Deep Cover

ONE

It was ‘that’ winter. It was caused, the meteorologists announced, by a high-pressure cell that was stationary over Iceland and had thus allowed the arctic weather to sweep south and over the entire United Kingdom with a substantial blanket of snow and ice, especially black ice. It was further reported that the winter was the coldest winter for twenty years, and it came at a price. There was an endless stream of walking wounded who inundated the accident and emergency departments of the country’s hospitals, mainly suffering from fractures caused by slipping while walking on the unseen ice or from slow impact car accidents, but accidents that were sufficiently serious to cause non-fatal injuries. All of which had to be treated. There were also the inevitable fatalities, some very tragic, like the young man found floating in the pool of a water fountain dressed only in a tee shirt and denim jeans, who had died of drowning brought on by hypothermia and alcohol excess. Other incidents had an amusing quality, such as the one wherein two youths had driven their car far along the surface of an iced-over canal until, inevitably, they had encountered a patch of thinner ice and their car had plunged into three feet of water. Then had come the thaw, and, when it came, it brought with it its own unique set of problems: flooded homes in the main, and the discovery of bodies of people who had been reported missing at the height of the snowy weather. The body of a man called Michael Dalkeith being one such.

Michael Dalkeith’s body was discovered lying face down in the mud by a dog walker who was immediately touched by the spectacle; the poignancy reached her, deeply so. The woman noticed that the man wore clothing which was wholly inadequate for the weather. She saw a battered and torn wax-coated jacket, she saw denim jeans, which she knew from experience offered no protection against the cold, especially when aggravated by wind chill, and further aggravated, in this case, by the fact that they were clearly old, faded and threadbare, and which had ridden up his left leg to reveal that the wretched man was without thermal underwear and wore only short cotton socks and running shoes. Clothing suited only to warm, autumnal evenings, so thought the dog walker. He did not even have gloves upon his hands. The deceased had black hair and grimy looking skin, and he appeared to the woman to be a lowlife, most likely a street beggar, she thought, though he seemed to be older than most beggars she was used to seeing. But no one, not anyone, deserved this; dying alone in a snowstorm on the Heath, such a short distance from some of the most valuable houses in London, surrounded by wealth and warmth.

The woman slipped the lead round the neck of her King Charles spaniel and led him gently away from the body. She surveyed the scene before her as she walked to Spaniards Road; evergreen foliage had emerged with the thaw and a clear blue sky overlooked London, although the wind still blew keenly from the east. At Spaniards Road the dog walker halted and addressed a young man in a duffel coat who was about to enter the park, asking him whether he possessed ‘One of those damn mobile things? You know those little boxes that people hold to their ear and ruin everyone’s railway journeys?’

The man grinned at the woman’s indignation and took out a mobile phone from his jacket pocket. ‘One of these?’ he asked.

‘Yes. . loathsome things. Phone the police, can you?’

‘Yes,’ the man replied, a curious note having entered his voice, ‘I can. Why should I?’

‘Well, do so. Why? Because there’s a body over there.’ The woman turned and pointed towards Ken Wood.

‘Can you show me?’ the man asked.

‘I’d rather you call the police. I don’t like indulging ghoulish behaviour.’

‘I am one.’

‘A ghoul!’

The man smiled. ‘No, I am a police officer, off duty, but then a policeman is never off duty, not officially. Just show me, please.’ The wind tugged at the man’s hair.

Upon being shown the body, the police officer dialled 999 and gave his location and reason for calling. He took note of the dog walker’s name and address and then remained in attendance.

So much, he thought, for his first day off in many, many weeks. There is no justice in life and there’s no rest for the wicked. There just isn’t.

The white-haired man sat back in the deep, leather-covered armchair and pulled strongly on a large Havana cigar, and then exhaled, blowing neat smoke circles as he did so. ‘Well, now we know where the little toerag went and he won’t be doing us no harm. Pity though, I wanted him to have a slap or two, but at least he’s gone, that’s the main thing.’

The woman smiled but remained silent and glanced out of the tall rear windows of the house on to the back lawn and the woods beyond, as the sun exploited a gap in the cloud cover and shone down through the drizzle, creating what she called ‘damp sunshine’.

‘See, toerags like that toerag, they’re not up to much. . they don’t count for much, they never amount to much. . but it’s toerags like that little toerag that know where all the bodies are buried, and it’s that which makes them dangerous. But now we know where he went: he went for a walk on Hampstead Heath and then he went for a kip in the snow.’

‘Neat.’ The woman returned her gaze to the man and did so adoringly. ‘That’s neat. I am pleased with you.’

Five minutes after he made the phone call, the off-duty police officer heard the siren of the approaching police vehicle, and, as the white car with its blue lights flashing approached him, he raised his hand. The car stopped beside him and two young uniformed constables got out of the vehicle.

‘Deceased person in the shrubs.’ The man showed his ID.

‘Yes, sir,’ the driver replied.

‘This isn’t my patch. . I am off duty, allegedly. Come, I’ll show you.’ He replaced his ID in his jacket pocket and, with the two constables walking immediately behind him, led the way up the slippery grassy slope to the edge of Ken Wood and showed them the corpse. ‘It’s clammy to the touch,’ he explained. ‘I’m no medical man but he is dead alright. The snow must have preserved the flesh to some extent. Found by a dog walker. I have her details for you. It’s your pigeon now but I can’t see any suggestion of suspicious circumstances. Looks like a down-and-out who went to sleep in the snow. . but like I said, it’s your pigeon.’

‘We’re finding a few like him, sir, once the snow melts it’s the same each winter.’

‘Yes, I know, so are we. All London is finding bodies.’

The constable grasped the radio which was attached to his lapel and contacted his control, requesting a police surgeon and CID in attendance. His calm, unhurried manner impressed the off-duty officer. The constable then took note of the officer’s name and contact details, and also the details of the dog walker who’d found the body. ‘People say they like a good hard and long frost, it kills off sickly vegetation — ’ he closed his notebook — ‘but they don’t think about sickly human beings.’

‘Indeed.’ The off-duty officer turned and looked over the Heath, down towards Parliament Hill. ‘Red Kite!’

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘Red Kite. . that bird. . see it? That’s a Red Kite, they’re scavengers. I had a pheasant in my garden a week or two ago, strutting up and down like he was the cock of the walk. I came for a breath of fresh air and a chance to observe some of inner London’s wildlife, of which there is much, not quite as exotic as the vultures in New York City, but interesting just the same.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, you don’t need me any more. I’ll go and rescue what I can from my day off.’

Harry Vicary halted his car behind the vehicles already parked in a restricted area on Spaniards Hill, close to the entrance of the Heath. He saw police vehicles, a black, windowless mortuary van, two unmarked cars, all supervised by a solitary woman police officer, there to move curious pedestrians on and to legitimize the parking of the vehicles in the ‘No Parking’ area. Vicary left his car and walked up to the WPC. ‘Detective Inspector Vicary’ — he showed her his ID — ‘I was asked to attend here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The WPC spoke with a distinct Scottish accent. ‘Up there, sir.’ She pointed to the wooded area and then Vicary saw the police activity: uniformed officers, a white and blue tape strung from shrub to shrub and a white inflatable tent. He identified John Shaftoe and Detective Constable Ainsclough, and walked laboriously up the slope, stopping to tuck the bottom of his trousers into his socks, caring not about the image he presented by doing so. As he approached the focus of activity DC Ainsclough separated himself from the group and walked towards Vicary.

