No trace

15

As usual, Tevfik Akif, second cousin to Yasher Fikret and site manager for the building work on West Terrace, was the first to arrive on site that wet Thursday morning. It was still dark as he unlocked the gate in the chain-link security fence along the back lane, and then the door of the site hut in the compound formed from the cleared backyards of the houses. He didn’t remove his dripping raincoat because, having switched on the lights and heater in the hut, it had become his habit to go over to the basement room in number thirteen where they had formed a kind of recreation room. There was electricity down there and a sink, and they had installed a fridge, a microwave and a water boiler for hot drinks. So he pulled on a pair of rubber boots, took a torch from the shelf and made his way along the path of wooden duckboards that crossed the mud and puddles of the yard to the back door of the old brick building. He cursed as water from the broken gutter high above splashed onto his neck and shoulders as he fumbled for the key of the padlock securing the door, then swore again, louder, when the beam of his torch revealed the hasp ripped out of the door frame. Some bastards had broken in. He hesitated, then returned to the site hut and collected the pickaxe handle he kept there for emergencies of this kind.

Returning to the back door, Akif pushed it open and flashed his torch inside. There was no sound or sign of anyone. From the darkness of the front of the house he heard the old sash windows rattle as a delivery truck rumbled past in the square. There was nothing to steal here except down in the basement room. He went to the head of the stairs and found the light switch that the electrician had rigged up for them from the basement light. He switched it on and his heart leaped in his chest as he saw an unfamiliar shadow extending across the flagstones down there. Someone was waiting for him.

‘I know you’re down there!’ he yelled in his fiercest voice.‘You come out now where I can see you!’

But the shadow of the figure remained motionless. Akif began to wonder if he was mistaken. Perhaps something the men had left propped in the middle of the room was casting that shadow. Holding the pickaxe handle in one hand and the torch in the other, he slowly descended the stairs. At first, the glare of the bare bulb blinded him, and all he could see was an indistinct shape. He froze-there was a man, a black shape against the light! Then his eyes adjusted and he registered the truth in a single shocking moment-it was not a man but a woman, completely naked, hanging by the neck from an iron hook in the ceiling.

Kathy ran through the rain towards the front of number thirteen, where a uniformed man was sheltering in the doorway beneath the scaffolding. Dawn was just beginning to glimmer through the upper branches of the trees in the square. She showed her card and was directed to the front room, there exchanging her raincoat and shoes for a white protective suit and rubber boots. Renovations hadn’t got past the stripping-out stage in this house and the place had a desolate air, faded wallpaper peeling like skin from cracked plaster where shelving had been ripped away. She hurried down the hall to the doorway to the basement, where she could hear voices. A scene of crime officer was coming up the stairs and she stepped aside to let him pass.

‘Not much room below,’ he said.

She nodded and went down. Four people in white overalls were grouped together in the centre of the room, surrounded by an odd assortment of chairs and, over to one side, a packing case on top of which lay an abandoned deck of playing cards. She saw a microwave and a small fridge and an old sink, but it wasn’t until two of the people moved apart that she saw the naked back of the hanging woman, her wrists tied together behind her with insulating tape.

One of the men adjusted the mask covering his nose and mouth. She recognised Brock and wondered how he always seemed to get to the crime scenes ahead of her.

‘Come in, Kathy,’ he said. His voice struck her as dulled, by the mask or something else-anger, perhaps. ‘Recognise her?’

The others, a police doctor, the crime scene manager and a police photographer, made way for her as she walked around the body. There was a blindfold tied over the eyes, obscuring much of the face, but she recognised the thick grey and black hair, the chin. ‘It’s Betty, isn’t it? Betty Zielinski.’ Grey, shrivelled and abandoned, she looked older than in life. Her body seemed contorted by rheumatism, and afflicted by something else, too-covered in brown spots as if she’d contracted some strange form of chickenpox or been attacked by a swarm of bees. Her teeth were bared as if she was confronting an icy gale, or about to scream. Then another image came into Kathy’s mind, of the cast of Abbott’s mother suspended by a chain in Stan Dodworth’s room. She felt outrage and shock. A little time ago this woman had spoken to her, laughed and cried. She remembered her last words:‘Sh! Secrets!’

