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earlier three, one was black and the two others were clearly mixed race: black and Asian, perhaps, black and Filipino, black and a blend of God only knew what.
    Seeing this last feature, Barbara understood: why there had been no front-page newspaper coverage, why no television, and worst of all, why no whispers round New Scotland Yard. She raised her head. “Institutionalised racism. That’s what they’re going to claim, isn’t it? No one across London—in any of the stations involved, right?—even twigged there’s a serial killer at work. No one got round to comparing notes. This kid—” here she raised the photograph of the black youth—“might’ve been reported missing in Peckham. Maybe in Kilburn. Or Lewisham. Or anywhere. But his body wasn’t dumped where he lived and disappeared from, was it, so the rozzers on his home patch called him a runaway, left it at that, and never matched him up to a murder that got reported in another station’s patch. Is that what happened?”
    “You can see the need for both delicacy and immediate action,” Hillier said.
    “Cheap murders, hardly worth investigating, all because of their race. That’s what they’re going to call the first three when the story gets out. The tabloids, television and radio news, the whole flaming lot.”
    “We intend to get the jump on what they call anything. If the truth be told, the tabloids, the broadsheets, the radio, and the television news—had they been attuned to what’s going on and not intent on pursuing scandals among celebrities, the government, and the bloody royal family—might have broken this story themselves and crucified us on their front pages. As it is, they can hardly claim institutionalised racism for our failure to see what they themselves could have seen and did not. Rest assured that when each station’s press officer released the news of a body being found, the story was judged a nonstarter by the media because of the victim: just another dead black boy. Cheap news. Not worth reporting. Ho-hum.”
    “With respect, sir,” Barbara pointed out, “that’s hardly going to stop them braying now.”
    “We’ll see about that. Ah.” Hillier smiled expansively as his office door swung open again. “Here’s the gentleman we’ve been waiting for. Have they sorted out your paperwork, Winston? May we call you Sergeant Nkata officially?”
    Barbara felt the question come at her like an unexpected blow. She looked at Lynley, but he was standing to greet Winston Nkata, who’d paused just inside the door. Unlike her, Nkata was dressed with the care he habitually employed: Everything about him was crisp and clean. In his presence—in the presence of all of them, come to that—Barbara felt like Cinderella in advance of the fairy godmother’s visit.
    She got to her feet. She was about to do the very worst thing for her career, but she didn’t see any other way out…except the way out, which she decided to take. She said to her colleague, “Winnie. Brilliant. Cheers. I didn’t know.” And then to the other two ranking officers, “I’ve just remembered a phone call I’m meant to return.”
    Then she left the room.
    ACTING SUPERINTENDENT Thomas Lynley felt the distinct need to follow Havers. At the same time, he recognised the wisdom of staying put. Ultimately, he knew, he’d probably be better able to do her service if at least one of them managed to remain in AC Hillier’s good graces.
    That, unfortunately, was never easy. The assistant commissioner’s style of command generally existed on the border between Machiavellian and despotic, and rational individuals gave the man a very wide berth if they could. Lynley’s own immediate superior—Malcolm Webberly, who’d been on medical leave for some time—had been running interference for both Lynley and Havers since the day he’d assigned them to their first case together. Without Webberly at New Scotland Yard, it fell to Lynley to recognise which side of the