‘More than a frozen corpse, sir,’ Ainsclough advised.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Ainsclough seemed to Vicary to be nervous of authority, which Vicary always interpreted as being a healthy sign; far, far preferable in his view to arrogant individuals who seem to feel they are everyone’s equal, if not their superior.

‘Seems so, sir,’ Ainsclough stammered, ‘. . frankly I would not have noticed it, but Mr Shaftoe was keen-eyed.’

‘So what have we got?’

‘I’ll show you, sir.’ Ainsclough led Vicary to the place where the frozen corpse was found and where John Shaftoe was already standing. Upon reaching the spot, Vicary nodded to Shaftoe and the two men whispered a brief ‘Hello’ to each other.

‘Here, sir.’ Ainsclough pointed to the ground. Vicary saw only ground, loose soil and a few clumps of sodden grass, recently exposed by the thaw. ‘I’m sorry — ’ he turned to Shaftoe — ‘what am I looking at?’

‘Look carefully, the man’s head was close to the laurel bush. . his feet are where we are standing. . say six feet between the bush and ourselves.’

‘I still. .’

‘Now look at the ground upon which we stand and behind us. .’

Vicary did so. ‘Mud and grass,’ he said. ‘What you’d expect on the Heath.’

‘And consolidated.’ Shaftoe grinned. ‘Yet here, with shrubs on three sides to conceal it, and a fourth side, narrow so as to serve as an entrance. All the ground herein is disturbed.’ Shaftoe was barrel-chested, with a ruddy complexion and wispy white hair. ‘Still don’t see it?’ His short stature obliged him to look up at Vicary.

‘No. .’ Vicary shook his head. He was growing deeply more curious because he knew Shaftoe to be a man, a gentleman, a professional, who took his work seriously. He was not, in Vicary’s experience, the sort of man to play games. He was not at all the sort of man to summon him from his desk to look at muddy soil on Hampstead Heath. ‘Go on, tell me.’

‘It’s a shallow grave.’ Shaftoe spoke calmly. ‘I’ll lay a pound to your penny that there is a corpse down there. The down-and-out went to sleep over a corpse, possibly a skeleton.’

‘Recently dug?’

‘Not necessarily, which is why I said possibly a skeleton. It isn’t so much the amount of soil that is exposed, that could have been caused by animals. . badgers or foxes scratching at the surface. . it is more the slight raising of the ground, as if the soil has been dug up and replaced over something, and the rectangular nature of the area in question. . roughly rectangular but definitely longer than it is wide and about the dimensions of a human being, an adult human.’ Shaftoe paused. ‘If I am wrong, I can only apologize for dragging you up here on such an unpleasant day, but I think you ought to undertake an exploratory dig.’ Shaftoe paused again and smiled. ‘Congratulations on your promotion by the way. I haven’t seen you since the Epping Forest murder.’

‘Thank you. Haven’t stitched the stripes on yet, but thank you.’

‘I was sorry to hear about Archie Dew.’

‘Yes, he is missed. I call on his widow occasionally. She is soldiering on. Manfully is probably the wrong word but I can’t think of the right one.’

‘No matter, I know what you mean.’

‘So,’ Vicary brought the conversation back to the matter in hand, ‘we have one death, most likely by misadventure. .’

‘Yes, sir.’ Ainsclough spoke. ‘Death was confirmed by the police surgeon and so I requested the pathologist. . and it was when we removed the corpse. .’

‘Presently in the tent?’ Shaftoe nodded to the white inflatable tent that had been erected close to the shrubs. ‘Couldn’t erect it over the body,’ he added. ‘No room.’

‘I see.’

‘It was then that Mr Shaftoe looked at the ground over which the body had lain and said there’s something else down there.’

Shaftoe grinned. ‘I actually said “Summat’s down there”, but your man can translate Yorkshire into English.’

‘Yorkshire grandfather,’ Ainsclough explained.

‘I did wonder,’ Shaftoe smiled. ‘With a name like yours you had to have roots in God’s own county.’

‘Yes, sir. . but that’s when I requested your attendance. . it’s more than just a frozen corpse sir, at least it might be.’

‘Appears so.’ Shaftoe’s eye was caught by a 747 flying low over London on its final approach to Heathrow, and watched as the undercarriage was lowered, later than most pilots would have done so by his observations, but the wheels had been lowered and that was the main thing. It was the one thing he always looked for when watching planes land, never having been a passenger on a plane without saying, as the plane approached the ground, ‘I hope he’s put the wheels down.’ He found time to reflect that no one would be talking on the plane at that moment.

‘Well. . we’ll dig. Can you organize that, DC Ainsclough? We’ll be on this all day.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Suggest you clear the shrubs either side of the grave, if it is a grave; moving a down-and-out a few feet from where he slept his final sleep is one thing, but we’ll want the tent over a shallow grave.’

‘Yes, sir, I’m on it.’

‘And get the scene of crime officers here, we’ll need photographs.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can I see the corpse, please?’ Vicary turned to Shaftoe.

‘Of course,’ Shaftoe turned and led the way.

In the tent Vicary considered the body. It said to him poverty. It said low-skilled, possibly unemployed; it said scratching pennies. It did not say down-and-out. It was too clean and did not have the unshaven face and matted hair he had expected. ‘Have the pockets been searched?’

‘No,’ Shaftoe replied. ‘Not been touched. No reason not to have him conveyed to the London Hospital to await a post-mortem, but we became sidetracked by the suspicious appearance of the ground on which he lay.’

‘I see.’

‘I can have him removed, the mortuary van is standing by, but I’d like to stay for the excavation in case what is buried is what I think it is.’

‘I’d like you to stay as well, sir,’ Vicary replied in a serious manner, ‘and for the same reason.’

Ninety minutes later Vicary and Shaftoe stood side by side; adjacent to them stood Ainsclough, and beside him the two officers who had first cleared the shrubs and then had dug down, carefully so, until the Heath gave up its dead.

‘Female.’ Shaftoe broke the silence that had descended on the small group. ‘Remnants of clothing visible. . shoes. . the metal of the high heels is clear to see.’

‘So, one for us,’ Vicary commented.

‘Oh, yes, I’m afraid so, much less than seventy years old. . the burial I mean. The corpse appears to be that of a young. . youngish person.’

‘Alright, once the body has been photographed we’ll remove it to the London Hospital. I assume you’ll be doing the post-mortem, Mr Shaftoe?’

‘Yes, I like to follow through whenever possible. Will you be attending for the police?’

Vicary nodded slowly. ‘Yes, and for exactly the same reason. I like to follow through as well. It keeps the thread in my mind, keeps it intact and alive.’

Detective Constable Ainsclough stood silently in the ante room next to the mortuary of the London Hospital on Whitechapel Road and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. In front of him, on a table, was the clothing which had been removed from the man who had apparently lain down to die in his sleep in the snow on Hampstead Heath. The clothing had been laid neatly with clear reverence rather than dumped hastily on the table, and Ainsclough approached his task with similar reverence. Taking the wax jacket first, he felt the outside of the pockets for an indication of content, if any, therein and then probed each pocket gently with his fingertips, knowing that drug addicts’ needles are small, easily concealed and potentially deadly. He knew personally of one police officer who groped into a youth’s pocket during an arrest and search, pricked his finger on something sharp and rapidly withdrew his hand to find his index finger seeping blood. The youth had leered and said, ‘I’m positive. . and so are you now.’ In the event the HIV test proved negative, but the time that elapsed before the results were known was measured in many a sleepless night for the man, and it was a period of great strain upon his marriage. In this case, a search of the pockets of the jacket revealed nothing more than a set of house keys, just two keys held together with string, and the left rear pocket of the jeans contained a DSS signing-on card at the office in Palmers Green. That was the contents of the man’s pockets, two keys and a signing-on card. No money, not even a small amount of coinage; no identity save for a creased white card which gave his status as ‘unemployed’ and a signing-on date, a number and also his National Insurance number. Ainsclough pondered the man’s clothing: a wax jacket (without lining), a shirt, a vest, denim jeans (worn and threadbare), a pair of briefs, a pair of socks (cotton) and a pair of running shoes (well-worn with a split across the sole of the right shoe), and dressed thusly he had wandered on to a heathland in a snowstorm. Eclipsed, thought Ainsclough, just did not describe the man’s life. He replaced the clothing in a productions bag labelled so far with only a case number.