‘Not suicide?’ Kathy said, trying to hold on to objective fact. Betty’s feet were barely clear of the floor, her toes brushing the stone that was soaking wet beneath her. None of the chairs appeared to be in the right position to have been kicked away, unless something had been moved.

‘No,’ the doctor murmured. ‘I think we can rule that out.’

‘What are those brown spots?’

Brock pointed a gloved finger at a length of electrical lead lying on the floor. One end was plugged into the power board from which cables stretched to the appliances in the room. The other end had been taped to a length of wooden dowel used as a handle, and the insulation had been stripped back to expose the naked wire twisted into a stiff point.

‘They electrocuted her?’

Brock nodded.‘Many times.’

An involuntary spasm of nausea rose in Kathy’s throat. She turned away, tears of rage and pity welling in her eyes. She could hardly hear the doctor’s next words because of the roaring in her ears.

‘I’d say they deliberately wet her feet and the floor to earth her.’

Then the photographer said, ‘Looks like someone’s been here before me.’ He was crouching by a small circular mark on the dirty surface of the old stone flags, and he pointed to two others forming a precise triangle.

‘What’s that?’

‘Looks to me like the feet of a tripod. Could be a surveying instrument, I suppose, or a camera tripod.’

‘You mean they may have taken pictures of her?’

‘It’s the right position, yes.’

There was silence as they took this in.

‘She lived next door,’ Brock said finally to the scene manager. ‘I’d like to take a couple of your people in there with me. And you’ll want to have a good look in the back garden. They seem to have forced an entry through the back door, but it’s not clear how they got through the fence. Maybe over the wall from her yard.’

‘Right.’

‘Come on, Kathy,’ Brock said grimly and led the way up the stairs. In one of the rooms above they found Tevfik Akif sitting on a pile of bricks, and had him repeat his story, then they collected two of the SOCO team and fresh protective gear so as to avoid the risk of cross-contamination with the house next door. They went out the back way, across the duckboard path to the rear lane, and into Betty’s yard. Immediately they saw the broken pane of glass in her back door, which was unlocked.

The house was cold and very still, and a faint smell of fried onions hung in the air. While the two SOCO women went to work in the kitchen, Brock and Kathy moved on into the interior. The furniture was old and heavy and dark, like heirlooms from an earlier generation, and everywhere there were dolls, forlorn and abandoned, staring accusingly at the intruders. Nothing seemed disturbed downstairs, and they continued up to the bedroom floor. They found Betty’s bedroom at the rear, facing onto the lane. The bedclothes were thrown back, an electric underblanket still switched on. There were pieces of a broken china vase in a corner, and a damp stain on a rug beside the bed.

They continued from room to room, but nothing else seemed disturbed. The victim had had a bath, it seemed, brushed her teeth and gone to bed. Then someone had broken into her house.

‘Poor Betty,’Kathy breathed.‘She said she was afraid of a monster, just like Tracey.’

They opened the front door and were about to start searching the well leading down to the basement when they both noticed the looping letters of new graffiti on the footpath outside Betty’s house: ‘this is real’. At the same moment, a belligerent voice barked at them from the neighbouring house.

‘What d’you think you’re up to?’

Reg Gilbey was standing at his open front door, peering at them suspiciously in the grey morning light. His eyes were bleary through the thick lenses of his glasses, his sparse grey hair sticking up in wispy clumps as if he’d only just got out of bed. He was wearing a heavy cardigan with frayed cuffs and his baggy trousers had been darned at the knee with a thread several shades too dark, as had his thick socks. In one hand he was cradling a fat black cat and in the other he held a lighted cigarette.

‘Morning, Mr Gilbey,’ Brock said. ‘Remember us? Metropolitan Police, DCI Brock and DS Kolla.’

‘What’re you doing in Betty’s place?’

‘We’d like a word with you,’ Brock replied.

As they came up Gilbey’s steps Kathy said, ‘That’s Betty’s cat, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, woke me up this morning, mewing at the back door. Greedy tyke. What d’you want?’ He backed reluctantly into his hallway as they followed him in.

‘When did you last see Betty?’ Brock asked.

Gilbey pondered, thought processes apparently sluggish. He cleared his throat with a rasping gurgle and Kathy caught a strong whiff of whisky along with the tar. ‘Yesterday evening. Brought me a pie she’d baked. We ate it together with a glass of vino. Why? What’s the matter?’

