Rathbone was so appalled, he could not speak. He started at Ballinger as if he had risen out of the ground like some hellish apparition, and yet was so horribly, passionately human. It all made sense, the temptation, the logic, the rage, and the success.

“And don’t bother to look for them,” Ballinger went on. “You will not find them—not in two years, let alone two weeks.” He smiled. “The judiciary, in particular, would suffer. So you had better find some way to see that my conviction is overturned, whatever you have to do to bring that about. I don’t think I have to explain it for you, but if necessary, I can, and I will. There will be more than just me asking you for rescue, or blaming you, should you fail.”

Rathbone had thought the nightmare could get no worse, and now it had doubled, tripled.

“Why did you kill Parfitt?” he asked. It hardly mattered; he was just curious. “Was he growing greedy? Or threatening to bring the whole thing down himself?”

“No, there was nothing wrong with Parfitt,” Ballinger said quite casually, almost as if it were by the way, no more than incidental. Then suddenly his voice filled with intense emotion and he stared at Rathbone unblinkingly. “But I have to keep this power. There is so much still to be done, not just about pollution, but slum clearances, child labor …” His eyes were brilliant, feverish, watching Rathbone’s every flicker of expression. “What can you do, Oliver, with all your brilliant arguments in court? Can you move those men one inch from their comfort and their power?”

Rathbone did not bother to reply—the question was rhetorical. They both knew he could do nothing.

“I can,” Ballinger went on. “But I knew that Monk would never let it go. He believed I was behind Jericho Phillips, and he was determined to get me hanged. Parfitt’s death, in the same trade, would draw him like a magnet. If he hanged Rupert Cardew for it, wrongly, it would finish him in the police forever.”

“God almighty!” Rathbone swore incredulously. “It was to get Monk?”

“No, you fool!” Ballinger snarled with sudden savagery. “It was to save me. Monk is like a rat: he would never let go. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life looking backwards over my shoulder to see what new plan he has to ruin me.”

“And poor Hattie was going to testify that she stole Cardew’s cravat and gave it to … whom? Someone of yours?”

“Tosh Wilkin, if it matters.”

“No, not really.” Rathbone knew the moment he said it that Tosh would not have the photographs.

“Find a way, Rathbone,” Ballinger said between his teeth. “You have too much to lose if you don’t.”

Rathbone did not move. His limbs felt heavy, his chest as if there were a tight band around it.