He peeled off the latex gloves and dropped them into the ‘sin bin’ provided from where they would be collected for incineration. He took the clothing in the production bag with him, by car, across London to New Scotland Yard and logged it in as evidence.

When he reached his desk on the Murder and Serious Crime Unit floor, he sat down and picked up the phone in one movement, and called the Department of Social Security office in Palmers Green. He identified himself and his reason for calling, and had the impression his call was being passed from one internal phone to another, until a man with a heavy West Indian accent finally assured Ainsclough that he could be of assistance, but only if he could call him back to verify his identity. Ainsclough gave his name and extension number and sat back and waited for his call to be returned. He glanced out of his office window, which faced west, away from the river, and relished the view of cluttered government buildings, grey and solidly built, and with small, efficient businesslike windows wherein few humans were ever to be seen. Moments later his phone warbled. He let it ring twice before picking it up. ‘DC Ainsclough.’

‘My man. .’ The West Indian voice was powerful and warm. ‘DSS Palmers Green.’

‘Thanks for calling back.’

‘I brought his name up on the computer, that signing number, I mean, and his NI number, and both came back with a claimant by the name of Michael Dalkeith.’ The DSS officer spelled the surname for Ainsclough. ‘Thirty-seven years of age.’

‘Thirty-seven?’

‘Yes, boss. . thirty-seven summers he has.’

‘I thought he looked younger.’

‘Lucky man. I could do with looking younger.’

‘Possibly, but you wouldn’t want to be in this geezer’s shoes, not even if it meant looking younger.’

‘Hey man, let me tell you. . this job is the pits, the pay is no better than the benefit given to the claimants. After travel costs we got less to spend on our bellies than the claimants, but I still wouldn’t swop places with any one of them. . so maybe he’s not so lucky.’

‘Well, he’s deceased so his luck’s out. Good or bad, he has no luck any more.’

‘So he’ll not be signing this week. .’ The man laughed softly.

Ainsclough found himself annoyed by the man’s callous humour but then reflected on the grinding thankless nature of his job. . poor pay, low morale. . it was not dissimilar to the gallows humour developed by the emergency services. It helps one to survive difficult and often unpleasant forms of employment. ‘Well, if he does sign on saying he’s lost his card, let us know, we have an identity to confirm.’

‘Yes, man, will do, he signs Thursdays. . two p.m.’

‘So I saw. Do you have an address?’

‘Yes, it’s 297 The Crest. Quite posh. We don’t get a lot of customers from The Crest; not a lot of custom at all from The Crest, boss man.’

‘Has he been signing on for a long time?’

‘Not here. . not with us. Just a couple of months with us but he was signing at the Kilburn office for a few years before then, according to his details. Got a previous address. .’

‘Yes, please, we need to trace any next of kin; can’t use the signing-on card as a definite means of identification.’

‘OK, boss, got the pen? Got the paper? It was Claremont Road, Kilburn, did well to get from there to The Crest, Palmers Green. . he’s still only a doley though.’

‘Number?’ Ainsclough again found himself getting irritated with the DSS official’s jocularity.

‘One hundred and twenty-three, single claimant there, but at The Crest he claimed for a partner and two children. He got his little self hitched. . there’s your old next of kin, captain.’

‘Well, we’ll see what we see.’ Ainsclough replaced the phone gently and reached for a new blank manila file, in which he entered the information he had just received. He closed the file and placed it in his ‘out’ tray, pending filing. Michael Dalkeith, unemployed, one of a half a dozen bodies found across London, revealed by the thaw. He got up and walked down the CID corridor to the office which Frankie Brunnie shared with Penny Yewdall. He stood in the doorway, and when Brunnie looked up at him, Ainsclough smiled and said, ‘Fancy a trip to Palmers Green?’

Brunnie glanced out of the window at the overcast sky and replied, ‘Not really.’

‘Poor you.’

Brunnie dropped his pen on to the statistic forms he was completing. ‘Poor, poor me but anything is better than monthly stats.’

‘I’m impressed; I haven’t looked at my December stats yet.’

‘These are October’s.’ Brunnie stood and reached for his coat. ‘Nothing to be impressed about, I assure you.’

‘Oh, in that case. .’

‘“Oh” is right. Vicary is not best pleased, nor is he overly impressed with little me, but he’s busy with a skeleton right now, or so I hear. So yes, Palmers Green it is.’

‘Yes, he won’t be back today. I need to ID a stiff, nothing suspicious, just an ID to make, then we can pass the parcel to the family, or the coroner.’

Clive Sherwin looked around him. Never really happy in the country, he felt even less comfortable than usual. The winter-tilled fields beyond the meadow seemed unwelcoming, the leafless trees in the nearby wood at that moment were home to cawing rooks, as the first sliver of dawn cracked the night sky. The three young women had hoods over their heads and each was trembling violently. Sherwin could not tell whether they were shivering with fear, or shivering because of the cold, all three being ill-clad for the weather. But, probably, he thought, it was because of both. They stood at the bottom of a meadow and to their right was a line of cherry trees. The furthest of the trees were tall and established, the nearest of the trees were little more than saplings. There were ten in all. In spring they would develop a blossom of brilliant pink, thus heralding the approach of summer.

‘Alright, girls,’ the hard-faced woman said quietly, ‘take off the hoods.’

The three young women slowly and reluctantly tugged the hoods from their heads. One of the women screamed, all stepped backwards and turned their heads away.

‘Scream all you like,’ the woman said, ‘there’s no one to hear you. But look in the hole. Look!’

Clive Sherwin stood a short distance away holding the spade and with a sapling of flowering cherry at his feet. He knew what was in the hole, and he knew what was going to be planted over it, once he had filled it in.

‘She was lucky.’ The hard-faced woman pointed to the hole. ‘She was banged on the head. She was dead when she was put in, on account of her being only fifteen or sixteen, but most times we truss ’em up and bury them alive. Isn’t that right, Clive?’

Sherwin nodded but remained silent.

‘Most of the time they’re alive and know what’s happening to them. But we was merciful with her, so we was. Trouble with her, she was skimming. That is naughty. That is well out of order. We picked her up where we found you, on the Embankment. . a runaway. . like you, from up North she was; gave her a roof, gave her food, sent her out to King’s Cross to earn her keep. She earned alright, but she didn’t hand it all in, kept some dosh for herself. Heard we found out and tried to scarper. . but you can’t. . you can’t run for ever, not from the firm. We got eyes on every street corner in the smoke, like twenty-four seven. This is what happens if you skim and run. So learn. See all those trees? There’s a body under every one of them. And this is the new orchard. The old orchard got full up. So don’t be naughty. Don’t get too left field. Don’t get out of order. Right, Clive, fill it in.’

