She’d also stowed several thimbles of milk and four packets of sugar in her bag, which she also produced.
“D’you know that I was about to begin a reconstruction?” Dr. Weatherall said. “That I was told by two completely indifferent constables it would not be allowed? I was informed that, surgery or not, I must come at once. And now I’ve been sitting here in this goddamn bloody room for”—she glanced at her wristwatch—“the same amount of time it would have taken me to perform most of the surgery in the first place.”