This unexpected glimpse of domestic harmony between the two neighbours surprised Kathy. ‘I thought you two didn’t get on,’ she said.

‘There was that big crowd in the square, all those weirdos. Made Betty nervous. Scared her cat. What’s it to you, anyway?’

‘I’m afraid we have bad news about Betty, Mr Gilbey. She’s been found dead.’

Gilbey stared at her, then at Brock, face blank.‘Dead?’ he said slowly, as if the word meant nothing to him. The cat sensed something and leaped abruptly from his arm. ‘Betty?’

‘Let’s sit down in the kitchen,’ Kathy said. She steered him towards the open door at the end of the hall where she could see a pine table and chairs. Along the way the cigarette dropped from his fingers and Brock, following behind, picked it up. He doused it in the kitchen sink, next to the remains of a home-baked cheese and onion pie and an empty bottle of wine, and ran a glass of water for the painter, who had removed his glasses to rub his eyes. The frames were old and worn, Kathy noticed, heavy plastic, like a museum piece from the 1960s. She wondered if Gilbey, presumably a successful and prosperous man, looked so resolutely down at heel by choice or through self-neglect.

‘How did she go?’ Gilbey grunted after taking a swallow of water, hand trembling.‘Was it her heart?’

‘We’re not sure at the moment exactly how she died.’

Gilbey picked up the evasion in Brock’s answer and said sharply,‘She didn’t hurt herself, did she?’

‘No, she…’

But before Kathy could go on, Gilbey interrupted. ‘Who found her then?’

‘A builder. She was found in the basement of one of the houses they’re doing up.’

Gilbey’s brow wrinkled in astonishment.

‘When did she leave you last night?’

‘I don’t know… ten, ten-thirty. When the crowd began to break up. But how…?’

‘Was there anything specific about the crowd that bothered her? Did she mention anything?’

‘Not really. They just made her nervous. When they began to drift away she said she’d go home and run a hot bath. How did she come to be in the building site, for God’s sake? It’s locked up at night, and she didn’t get on with any of those men.’

‘We’re not sure at the moment. Did you hear anything unusual last night, after she left?’

‘Well… yes, I did. Some time after midnight, getting on for one, I’d say, I was getting ready to turn in. Her bedroom is through the wall from mine. I heard a thump from next door, and I wondered about it. She could be a clumsy old cow, knocking things over. In the end I did nothing.’

‘You know the layout of her house then?’

‘Course I do, we’ve been neighbours for thirty-five years.’

Brock’s phone rang and he listened for a moment, then murmured, ‘Right, I’ll be over in a minute.’ He rang off and said,‘I’m going back to the scene, Kathy. You finish up here with Mr Gilbey, will you?’

He left by the back door while the old painter lit another cigarette with an unsteady hand.

‘Do you want to lie down, Reg?’ Kathy asked, wondering if she should get a doctor.

‘No, I’m all right.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us?’

‘How did she die then?’ he asked.

‘It seems she was hanged.’

‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’

‘Can you think of anyone who’d want to do that?’

He shook his head distractedly. ‘She could be cantankerous, of course, accusing people of wanting to steal her things, stuff like that, but I never took it seriously.’

‘Did she have anything particularly valuable?’

He pondered, taking a faltering drag on his cigarette. ‘Never saw her wear jewellery, and she never had much cash. As far as I know, the only things of value that her husband left her apart from the house were his paintings. He’d been a bit of a collector, and his father before him.’

‘And they were valuable?’

‘The best English artists of the time: Ben Nicholson, Paul Nash, Sutherland, several Henry Moore drawings- stuff like that, all very solid, bought through reputable galleries. I know she’s sold a few of them over the years. I’m not sure what’s left.’

‘Later on, when the scientific people have finished, I’d like you to come next door with me and have a look to see if you can spot anything missing.’

He shrugged.‘If you want.’

‘So you’ve known Betty a long time?’

He seemed lost in thought for a while, then he stubbed out his cigarette and got stiffly to his feet. ‘Come on, I’ll show you something.’