Sherwin spaded the soil back into the hole and then planted the cherry tree shrub on top.

‘On with your hoods.’ The woman barked the order. ‘We’ll get you back to your drum, you’ll be working tonight. You’ll need rest and a little food.’

John Shaftoe pulled the anglepoise arm that was bolted into the ceiling above the dissecting table downwards, until the microphone at the end of the arm was level with his mouth. He glanced at Vicary who stood, as protocol dictated, at the edge of the post-mortem laboratory, observing for the police, and was to approach the dissecting table only when invited. He was silent and quite still, and dressed, as required, in green disposable coveralls, with a matching hat and slippers.

‘It’s always damn same.’ Shaftoe adjusted the microphone. Shaftoe spoke with a distinct Yorkshire accent and Vicary noticed, once again, how he omitted the definite article in keeping with the speech pattern of his roots. He would never invite any observing police officer to the dissecting table to view something of forensic significance by saying, ‘Come to the table and look at this’, it would rather be: ‘Come to table’. ‘It’s Dykk,’ Shaftoe continued, ‘and cursed am I to work under him and he took dislike to me from day one. Have you ever met him?’

‘Yes,’ Vicary replied softly, though his voice carried easily through the hard-surfaced pathology laboratory, ‘once or twice. Civilized, I have found, though a little aloof at times.’

‘Aloof!’ Shaftoe snorted. ‘Aloof, that’s the understatement of year, Home Counties toff who thinks that folk what live north of Watford are all Neanderthals. Well, he lives up to his name. A complete dick and one of his little games is to push the microphone up out of my reach, well, as near as he can when he’s finished his body butchering, but he’s a professor and I am not. He’s a southerner and I am not.’ He paused and glared at Button, his mortuary assistant, who just then allowed instruments to clatter needlessly, noisily on to the trolley, and he held the pause as if to say, ‘And I’ve got Button for my assistant and he has not.’

‘Sorry, Mr Shaftoe, sir.’ Billy Button turned to Shaftoe and offered his apology in a weak and whiny voice, and then turned away again and began to place the instruments neatly on the surface of the trolley.

Shaftoe looked at Vicary and raised his eyebrows. Vicary shrugged his shoulders and smiled in mute response.

‘Can you give this a reference number please, Cynthia,’ Shaftoe spoke into the microphone, clearly for the hearing of an audio typist who would shortly be typing up the notes on the post-mortem, ‘and also today’s date? The body is fully skeletonized and is of the female sex, and Northern European or possibly Asian in terms of racial extraction.’ He turned to Vicary. ‘Have to be careful, those two races have similar skeletons. In general, Asians are more finely boned, but nonetheless, each can be mistaken for the other.’ He returned to the corpse. ‘The rich soils of Hampstead saw to that. The damp soil, full of micro-organisms, all feasting on the flesh, you see, and complete skeletonization in those conditions could be achieved within ten years, but strangely not disturbed by the foxes and badgers which live on the Heath. Mind you, the burial site was near a footpath, which, in turn, was quite near Spaniards Road; probably too much street lighting and traffic noise to make them feel safe, they’d be happier deeper in the Heath.’

Vicary nodded. ‘Yes, that would probably explain it. I confess, it’s not at all my area of expertise but I did wonder why the grave hadn’t been disturbed by scavengers, especially when I saw how shallow it was.’

‘Indeed. . well. . skeletons do not tell us as many tales as a fresh corpse would, but they tell us sufficient. . and this lady died of a fractured skull.’ Shaftoe ran his latex encased fingertips over the surface of the deceased’s skull. ‘Of note is a single massive blow to the top of the head which is linear in form. Care to take a look?’

Vicary stepped forward and approached the dissecting table. He examined the top of the skull and noted the linear depression with minor fractures leading from it.

‘That,’ Shaftoe said with a restrained, matter-of-fact tone, ‘is what’s called making sure. The felon was making sure alright, God in heaven was he making sure. Or she. You don’t survive a blow like that, not on this planet anyway.’

‘Murder?’

‘Oh yes, it’s the linear pattern which suggests a blow to the skull with a linear weapon. . a golf club would do nicely. If she had fallen head first on to a hard surface you’d see a more radial pattern of fractures.’

‘I see.’

‘The blow seems to have landed right on top of her head, which suggests that she was in a sitting position when she was attacked. . possibly from behind, but that’s supposition. I just say what caused her to stop breathing, if I can. . and don’t ever ask me the time of death. . not ever. That’s the stuff of television shows. I’ll determine her approximate height in a moment, but she is not going to be a tall woman — about five foot or one hundred and fifty centimetres.’ He paused. ‘Ah. . the wrists have been fractured, and, yes, so have the ankles, as if she was disabled before being killed. The ankle and wrist fractures are peri-mortem. . and two of her ribs have been fractured on her right side.’

‘Battered to death.’

‘Well, yes, but the fractured ribs, ankles and wrists would not be an attempt to kill her; it’s more in the manner of being tortured before being murdered.’

‘Strewth!’

‘Strewth is right. The work of a very bad boy or girl. . this is a right bad ’un.’

‘All about the same time? I mean, occurred at the same time?’

‘All peri-mortem, yes.’ Shaftoe rested his stubby fingers on the edge of the stainless steel table. ‘But the fractures to the wrists and ankles seem to be deliberate, precise. The blow to the head has the sense of being a single strike at a can’t-miss target. So, the overall impression is that she was disabled prior to being murdered.’

Vicary groaned, then inhaled through his nose and received the strong smell of formaldehyde. ‘So this is not just a murder victim? It. . she is also a torture victim?’

‘Seems so, there is a story here, a right old yarn.’

‘Can you tell how old she was at her time of death?’

‘Yes, I’ll extract a tooth; that will give us her age at death to within twenty-four months, that is to say an age, plus or minus twelve months. . but she was an adult and she had given birth. You note the pelvic scarring? That is caused by breech delivery. . two or more children. I can say that she was over the age of twenty-five when she died. The skull plates have knitted together. There is no indication of rheumatics or arthritis. I accept that children can succumb to infantile arthritis and that is not a funny number, but, by and large, rheumatics and arthritis are indications of middle to old age and are not present.’ Shaftoe pointed into the skeleton’s mouth. ‘British dental work, you’ll be able to confirm her identity from her dentures if she was murdered less than eleven years ago. Dentists are obliged by law to keep all records for eleven years after the patient last attended their surgery. Some keep them for longer. I’ll detach the skull and send it to the forensic science people, they can use computer generated imagery to produce a likeness. . used to take a week to do that using plasticine. . now it takes seconds.’

‘Appreciated.’

‘Once that has been done, I’ll extract an upper molar and cut it into cross-section; from that I can determine her age within twenty-four months, as I said. Then I’ll detach the lower jaw and our forensic odontologist will be able to make a positive or a negative match to any dental records you can send us.’

‘Thank you.’

‘For your attention at the Yard, Mr Vicary?’

‘Yes, please. Seems I am the senior interest officer, for my sins.’

Shaftoe grinned, ‘For your sins. So that’s it: tortured, murdered, adult female who had given birth. Oh. . and probably Western European. . and too damn young to be in here — mind you, they always are.’

Vicary made his thanks and exited the pathology laboratory.

Moments later, when Shaftoe and Button were alone in the laboratory, save for the skeleton of the unidentified victim, Shaftoe said, ‘Billy. .’

‘Yes, sir. . I’m sorry, sir,’ the slightly built man whimpered.

