the property. Two others were searching the grounds. Hanken himself was coordinating the effort, and when Lynley pulled to a stop in the car park he found his fellow DI smoking moodily beneath an umbrella near a panda car as the family-floor constable made his report.
“Get out with the others on the grounds, then,” Hanken was instructing him. “If there's been any digging round here, I want you lot on it like hounds down a foxhole. Understand? And mind you dig up that new road sign at the bottom of the drive.” The constable trotted off in the direction of the slope that fell away towards the road. There Lynley could see two other policemen pacing along evenly beneath the trees in the rain.
“Nothing so far,” Hanken told Lynley. “But it's here somewhere. Or something related to it is. And we'll find it.”
“I've got the waterproof,” Lynley said.
Hanken raised an eyebrow and tossed his cigarette onto the ground. “Have you indeed? That's good work, Thomas. Where'd you find it?”
Lynley told him about the thought process that had led him to the skip. Under a week's worth of rubbish from the hotel, he'd found the rain gear by relying upon a pitchfork and the patience of the dustmen who'd arrived just behind him to collect the skip's contents.
“You don't much look like you've been doing some skip-trolling,” Hanken told him.
“I showered and changed,” Lynley admitted.
The rubbish in the skip-piled up on the waterproof for nearly a week-had ultimately protected it from the rain, which might have otherwise washed away any evidence left upon it. As it was, the plastic garment hadn't been touched by anything other than coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, plate scrapings, old newspapers, and crumpled tissues. And since it had been turned inside out anyway, even these had only smeared its insides, giving it the appearance of a discarded tarpaulin. Its exterior had been largely untouched, so the blood splatters on it remained as they had been on the previous Tuesday night: mute witnesses to what had occurred inside Nine Sisters Henge. Lynley had bundled the waterproof into a supermarket carrier bag. It was, he said, in the boot of the Bentley.
“Let's have it, then.”
“First,” Lynley said with a nod at the Hall, “are the Maidens here?”
“We don't need an ID on the rain gear if it's got the kid's blood on it, Thomas.”
“I wasn't asking professionally. How are they taking the search?”
“Maiden claims he's found some bloke in London who can do a lie detector on him. Runs a business called Polygraph Professionals, or something like that.”
“If he's willing-”
“Bollocks,” Hanken cut in irritably. “You know that polygraphs are worth sod all. So does Maiden. But they make one hell of a delaying tactic, don't they? ‘Please don't arrest me. I've got a polygraph organised.’ Bugger that for a lark. Let's have the waterproof.”
Lynley handed it over. It was turned inside out, as it had been upon his discovery of it. But one of its edges was exposed, where the blood made a purple deposit in the shape of a leaf.
“Ah,” Hanken said when he saw it. “Yes. We'll get this over to forensic, then. But I'd say everything's over bar the shouting.”
Lynley didn't feel so certain. But why? he wondered. Was it because he couldn't believe Andy Maiden had killed his daughter? Or was it because the facts truly led elsewhere? “It looks deserted,” he said with a nod at the Hall.
“Due to the rain,” Hanken told him. “They're inside though. The lot of them. Most of the guests're gone, it being Monday. But the Maidens are here. As are the employees. Except for the chef. He generally doesn't show up till after two, they said.”
“Have you spoken to them? The Maidens?”
Hanken appeared to read the underlying meaning, because he said, “I haven't told the wife, Thomas,” and then transferred the waterproof to the front seat of the panda car. “Fryer!” he shouted in the direction of the slope. The family-floor constable looked up, then came at a trot when Hanken gestured him over. “The lab,” he said with a jerk of his head towards the car. “Drive that bag over for a work-up on the blood. See if you can get the job done by a girl called Kubowsky. She doesn't let grass grow, and we're in a hurry.”
The constable looked happy enough to be out of the rain. He removed his lime-coloured windcheater and hopped into the car. In less than ten seconds he was gone.
“Exercise in going through the motions,” Hanken said. “The blood's the boy's.”
“Doubtless,” Lynley agreed. Still, he looked towards the Hall. “D'you mind if I have a word with Andy?”
Hanken eyed him. “Can't accept it, can you?”
“I can't get away from the fact that he's a cop.”
“He's a human being. Governed by the same passions as the rest of us,” Hanken said. Mercifully, Lynley thought, he didn't add the rest: Andy Maiden was better than most people at doing something about those passions. Instead, Hanken said, “Mind you, remember that,” and strode off in the direction of the outbuildings.
Lynley found Andy and his wife in the lounge, in the same alcove where he and Hanken had first spoken to them. They weren't together this time, however. Rather, they sat, silent, on the opposing sofas. They were in identical positions: leaning forward with their arms resting just above their knees. Andy was rubbing his hands together. His wife was watching him.
Lynley obliterated from his mind the Shakespearean image that was invoked by Andy's attention to his hands. He said his former colleague's name. Andy looked up.
“What're they looking for?” he asked.
Lynley didn't miss the pronoun or its implication of a distinction between himself and the local police.
He said, “How are you both doing?”
“How do you expect we're doing? It's not enough that Nicola's been taken from us. But now you come and tear apart our home and our business without having the
Maiden said, “Tommy?”
Lynley gave him what he could. “We've found her waterproof.”
“Where?”
“There's blood on it. The boy's most likely. We assume the killer wore it to protect his clothes. There may be other evidence on it. He'd have pulled it on over his hair.”
“Are you asking me for a sample?”
“You might want to arrange for a solicitor.”
“You can't think he did this!” Nan Maiden cried.
“Do you think I need a solicitor?” Maiden asked Lynley. And both of them knew what he was really asking:
Lynley couldn't reply in the way Maiden wanted. Instead, he said, “Why did you ask for me specifically? When you phoned the Yard, why did you ask for me?”
“Because of your strengths,” Maiden replied. “Among which was always honour first. I knew that I could depend on that. You'd do the right thing. And, if it came down to it, you'd keep your word.”
They exchanged a long look. Lynley knew its meaning. But he couldn't risk being played for a fool. He said, “We're approaching the end, Andy. Keeping my word or not isn't going to make a difference then. A solicitor's called for.”
“I don't need one.”
“Of course you don't need one,” his wife agreed quietly, having taken some strength, it seemed, from her husband's sense of calm. “You've done nothing. You don't need a solicitor when you've nothing to hide.”
Andy's gaze dropped back to his hands. He went back to massaging them. Lynley left the lounge.
For the next hour the search of Maiden Hall and its environs continued. But at the end of it, the five remaining constables had come up with nothing that resembled a long bow, the remains of a long bow, or any item related to archery. Hanken stood in the rain with the wind whipping his mac round his legs. He smoked and brooded, studying Maiden Hall as if its limestone exterior were hiding the bow in plain sight. His search team waited for further