He led her along the hall and began climbing the stairs, using the banister to help haul himself up. Kathy followed him up to the studio she’d visited before, recognising the smells of oil and pigment that seemed to impregnate the walls. Gilbey was searching through a rack of unframed canvases set up in a corner of the room. Finding the one he was after, he pulled it out, turning it towards the light for her to see. It was a large painting of a young nude woman, sitting in front of a window. Gilbey propped it up on a chair and stepped back, his eyes fixed on the face of the model. As she came closer, Kathy thought she recognised the large eyes and angular features, the central parting of long thick hair, jet black. The style of painting, with the paint densely applied in scoops and whorls of browns and white and black, was very different from the portrait of the judge standing nearby on its easel. Kathy assumed it must have been the work of another artist, but then she recognised the windows behind the seated model as those of the corner bay in this same room, with the trees of the central park beyond.

As if answering her unspoken question, Gilbey said, ‘I painted differently then.’ He gently touched the corrugated surface of the pigment with his fingertips.‘Laid it on thick, squeezed straight from the tube. I wanted to show the force of the material thing, the energy of its presence in the world, just as it was, without frills and tricks. The Kitchen Sink school, they called us in the fifties.’

In the corner of the painting Kathy noticed lettering, blunt and square: GILBEY 1969.

‘Later I moved on. I became less interested in the material presence and more in the spirit of what lay behind it.’ He sounded nostalgic, regretful, as if the texture of the paint against his hand had reminded him of an old friend. ‘The paint became thinner, more calculated, as I tried to show the soul… but it’s so bloody hard. I did this in one session, ten hours, and I knew I’d finished when I ran out of paint. Now…’ He looked over his shoulder at the judge’s portrait, ‘Well, I’ve been doing that for eight months now, maybe seventy or eighty sessions, layer upon layer, and I still haven’t captured the old goat, not really. I may never finish it.’

Comparing the two paintings, Kathy suddenly understood what he meant. The girl in the window had a real presence, but was flat and stylised, like a Byzantine icon, whereas the judge seemed to emerge out of the canvas as a human character in full, a man of judgement, intelligence and authority, yes, but also something else; crafty, predatory even, dangerous.

‘She was the one who made me want to change,’ Gilbey went on, and seeing the query on Kathy’s face he explained, ‘She was the first model I had who talked. Couldn’t shut her up. Told me more than I wanted to know about her life, and Harry. Harry was her husband, owned the house next door. I wanted quiet to concentrate on the paint, but she had to talk, and gradually I came to realise that the person that the talking revealed was more interesting than the body I was trying to represent. Took me a long time to come to terms with that.’ He turned back to examine the old painting, lost in memories.‘Resisted it until I began to see that my work was becoming just decorative, pattern-making. Then I had to start again, with sitters who would talk about themselves. And most of them will, with a bit of encouragement.’ He nodded his head, thinking, talking more to himself than to Kathy.‘Reckon it’s something to do with having to hold the same position all the time-frees the mind, like the psychiatrist’s couch. The judge is a great talker, oh yes.’ Gilbey gave a snort that sounded like contempt. ‘Well, I knew his reputation, of course. A man of fine words and firm moral judgement. But why was he so strict with certain types of criminals; the sex offenders, the rapists and pederasts? Was it because he felt so deeply for their victims? Or was it because he understood what drives them only too well? Now how do you show that in a portrait?’

‘He told you that?’ Kathy asked.

Gilbey looked up sharply, as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to.‘What? No, no, of course not.’

He turned away, a stubborn set to his jaw, as if he’d said too much and wouldn’t say any more. ‘So Betty was your model all that time ago,’ she tried, but he just grunted and refused to respond.

‘I need you to help me, Reg. I need to understand her, how she came to be the way she was. Paint her portrait for me now, in words.’

She waited, and then he began to speak again, voice low. ‘She was always like that, damaged goods. I don’t know where Harry found her or when they came to the square, but her English was still very ropy when I first arrived in the late sixties. Harry was twenty years older than Betty, and he’d had an eventful war by all accounts, and was pretty damaged himself. Couldn’t have sex with her, so she told me, after she’d been modelling for me for a while. Sounded like an invitation to me, so I obliged. Got her pregnant.’

Gilbey was speaking in a monotone, addressing himself to his portrait of Betty, stroking the surface of the paint like a lover.

‘Harry scared me, to be honest. He got this odd look in his eye sometimes. I didn’t fancy fronting up to him, or facing the complications that would follow. So I arranged for her to have an abortion. Practically frogmarched her to the place. Not like now. Backstreet knitting-needle stuff. Nasty… I was so self-centred, you see, I couldn’t imagine what it was like. You’ve lost your whole family in Europe somewhere, and then you fall pregnant, life returns, new hope. And then you have it snatched away from you, like that.’