‘Billy, nobody is ever going to call me a pull-yourself-together merchant but you really do need to start mustering some self-control. You can be seen trembling. . it doesn’t look good. When we have observing police officers we need to present as calm, competent, professional men, good at our jobs. . and don’t dismiss your job lightly, Billy. I could not do mine if you couldn’t do thine.’

‘Yes, sir. . thank you, sir. . but you see, sir, my sister’s cousin died last week and that sort of thing always brings it home, that one day I’ll be on that table, being cut open with this scalpel, sir. . by you, sir, or by one of the other gentlemen, sir. . or one of the ladies.’ Button looked pleadingly at Shaftoe.

‘I’ve told thee before, Billy,’ Shaftoe mustered patience, ‘it’s highly unlikely that you’ll need to be given a post-mortem examination; you are unlikely to be caring for the instruments that will be used to cut you open. Only suspicious or unknown causes need apply for a place on that table, which is the minority of deaths in the UK.’

‘Yes, sir. .’ Button stammered. ‘Can I go now, sir?’

‘Yes. . yes. .’ Shaftoe peeled off the latex gloves and dropped them into the yellow bin in the corner of the laboratory, and once again he reflected that the wretched Button should have taken a job mowing the lawns in the parks in whichever London borough he lived. He then pondered, also as before, that he was better served by the Billy Buttons of this world than by the sort of man who is fascinated by morbidity and is seen to gleam at corpses, or by the necrophiliacs who are not unknown to smooth their way through the vetting process. Nonetheless, Shaftoe accepted that one very square peg in one very round hole did not begin to describe the extent of the mismatch between Billy Button and his job in the pathology laboratory of the London Hospital, EC1.

The woman flung the door open. Two men she did not recognize stood on the threshold. One man was tall, clean-shaven, slender, the other was equally tall, but heavily built with a striking black beard. Both were smartly dressed in plain clothes. She was startled and shut the door a little. The visitors were clearly unexpected. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘DC Ainsclough.’ The slender, clean-shaven one showed the woman his ID. ‘This is DC Brunnie.’

Brunnie also showed his ID.

‘Police! Is there something the matter?’ Behind her, Ainsclough and Brunnie saw a cluttered hallway and heard two children playing noisily. Ainsclough glanced along The Crest, Palmers Green, a neat terrace of two-storey houses with bay windows. No person was on the street, though he noticed a curtain twitch in the downstairs room of an adjacent house.

‘We’re here in connection with a Mr Dalkeith.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Yes. .’ Ainsclough spoke softly. ‘We thought he might not be. . but does he live here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. What relationship is he to you, if I may ask?’

‘He’s my husband. . but he walked out. He left just before Christmas. Imagine that, two children and he walks out just before Christmas. I am Annie Dalkeith.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He has a room in Kilburn. He told me to forward his mail and like a fool, I do so.’ Mrs Annie Dalkeith was a small, round woman with a mop of brown hair. She wore a large pullover and tracksuit bottoms. Her feet were encased in pink slippers.

‘Mrs Dalkeith — ’ Ainsclough glanced along the street — ‘we may have some bad news for you and this is a bit public. .’

Annie Dalkeith paled, and then stepped aside. ‘I haven’t tidied up; you take me as you find me.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Ainsclough stepped over the threshold, followed by Brunnie.

Annie Dalkeith shut the door behind the officers and directed them to the living room of the house, which the officers found untidy and chaotic, but not at all unclean. Strangely, the curtains were half-closed, allowing just sufficient daylight into the room so as not to require the light to be switched on, but what light there was seemed to be admitted with a certain reluctance. Annie Dalkeith plucked a large plastic child’s toy off the settee and invited the officers to take a seat, while she sat in an armchair and shakily lit a cigarette. The children, still unseen in a nearby room, had stopped squabbling, as if hushed by the sudden presence of strangers in the house.

‘Mrs Dalkeith. .’ Ainsclough struggled, ‘we believe that your husband may be deceased.’

‘Michael. . oh. .’

‘Yes. The. . he has still to be identified. . so that will mean-’

‘So that’s what he meant?’ She sat back and drew heavily on the cigarette. ‘I did wonder.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he left us in December, like I said. He did not say why. He and I hadn’t quarrelled. . nothing like that had happened. Ours wasn’t a perfect marriage but it was working. What happened?’

‘We believe he died of exposure in the recent cold snap.’

‘Oh. .’

‘On Hampstead Heath.’

‘On the Heath? Michael knew the Heath. He liked to walk on it. He was a good father but he would never take the children on to the Heath for some reason that he never would explain.’

‘Interesting. So tell us, why did you say “So that’s what he meant”?’

‘Just that he said that he had to leave us for our sakes. . he wouldn’t explain. He just said it was for “the best”. It wasn’t easy for him. He loved the children, loved his beer like any Irishman, but he loved his children more.’

‘He was Irish?’

‘Yes.’

‘With a name like Dalkeith? Sounds Scottish to me.’

‘Grandfather, maybe great grandfather was English, a Londoner, and seems he didn’t go a whole bunch on the notion of fighting the “People’s War” back in 1939 and went to live in Ireland — in the Republic — to avoid being conscripted. Went to Cork, married a local girl and started a family, the Dalkeiths. Michael is third or fourth generation and wanted to return to his family roots in London. . but he was Irish. . Irish parents, grew up in Ireland, thick Irish accent.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve read about Irishmen who came over to volunteer for the London Irish Regiment, and others who joined the navy and the airforce, who pretended to be Ulstermen to join the forces, like Americans who pretended to be Canadians, but I didn’t know there was a two-way traffic,’ Brunnie commented.

‘Apparently, not a few Brits did the same thing in 1939, and Canadians went to live in the USA at the same time and for the same reason, but that’s history.’

‘Yes. .’ Ainsclough sat forward. ‘Was your husband employed?’

Annie Dalkeith shrugged, ‘Odd jobs. He had a bit of a record, but you’ll know that.’

‘Yes, just petty stuff and nothing recent, but you said he left “for the best”. Strange thing to say?’

‘Yes.’

‘He gave no reason?’

‘No. . but he’d been agitated for a while. . sleeping badly.’

‘So he was worried about something?’

‘Yes, but he never said what. Then, just out of the blue, he said he was leaving us. Oh yes, he said we’d be safe that way.’

‘Safe?’

‘That’s what he said. .’

At that moment two small mixed-race children, a boy and a girl, ran into the room, crying ‘Mummy, Mummy’. Annie Dalkeith smiled and gathered them into her arms. ‘He’s their stepfather,’ she explained apologetically, ‘but he loved them just the same.’ She stood and took the children back to the other room.

‘Can you accompany us to the London Hospital, please?’

‘Now?’

‘Yes. . we have to identify the body.’

‘The body. .’ Annie Dalkeith echoed the words. ‘The body. .’

‘Indelicate of me. .’ Ainsclough stammered. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No. . no, it’s alright, it’s something I will have to get used to. I’ll get my coat. Let me go next door, I’ll ask Mrs James to watch my children.’

‘Could you let us have the address in Kilburn, the one your husband was using?’

‘One-two-three Claremont Road,’ she tapped the side of her head, ‘it’s lodged in here. . Kilburn where half of Ireland lives. Funny, when he came to London to look for his roots, he ended up in Little Ireland.’

When Annie Dalkeith had left the house to take her children to her neighbour’s, Ainsclough turned to Brunnie, ‘There’s more to this than misadventure. My waters tell me there’s a story here. I want to visit the address in Kilburn if it’s a positive identity. . which it will be.’

