She said, “Two dinners at a wine bar in Holland Park. European cheek kisses at the end of the night.”
Dorothea blinked. “What?”
“Dee, please. I know you better than you know yourself, as someone once said to me. You want to know if I’ve seen Salvatore Lo Bianco since he’s been here—other than at our dance concert, although to call it a dance concert makes it sound like we actually were able to dance—”
“Which we absolutely were and you know it.”
“Right. Whatever. So I’ve had dinner with him twice, once with Lynley and Dr. Trahair, so that barely counts.” That had been the limit of her intercourse with the Italian policeman, and Barbara intended to keep it that way. But Dorothea was nothing if not determined to move a man into Barbara’s future as well as into her own. “And anyway, I already know Italian,” Barbara added.
“Oh my God! You do?”
“Ciao, grazie, pizza, and prego, but don’t test me on what any of that means. Except pizza, of course. I’ve got that one bloody well down.”
“Very funny,” Dorothea said. “Hilarious. I’m bursting my buttons. I’m also signing us up for sketching. If you don’t behave yourself, I’ll sign us up for Chinese cookery as well.”
“Fine. Wonderful. A-okay and all the rest,” Barbara told her. “Look up sketching and tell me what you discover. I’ll start pinching paper and pencils.”
She wasn’t long at her desk when Lynley returned. He was carrying a small stack of manila folders. He indicated with an inclination of his head that he wished to see her in his temporary office. He gestured at DS Winston Nkata as well. Nkata appeared to be buried deeply in the mind-numbing boredom of a CCTV film taken inside Gloucester Road tube station. He also appeared to be barely able to keep his eyes open for whatever it was for which he was meant to search. Barbara had to call his name three times before he looked up. Then she did the same as Lynley, inclining her head in the general direction of his office.
Winston rose from his desk. He was quite tall, six foot five, so standing from a seated position required some adjusting of his spine. As soon as he was on his feet, Barbara set off towards Lynley’s office. If Lynley wanted to see them both, chances were good that the game was afoot.
As she entered, she noted that the acting DCS—Lynley—had still done nothing to alter the office. Its usual occupant—DCS Isabelle Ardery—was on personal leave for at least eight weeks, taking the cure on the Isle of Wight. The state of the office served to indicate Lynley’s confidence in Ardery’s ability to get herself in order regarding drink before she bollixed up her life for good. Personal items—like photos of her twin boys—had been removed by the DCS herself. Everything else was as it had been. Even the furniture had not been moved so much as an inch.
Lynley gestured to the circular table at one side of the room. He said as he did so, “Dorothea was correct. We’re dealing with something from Empress State Building.”
“Something dodgy happening there, sir?” Barbara asked.
“A murder,” Lynley told her.
“Why’s the Press Office involved?”
“The usual: to keep things quiet, calm, and, they hope, out of the papers for as long as possible.”
EMPRESS STATE BUILDING
WEST BROMPTON
SOUTH-WEST LONDON
Empress State Building stood massively on Lillie Road, not far from West Brompton underground station, as well as the lichenous Victorian monuments of Brompton Cemetery. The building was staggeringly tall, vaguely clover-shaped, and dressed in the uninspiring grey-and-glass of so many of London’s modern buildings. Like New Scotland Yard, it was heavily protected. One didn’t simply wander in off the street to chat with the local bobby.
Lynley was expected. After a five-minute wait opposite Peeler’s Café, a ginger-haired man of middle age came out of one of the lifts and then through the turnstile, saying, “DCS Lynley?”
“Thomas,” Lynley said. “And the DCS is acting only. I’ve been asked to step in for a few weeks while my guv’s on leave. You’re DCS Phinney?”
“Mark.” He offered his hand. He had a firm grip, Lynley noted. Phinney said, “They’ve given you a visitor’s badge, I see. Good. Come with me. We’re on the seventeenth but I’ll take you to the Orbit. Spectacular views up there.”
He badged Lynley through the turnstile and led the way to a bank of lifts that went only to the upper floors of the building. It was a quick trip. The lift was fast and silent.