He sniffed, ran a hand absent-mindedly across his head, making the tufts stand up more wildly than ever. ‘Nearly did for her. Tried to kill herself twice. Then Harry died one bitter winter, of pneumonia, and Betty went into a kind of trance. I tried to help, but she wouldn’t have me near her. Gradually she took on a role, Batty Betty, the mad woman of Northcote Square. She’s gone on playing the part ever since, an actor in a long-running show, becoming more extravagant year by year. At least that’s how I saw it, thinking of myself again, seeing it as a form of persecution of me, but maybe there was nothing voluntary about it.’

He fell silent, and Kathy became aware of sounds from beyond the window, of children’s cries from the school playground. Gilbey heard them too, and said,‘Has this got something to do with the little girl …?’

‘What do you think?’

‘They knew each other. I used to see them talking together, through the school railings or out there in the park. They seemed drawn to each other, two lost souls.’

‘Could Betty have known something about Tracey’s disappearance, or seen something? Did she hint at anything to you?’

He frowned.‘I don’t know. She liked to pretend she had secrets, it was part of her role…’

Then his concentration was broken by a loud rap on the door downstairs and a man’s voice, harsh, imperious. ‘Gilbey? I’m here. Where are you, man? Are you ready for me?’

Gilbey swore under his breath and Kathy heard footsteps, more than one pair, on the stairs. Then a tall, elderly man, hawk-nosed and severe in appearance, marched into the room.

‘Ah, here you are,’ the man said, and then, noticing Kathy, gave a stiff little nod of his head.‘Going to introduce me to the lady, Reg?’

‘Sir Jack Beaufort, this is Detective Sergeant… I’m sorry, I can’t remember.’

‘Kathy Kolla,’ she said.

‘Hackney?’

‘The Yard,’ Kathy replied.

‘Brock’s crew? Aha.’ Beaufort eyed her narrowly, then carelessly indicated his companion.‘You know DI Reeves, Special Branch?’ Kathy recognised the man who’d come to see Brock on that first morning. She particularly noticed his eyes, watchful, but with an ironic glint, as if well used to Beaufort’s antics. He nodded to her with a hint of a smile.

‘I can’t do it today, Judge,’ Gilbey said. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to cancel.’

Beaufort looked from Kathy to Gilbey and back again, as if he suspected some kind of conspiracy in his courtroom.‘Nonsense. What’s the matter?’

‘I’ve just had some bad news. A friend of mine has died.’

‘At our age that happens every week. Close?’ Then he noticed the portrait of Betty against the wall. ‘My God! I haven’t seen that one before, Gilbey. You’ve been hiding her from me.’ He moved closer, taking out a pair of narrow glasses and putting them on.‘Oh my! Sixty-nine, eh? Your best year, in my humble opinion. It’s the same model as the Woman in a Bath, isn’t it? Yes… yes…’ He absorbed it, then barked,‘I’ll have her. How much do you want?’

‘She’s not for sale.’

‘We’ll see. So who died?’

‘My neighbour,’ Gilbey muttered, staring at the floor, apparently intimidated by his client.

The boisterous mood seemed suddenly to desert Beaufort, and he became serious.‘Not the mad woman?’

‘You know her?’ Kathy said.

He took his time to turn his gaze to her and respond, as if to make the point that it was his habit to interrogate police officers and not the other way around. Then, at the last minute, he flashed what might have been intended as a disarming smile. ‘Yes indeed. We’ve seen her in the street, haven’t we, Reeves?’

‘Sir.’

‘She was being pursued by a flock of little girls, at a safe distance. What were they calling her?’

‘Batty Betty, I think it was.’

‘Yes. Were you close friends, Gilbey?’ Then he stared again at the painting and realisation lit his face.‘It’s her, isn’t it? The Woman in a Bath was the lady next door, yes? How fascinating.’ He turned to Kathy.‘And is this of interest to you, Sergeant?’

‘Yes.’ Kathy bit off the ‘sir’ that almost followed. ‘It seems probable she was murdered.’

‘Really!’Beaufort looked startled.‘But…why? Was it a robbery?’

‘We’re not sure at the moment.’