Brunnie nodded briskly. ‘Yes, it sounds. . well. . one copper to another, it sounds interesting.’

Annie Dalkeith declined the offer of a lift home and took the tube back to Palmers Green. She didn’t want to be above ground, the tube felt right, it felt correct, it felt appropriate to be rattling through a pitch black tunnel in a carriage where no one spoke — even good friends could not sustain a conversation on an underground train. The silence all around her and the pitch black outside the window seemed to provide the perfect atmosphere in which to contemplate widowhood at just thirty-one years of age.

She left the tube at Southgate and walked slowly home, not wanting to rush the journey, not wanting to collect her two children, not wanting to tell them that ‘Mikey’ hasn’t just gone for a holiday. He had gone, gone. . gone for good. . and not because he doesn’t want us. Identifying his body hadn’t been like it was in the films, it had been more sensitive. Seeing him as if sleeping. . at peace.

Lights were beginning to be switched on in the houses as she walked homeward.

Yes, he was at peace. It was a very pleasing last image of him. She would hold it in her mind’s eye for a long, long time.

A very long time.

Ainsclough halted the car outside the address on Claremont Road, Kilburn. It revealed itself to be a mid-terraced property in a line of neatly painted late-Victorian four-floored terraced housing, directly across from a cutting in which ran the overground railway line. The address was, not surprisingly to the officers, found to be a multi-occupancy house. Once housing the family for which it was designed, it now had six doorbells beside the front door, not named as such, but labelled Flat 1, Flat 2, etc. Ainsclough pressed them all in turn. ‘See what we wake up,’ he murmured sourly. When there did not seem to be any reaction from within the house, he banged loudly on the door and shouted, ‘Police. . open up!’ From inside the house there then came the sound of scurrying feet and then of a toilet being flushed. The officers grinned, and Ainsclough remarked, ‘That’s this week’s supply of dope gone down to the sewers.’

‘Aye. .’ Brunnie stopped smiling and said, ‘It also probably means some old lady is going to be robbed of her handbag tonight.’

‘No road round it.’

‘Nope. Have to give you that,’ Brunnie conceded. ‘No road round it.’

The door was eventually opened by a timid looking, pale, drawn youth. He had a thin face and unwashed hair. He held the door ajar and peered at Ainsclough and Brunnie through a three inch gap between the door and the frame. ‘Police?’ He had a thin, rasping voice.

‘Yes,’ Ainsclough replied, ‘but we are not interested in anything you have just flushed down the toilet.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No.’

‘So that was a waste of good gear,’ Brunnie added.

The youth suddenly looked unwell. He was dressed in a tee shirt and jeans, and was barefoot. ‘And we don’t even have a search warrant, but we can get one.’

‘We want information,’ Ainsclough said, ‘about a fella who has a room here, Michael Dalkeith.’

‘Irish Mickey? He’s not in.’

‘We know.’ Ainsclough spoke quietly. ‘In fact, we’d be very, very surprised if you said that he was here. When did you last see him?’

‘A week ago. . ten days. . something like that, walked out when the snow was on the ground. He hasn’t come back yet.’

‘You haven’t reported him as a mis per?’

‘Mis per?’

‘Missing person.’

‘No.’ The youth shrugged. ‘That’s Irish Mickey, he goes away for days at a time and he’s got family in Palmers Green or someplace, so he told us once. . and he stays out all night earning money.’

‘He’s on the dole. Unemployed.’

‘You try surviving on the dole. You can’t do it. Not in London anyway. You got to do a little bobbin’ and weavin’. . a little duckin’ and divin’ if you want to keep your old tin and lead above the wet stuff.’

‘Is that right?’

‘It’s how it is.’

‘Are you duckin’ and divin’? Is your head above water?’

Again the youth shrugged. ‘I don’t go stealin’, I’m not a crook. I got a job washing up at the Chinese food joint.’

‘Washing dishes?’

‘They pay cash and I get a meal at the beginning of each shift, keeps me alive.’

‘And the DSS don’t know about it?’

‘Nope. . I mean, do me a favour, the nice thing about those DSS snoopers is that they only snoop during office hours.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘So they say. . and I take a different route to work each evening and a different route home. There’s a whole hidden army working at night for cash; you need to moonlight. Irish Mickey was like that, he’d be away for a day or two, come back with hard cash in his pocket; more than I could earn but we never asked questions. So he keeps a drum here but his Giro goes to another address. We don’t get much post.’

‘Which is his room?’

The youth pointed to the window beside the front door. ‘That’s his, downstairs front. Nobody wants a front room, too noisy. . got noise from the street and you’ve got noise from the railway, so the last person in the house gets the downstairs front, the second last gets the upstairs front. Me, I got the back room.’

‘So, Mickey Dalkeith was the last lodger to move in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which was when?’

‘About a year ago. It’s a fairly settled drum. I’ve been here two years, I’m comfortable. There are better, there are worse, but I’m happy. Queen’s Park tube and railway station is at the end of the street and it’s not too far to walk to work.’

‘We need to look inside Mickey’s room.’

‘Why?’

Ainsclough pushed the door open, and as the youth stumbled backwards, he said, ‘Let’s just say we’re interested and let’s just say a warrant won’t be needed.’ Ainsclough and Brunnie entered the house and instantly fought for breath, the heavy malodorous air within smelling, it seemed, of a combination of damp and kitchen smells, both compounded by a lack of sufficient ventilation.

‘Don’t you open windows in this house?’ Brunnie complained.

‘You get used to it.’ The youth sank back against the wall, merging with the gloom.

Ainsclough tried to open the door to Michael Dalkeith’s room and found it secured by a barrel lock, but only loosely so. He shoved the door and it opened easily. He turned to the youth. ‘Thanks for your help. So sling it, unless you want us to search your room as well.’ The youth quickly ‘slung it’, climbing the stairs hurriedly and silently. The officers stepped into the darkness that was Michael Dalkeith’s room.

The body on the bed was that of a young female. Naked. Eyes open, arms and legs raised in rigor. Body fluid had drained from the eye sockets and had solidified at the side of her head. She was Northern European and had short blonde hair. She was thin and wasted in terms of her appearance. She was bruised about the throat.

Ainsclough and Brunnie glanced at each other.

‘So what do you think?’ Ainsclough reached for his mobile phone. ‘Strangled her and then went for a walk in the snow? Murder/suicide. . the alternative being a life stretch?’

‘Possibly,’ Brunnie murmured. ‘Certainly looks that way. We’ll need to speak to everyone in the house. I’ll round them up.’

Ainsclough nodded. ‘I’ll ask for assistance. .’

Brunnie walked out of the room as Ainsclough requested the attendance of a senior officer, SOCO, pathologist and a vehicle to ‘remove persons to custody’. He went up the stairs, which creaked under his weight, and knocked on the bedroom door at the back of the house, opening it before the occupant could ask him to enter. The youth stood in the middle of the floor looking lost and helpless. ‘Who else is in the house?’ Brunnie demanded.

‘Just the women. Front room.’

‘What about the top floor?’

‘Empty. Three rooms up there but the landlord doesn’t let them out. Go and look if you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh, I will, don’t worry. A landlord that doesn’t let rooms out. .’

‘Used for storage. He’s got other properties. The upstairs rooms are full of furniture and stuff.’

‘I see. Well, get some clothes on and some shoes, you’re going for a ride.’

‘I’m working this evening.’

