“Satisfy away.”
The contents of the third bag appeared to be articles from the Saab's boot. Among the items lying on the barrel top were the car's jack, a box spanner, a wheel brace, and a set of screwdrivers. Three spark plugs looked as if they'd been rolling round the boot since its factory days, and a set of jump leads were curled round a small chrome cylinder. Lynley lifted this last up and looked it over under the light.
“What've we got?” Hanken asked.
Lynley reached for his glasses and slipped them on. He'd been able to identify every other item that had been taken from the car, but what the cylinder was, he couldn't have said. He turned the object over in his hand. Little more than two inches long, the cylinder was perfectly smooth both inside and out, and either end of it was curved and polished, suggesting that as it was, it was all of a piece. It opened to fall precisely in half by means of a hinge. Each half had a hole bored into it. Through each hole an eyebolt was screwed.
“Looks like something from a machine,” Hanken said. “A nut. A cog. Something like that.”
Lynley shook his head. “It hasn't any interior grooves. And if it had, we'd be looking at a machine the size of a space ship, I dare say.”
“Then what? Here. Let me have a look.”
“Gloves, sir,” Mott barked, vigilance in action. He tossed a pair to Hanken, who put them on.
In the meantime, Lynley gave the cylinder a closer scrutiny. “It's got something on the inside. A deposit of some kind.”
“Motor oil?”
“Not unless motor oil solidifies these days,” Lynley said.
Hanken took it from him and had his own go with it. He turned it in his palm and said, “Substance? Where?”
Lynley pointed out what he'd seen: a smear in the shape of a small maple leaf lapping over the top—or the bottom—of the cylinder. Something had been deposited there and had dried to the colour of pewter. Hanken scrutinised this, even going so far as to sniff it in a noisy, houndlike fashion. He asked Mott for an evidence bag and said, “Get this checked out straightaway.”
“Ideas?” Lynley asked him.
“Not off the top of my head,” he replied. “Could be anything. Bit of salad cream. Smear of mayonnaise from a prawn sandwich.”
“In the boot of her car?”
“She went on a picnic. How the devil do I know? That's what forensic is for.”
There was more than a grain of truth to this. But Lynley felt unsettled by the presence of the cylinder, and he wasn't altogether sure why. He said, attempting delicacy with the request and knowing how it might be interpreted, “Peter, would you mind if I had a look at the crime scene?”
He needn't have worried. Hanken was hot to get on to other things. “Have at it. I'll have at Upman.” He peeled off his gloves and fished out his Marlboros a final time, saying to Mott, “Don't have a coronary, Constable. I'm not lighting up in here.” And once outside the constable's demesne, he went on happily as he fired up the tobacco. “You know how it looks, with the girl bonking Upman as well as … what've we got so far, two others?”
“Julian Britton and the London lover,” Lynley verified.
“For starters. And Upman'll make a third once I've talked to him.” Hanken inhaled deeply and with some satisfaction. “So how d'you suppose our Upman felt, wanting her, having her, and knowing she was giving it out to two other blokes just as happily as she was giving it to him?”
“You're getting ahead of yourself on that one, Peter.”
“I wouldn't put money on it.”
“More important than Upman,” Lynley pointed out, “how did Julian Britton feel? He wanted to marry her, not to share her. And if, as her mother claims, she always told the truth, what might his reaction have been when he learned exactly what Nicola was up to?”
Hanken mulled this over. “Britton is easier to tag with an accomplice,” he admitted.
“Isn't he just,” Lynley said.