‘But you people are looking into it, are you? Not the local division? So you think…’

‘It’s too soon to say, sir.’

‘Well… yes, that is a shock for you, Gilbey. Northcote Square is becoming quite a hotbed of crime, it seems…’ he regarded Kathy with a malicious glint in his eye,‘… despite the heavy presence of Special Operations.’

Kathy caught the sarcastic tone and noticed a thoughtful frown cross the face of DI Reeves in the background.

‘Well, anyway, I’m here now, Gilbey old chap. You need something to distract you, and our deadline is fast approaching, so let’s get on with it, shall we?’

The way he spoke to the painter reminded Kathy of the way Tait had spoken to Gabriel Rudd that first morning, as to a distracted child needing to be brought into line. And Gilbey seemed to accept it, giving a resigned sigh and shuffling across to his easel while Beaufort draped himself on the chair placed by the window. It was the same place where Betty had sat almost thirty-five years before, Kathy thought. She also noticed that the pose Gilbey had given Beaufort had his head facing towards the window, although his eyes were turned back at the painter, as if the sitter had just been caught looking out at something-the children in the playground, perhaps.

‘I will need to speak to Mr Gilbey again soon,’ Kathy said.‘I’ll call back at eleven.’

Beaufort said,‘Reeves, old chap, how about making us some coffee?’ and the Special Branch inspector followed Kathy down the stairs.

‘Talks to me like a bloody butler,’ he said when they reached the kitchen. He seemed more amused than annoyed.‘Fancy a cup?’

‘A quick one, thanks. He is a bit of a pain, isn’t he? Is anyone really trying to kill him?’

‘Hard to say, but we don’t want anything to happen to him right now.’ Kathy caught Reeves’s glance at her, as if to see whether she’d followed the significance of the remark, but she hadn’t and he went on,‘Did you ever see him in court?’

‘No.’

‘Worth reading his sentencing speeches. Venomous, they are-a pungent mix of sarcasm, self-righteous outrage and contempt. The barristers say they’re an art form and should be published.’

Kathy smiled, thinking that his vocabulary was different from that of most coppers she met, and wondered if he was a reader. She noticed what looked like paperbacks in a carrier bag, and supposed he’d have plenty of time for that in his present job.

‘I’ve no doubt that anyone on the receiving end of one of those must have spent a good part of their time inside dreaming of putting a bomb under his car, or something worse… You’re thinking this woman’s murder has something to do with the missing girl, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Must have.’ Reeves poured boiling water into the mugs.‘Milk? Sugar?’

Kathy shook her head. He took a splash of milk.

‘Smoke if you want,’ he said.‘Reg does.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Me neither.’ Kathy had the feeling she was being assessed.

‘They were setting up crime scene tapes closing the whole lane when we arrived.’

‘She was found in the building site.’

‘Really?’ He thought about that, sipping from the mug. ‘Have you seen how much they’re selling those flats for?’

‘No.’

‘Four hundred k each, off the plan, four in each house. I wonder how much they offered the mad woman. Or Gilbey, come to that.’

‘Mmm. Incidentally, did you tell Beaufort we’re from Special Operations?’

‘Didn’t need to. He’s come across Brock before. And then, of course, he has a particular interest.’

‘What’s that?’

Reeves lowered his voice. ‘He’s doing a review of SO for the Met. You didn’t know? No, you and I are too lowly to be told-strictly senior management only at this stage. I only know because I saw documents he was reading in the car and he dropped a few hints. Could be radical. He murmured ominously about amputations.’

‘Well, if he knows of Brock’s reputation, he should be kind to us.’

‘With Beaufort the opposite’s more likely to be the case. That’s something else he’s famous for-puncturing other people’s reputations.’

Kathy thought about the man upstairs and felt a sudden sympathy for the people who’d faced him in his court.

There was a roar from above. ‘Reeves! Where’s that bloody coffee? I can smell it! We’re dying up here.’

‘Promises, promises,’ Reeves murmured, and got reluctantly to his feet. ‘Funny thing… the morning after that bloke fell from the tower block, Saturday, his lordship had a session here. It was my day off and my offsider drove him. Afterwards he told me that Beaufort told him to drive here by way of the Newman estate, just to have a look.’

Another cry from above. ‘Reeves! Put that damn woman down!’

The inspector winced and picked up three mugs. ‘See you later.’