‘Possibly. Possibly not. Get ready, and go and wait in the kitchen. So, the two women share one room?’

‘Yes, but that’s their business. . if you see what I mean.’

‘So what about the girl, the girl in the front downstairs room?’

‘Oh, her?’

‘Yes, her.’

‘She doesn’t really live here. . she stays now and again. Mickey brought her home a few weeks ago. She comes and goes. Didn’t know she was in the house to be honest.’

‘What do you know about her?’

‘Not a lot. Welsh girl. . Gaynor. . she’s dead young, teenage runaway.’

‘You’re right there. . about her being dead young. Now, get some more clothes on and go to the kitchen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the house is now a crime scene and we’re going to search it.’

‘Search. .’ The youth’s face paled even further.

‘Why? You got something we might be interested in?’

‘Just a bit of blow, sir.’

‘Thought you’d flushed it.’

‘That was those two women. Me, I took a chance.’

‘How much have you got?’

‘Just enough for two spliffs, sir.’

‘So not supplying?’

‘Oh. . no. . no, sir.’

‘So why are you shaking like a leaf?’

‘I’m under a two year suspended sentence. . for possession. So any conviction, even a minor one, will have me in the big house for two years.’

Brunnie paused. ‘OK, I’m going to talk to those two women you mentioned. Better flush what you’ve got, but mind our dogs can detect the slightest, and I mean the slightest, trace. . so for this I want cooperation.’

‘Yes, sir. . about what?’

‘The murder of the Welsh runaway.’

The youth made a strangled cry, ‘Murder! I saw nothing.’

‘You’ll have seen something. . you’ll know something. . so flush it and get down below.’

Brunnie walked along the landing and knocked on the door of the upstairs front room.

Five minutes later the three tenants of the house were mustered in the kitchen, which had newspapers for floor covering and a pile of unwashed plates and pans in the sink. It seemed to be the rule that if you wanted to cook a meal in the house, you first had to wash whatever it was you might need, and upon cooking and eating said meal, you left anything you had used to be washed by the next hungry tenant. The youth gave his name as William ‘Billy’ Kemp. The larger of the two women, who wore jeans and boots, gave her name as Sonya Clements, and the slighter of the two, who wore an ankle-length dress and heels, gave her name as Josie Pinder. They said they were ‘girlfriends’.

‘Here’s how it works,’ Brunnie addressed the three tenants who stood in attentive silence. ‘You cooperate with us and we’ll cooperate with you. The girl who lived in the front room with Mickey Dalkeith. . she’s been murdered.’

The two women looked at each other. Billy Kemp remained expressionless. Brunnie thought their reactions to be genuine. No one displayed any sign of guilt, none overacted in feigned shock or surprise. ‘So work with us and we’ll work with you.’ He paused as he glanced down the hallway and out into the street as a dark-blue police minibus halted at the kerb. ‘OK, here’s your transport. Non-cooperation from you and we’ll turn your rooms over until we find something we can use against you. Give us mucho info and we’ll turn a blind eye to little things like a few spliffs. Is that right, Billy?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘See, I let Billy flush a few things. . in an act of good faith. . and you ladies flushed something when we knocked on the door; there’ll be more to find and we’ll find it if we have to. OK, out into the street and into the van.’

The three residents filed out of the building and Brunnie noted that not one could resist a sideways glance into the gloom of the front downstairs room, and then they stepped out of the house and climbed meekly into the police vehicle and were driven away.

Harry Vicary turned into Claremont Road just as the police minibus drew away from the kerb. He drove his car slowly and parked it at the kerb in the space vacated by the police van. Ignoring the members of the public who stood on the pavement, having noticed the activity at the house, he walked into the hallway and, directed by a constable, into the front room of the house. He encountered a dimly lit room and a musty atmosphere. DS Ainsclough and a slightly built man stood in the room. Vicary noticed the corpse lying on the bed. He also noticed the cluttered and untidy nature of the room, and was unable to tell if there had been a struggle; the room, he thought, could best be described as chaotic.

‘Dr Rothwell — ’ Ainsclough indicated the slightly built young man — ‘the duty police surgeon.’

‘Ah.’ Vicary extended his hand. ‘DS Vicary.’

‘Nice to meet you, sir.’ Rothwell shook Vicary’s hand warmly. ‘Well, I have confirmed life extinct.’ He spoke with a distinct West Country accent. ‘And I think it is suspicious. Contusions to the neck, open eyes. . petechial haemorrhaging. . but that is for the next box, so to speak.’

‘Understood.’ Vicary glanced at Ainsclough. ‘SOCO? Home Office pathologist?’

‘Both requested, sir.’

‘Well, no need for me to remain.’ Rothwell closed his Gladstone bag. ‘I have another call to make. It’s going to be one of those nights. No rest for the wicked.’ Rothwell stepped lightly out of the room and exited the house.

‘Brunnie?’ Vicary asked.

‘Here, sir.’ Brunnie entered the room. ‘Just taken a quick sweep of the house — all the attic rooms seem to have been used for storage. . furniture in the main. So, just three other residents, all taken in for questioning. Detailed search has not yet been done.’

‘I see.’

‘The deceased is believed to be called Gaynor Davies, from Wales. One resident said she was a teenage runaway.’

‘Teenage?’ Vicary glanced at the slight figure. ‘She’d pass for eleven or twelve.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Brunnie spoke softly. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘She was brought back by Michael Dalkeith and she lived here, coming and going as she pleased when he was away, which was for days at a time.’

‘He had a family in Palmers Green, sir,’ Ainsclough said. ‘Wife and two stepchildren. . but kept the rental on this place. . in which he also lived with the deceased.’

‘Sounds like he would have had some explaining to do if he hadn’t lain down in the snow. Two addresses, a female in each address, one of whom is now deceased, and deceased in suspicious circumstances.’

There came a knock on the front door. They stopped talking and glanced towards the door of the room as the constable stepped to one side and said, ‘In here, sir.’

Moments later the squat figure of John Shaftoe bumbled into the room. He smiled and said, ‘Hello, boys.’

‘Sir,’ Vicary replied.

Shaftoe smiled at Vicary. ‘Didn’t think I’d see thee again today, Mr Vicary. No rest for the wicked, eh?’

‘Funny you should say that,’ Vicary said with a wry grin.

‘Oh?’

‘Nothing. . nothing, sir.’ Vicary replied. ‘It just struck a private chord. . The deceased. . female. . life was pronounced extinct.’

Ainsclough checked his notepad, ‘At seventeen fifty-eight hours, sir.’

‘Seventeen fifty-eight,’ Vicary repeated.

‘I see.’ Shaftoe looked at the body. ‘You’re too young to be a customer of mine, pet, far too young. She doesn’t look much older than twelve.’

‘We’re told she is a teenager, sir.’

‘Yes, she could be a finely built thirteen or fourteen, but I’d be surprised if she was much older than that.’ He paused. ‘Strangulation, it seems.’

‘Yes, sir. The police surgeon who has just left said much the same thing.’

‘Have you photographed the corpse?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘I see. . so can’t be moved yet?’

‘No, sir, not overmuch.’

‘If you can turn her over, I can take a rectal temperature. It might help determine the time of death, although time of death is an inexact science at best, really no more accurate than sometime between when she was last seen alive and when the corpse was discovered, but the Home Office like thoroughness. So, I’ll take a rectal temperature and a room temperature, then, frankly, nothing I can do until I get her to the London Hospital. So I’ll do that, undertake the post-mortem tomorrow. Leave you to await the scene of crime officers, and their cameras and fingerprinting kit and whatever.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Vicary despatched Ainsclough and Brunnie to New Scotland Yard. They had reports to write and statements to take from Billy Kemp, Sonya Clements and Josie Pinder. He remained at the scene with three constables and a sergeant.

John Shaftoe, who did not drive, was conveyed to the London Hospital by his driver in a small black car. He went to his office and opened a medical file on the as yet unnamed female found deceased, possibly strangled, in the house on Claremont Road, Kilburn. He locked his medical bag in a secure cabinet and then, pulling on a donkey jacket and a flat cap, he left the hospital by an obscure side entrance and walked into the enveloping darkness of London’s East End. An observer would have seen a low-skilled manual worker, short and stocky, ambling homeward after a good day’s graft, which was exactly the image that John Shaftoe, MD, MRCP, FRCPath, wanted to portray.

He walked by the walls of the buildings, this being a practice he had acquired during his youth in south Yorkshire, where ‘hard’ men who wanted a fight walked close to the kerb, and feeling disinclined to battle his way through what he always thought to be the oddly ill-named rush hour, he called in at a pub and stood at the bar with his foot on the brass rail, enjoying a pint of IPA. Eventually, as often happened, one of the locals came and stood alongside him. The two men nodded at each other. Shaftoe read the man as being an East End villain and even though, at just 5' 4" tall, Shaftoe was as least cop-like as can be, he still had to be checked out.

‘Doing OK, mate?’ the East End villain asked with a smile.

‘So, so,’ Shaftoe replied, avoiding eye contact.

‘Not seen you in here before?’

‘Not been in here before.’ Shaftoe pronounced here as ‘ere’ and before as ‘a-for’.

‘North country?’ the villain explored, pronouncing north as ‘nawf’ and country as ‘can-ry’.

‘Sheffield.’

‘Holiday?’

‘This time of year?’ Shaftoe smiled and allowed himself brief eye contact with his interrogator. He glanced at the TV screen above the bar which showed a cartoon film with the sound blessedly turned off. What sound there was in the pub came from piped music and conversation. It was, observed Shaftoe, already crowded for an early midweek evening. ‘No, visiting me sister, she’s been taken badly. . but she’ll be alright. Just came in for a wander, to have a look at London,’ pronouncing have as ‘av’ and London as ‘Lundun’.

‘Alright,’ the wide-boy replied, pronouncing it as ‘or-white’. He then walked back to his mates and said loudly. ‘He’s alright, down from the north,’ and then added pointedly, ‘He won’t be staying long.’ And John Shaftoe, taking the hint, finished his drink and left the pub. Sometimes it was like that. He felt he had to avoid becoming a regular in one particular pub near the London Hospital, because if he did so, his occupation would eventually be discovered and he would no longer be allowed to blend with the other patrons, which was all he wanted to do. He and his wife sometimes just needed to be ‘working class’. So it was that sometimes he walked into a welcoming pub and sometimes he stumbled into a thieves’ den, which was hostile to anyone they did not know. That night he had clearly entered the latter type of pub. He would take note and avoid it in future.

By the time he left the bar of the not so jolly Jolly Boatman, dark had fallen and the rush hour, while still on, had also begun to ease. He took the Metropolitan line from Whitechapel tube station to King’s Cross, and then took an overground train bound for Welwyn. He left the train at Brookmans Park, exited the station via the footbridge and, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his donkey jacket, looking like a coal miner returning home from a shift at the pit, he walked into the leafy suburbs and up Brookmans Lane, which was softly illuminated by street lamps. Large, fully detached houses were situated on either side of the road, many with U-shaped driveways; thus the homeowners avoided having to reverse their cars into the lane. The houses all had generous back gardens, and those to his left backed on to the golf course and thereby afforded even more open space to survey when standing at the rear windows of said houses. He felt himself thinking, aren’t we smug, as he walked. But the smug occupants of these houses were also his neighbours, because although he and his wife liked to drink in working-class pubs ‘to touch base’, they were both disinclined to live on a sink estate and had bought what property they could manage to afford on his salary as a learned Home Office pathologist, and so, working class or not, they had eventually fetched up in ‘smug, self-satisfied’ Brookmans Park, Hertfordshire.

He turned right into one such large house, which had all the front room lights turned on, with a U-shaped drive — though the car by the door was only a modest Volkswagen — and unlocked the front door. He peeled off his jacket as Linda Shaftoe, tall and slender, and, he always thought, holding back the years with admirable success, greeted him warmly. ‘Good day, pet?’ She took his jacket from him as he sat on the bench beside the front door and began to tug at his shoelaces.

‘Busy,’ he said, easing his right foot out of a tightly fitting shoe, ‘busy enough to make me glad to be home.’

‘Well. . good, hot stew in the pot for you.’

‘Champion, pet.’ He eased the other shoe off his foot and reached for his slippers. ‘Champion.’

Harry Vicary surveyed the room. It was, he felt, the room of a lowlife murderer; there was a tangible cheapness of life about the four walls and the space within which reached him, deeply so. He sensed that here, in this room, humanity had little value. The contents, too, were cheap, inexpensive; they seemed to have a careworn, overused, second-hand quality about them. The cluttered room also had a sense of age, as though the contents had been allowed to accumulate over time. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves he began gingerly to open the drawers of the dressing table, ensuring that the police constable then present was watching him closely as he did so. He needed a witness for anything he might find, and also a witness that he did not unlawfully remove anything. He found little of apparent interest: some loose change, a rent book in the name of one Jennifer Reeves, which seemed to be there because no one had thrown it out — the last rent collection entered being some ten years previously. Yet, the clutter in the room suggested to him a longer-term tenant than Michael Dalkeith, who had reportedly moved into the room some twelve months previously. The seemingly long-established musty smell also seemed to speak of a long-term tenant. The owner of the property, as given on the dated rent book, was WLM Rents of Kilburn, with an address in Fernhead Road.

‘Fernhead Road?’ Vicary turned to the constable.

‘Just round the corner, sir,’ the young, serious-minded constable replied. ‘It’s the main road round here.’

‘Ah. . thanks. One to be visited tomorrow.’

‘Sir?’

‘Oh, just muttering to myself. The landlord will be someone to visit; see what he can tell us about his tenants.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Notice anything about the room, constable?’

‘Messy, sir.’

‘Yes. . too messy for someone who has just moved in. .’

‘Now you mention it, sir. Confess I hadn’t read that.’

‘These things you will learn, these observations you will be taught to make.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And a deceased female also.’

‘So I believe, sir, but I came just now, sir, just as the body was being removed.’

‘Yes, I know. . but no female clothing. I haven’t looked in all the drawers yet, but I’d still expect to see a woman’s coat or pair of shoes. . something like that.’

‘Yes. . or a handbag, sir.’

‘Yes. . good observation, no handbag either. Runaways are unlikely to have a handbag but only unlikely. . so it’s a good observation. The door was locked. . easily forced but still locked; no one had come in and rifled the room. Sorry, just musing again.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He brings the girl in, brings her from somewhere. . strangles her, takes all her clothing and her handbag, and heaven only knows what else. . and then goes for a walk on Hampstead Heath in a blizzard. . and does so ill-dressed for the weather conditions on that day or night, or whenever, and then lies down in the snow to sleep his final sleep right on top of a corpse that was already there, and had been for a number of years.’

‘You mean like he knew it was there, sir, like he was leading us there, sir? Telling us about the corpse?’

Vicary looked at the constable and did so with widening eyes and a slackening jaw.