Deep Cover

TWO

WLM Rents occupied the ground floor of a house on Fernhead Road, Kilburn. Vicary had never before set foot in Fernhead Road. It was a narrow road, he found, probably wide enough to accommodate vehicular traffic in the late nineteenth century, when the tall, elegant terrace houses which stood on either side of the tree-lined road were built, but now, in twenty-first-century Britain, it would, Vicary thought, be a bottleneck during the rush hour. He walked into the office of WLM Rents and was met by a bright, airy interior, smelling of air freshener, with large colour photographs of London landmarks — Trafalgar Square, the Tower, Westminster Bridge — attached to the walls. A water dispenser, filled with mineral water, stood in the corner by the door. Comfortable looking upholstered chairs lined one wall and in front of them were two coffee tables standing end to end, upon which lay copies of London Life, Time Out and other magazines about living in London and the Home Counties. Upon Vicary and Brunnie entering the premises, a young man, dressed in a suit and tie, stood smartly, smiled and said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?’

‘Police.’ Vicary showed his ID.

‘Oh.’ The man, J.J. Dunwoodie by the nameplate on his desk, paled. ‘No bother, I hope?’

‘Plenty.’ Vicary smiled. ‘Always, always, always plenty of bother. . no shortage of bother at all, keeps us in gainful employment, but we are here only to seek a little information.’

‘Of course.’ Dunwoodie indicated two easy chairs with wooden arms that stood in front of his desk. The officers took a seat, and only when they were seated did the young Dunwoodie also sit. He was, thought Vicary, a young man who seemed conscientious and took his job very seriously, although working for a private landlord would, he mused, offer limited potential for advancement and would not have the generous conditions of the service enjoyed by public or civil servants. He said to himself, ‘You can do better than this, young Dunwoodie. Much, much better,’ but he said aloud, ‘We understand that WLM Rents owns a property near here, specifically on Claremont Road, by the railway, particularly number 123; can’t forget that house number. Very convenient.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘You seem to know it?’ Vicary noticed Brunnie take his notepad from his coat pocket and a pen from the inside pocket of his sports jacket.

‘Yes, I do, I know it well, but it is not typical of WLM Rents.’

‘Oh?’

‘Oh, not at all, WLM is more upmarket than 123. We rent to young, professional people. Number 123 is one of our ancillary properties.’

‘Ancillary properties?’

‘It will be developed soon, when Mr William is ready. It has been an ancillary property for a year or two.’

‘And you have permission from the local authority to use it as business premises?’

‘Yes, all legal and proper. It was derelict and Mr William negotiated the change on the deeds as part of the condition of undertaking its development. It was a real eyesore; in fact an oak tree was growing up from the basement. So the local authority was pleased when someone was prepared to take on the renovation. It gave Mr William a bit of leverage you might say, to negotiate the change to the deeds.’

‘I see.’

‘So. . 123 is awaiting development, then we’ll rent it to the young professionals. Kilburn is very convenient for the City so we have a lot of bankers and stockbrokers on our books. I mean, direct tube to central London, just one change to reach the Square Mile; our tenants are between university and their first mortgage. That’s how Mr William made his fortune.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. He’s a stockbroker. He made a killing about twenty years ago and he used his money to buy up as much of Kilburn as he could. He saw the potential of the area. He knew it would be gentrified and he was right, money came in from rents and he bought more houses, and he now has over one hundred properties. . all in Kilburn. He is known as the King of Kilburn.’

‘How interesting.’

‘Yes. He has done well.’ Dunwoodie beamed.

‘So tell us about the house on Claremont Road?’

‘Yes. . well, run down. . can’t rent it as it is, not to the sort of person we want to deal with. So it’s used for storing furniture, but we also use it as a grace and favour residence for people who do the occasional odd job for the company.’

‘Grace and favour?’

‘Yes, it’s hardly a St James’s Palace sort of grace and favour residence but it keeps the squatters out. The people in the ancillary properties don’t pay rent but Mr William asks them for favours from time to time.’

‘And if they say “no” they’ll be in the street?’

Dunwoodie looked uncomfortable. ‘Well. .’ he stammered.

‘How many such properties does he have?’

‘About ten ancillaries. . mostly young women are in them, some young men.’

Vicary and Brunnie glanced at each other. Vicary then looked back at Dunwoodie. ‘So where do we find Mr William?’

‘At home. . sometimes he calls in here to water the plants.’

‘The plants?’

‘Yes, he’s quite green-fingered.’ Dunwoodie pointed to a line of potted plants which stood on a series of red filing cabinets. ‘He likes to keep the plants watered. It gets hot and dry in here. I could do it, the watering can is there, but he likes to do it. But mostly he works at home.’

‘What is his home address?’

‘His main home is in Virginia Water.’

‘It would be,’ Brunnie growled. ‘What’s the address?’

‘I can phone him to ask him if I can give you his number.’

‘Address!’

‘I don’t know it, just his phone number. But I am not supposed to give it to anyone; he’s very clear on that point.’

‘We’re not anybody,’ Vicary snarled. ‘The number!’

‘Really, I am under strict instructions-’

‘You could be arrested and charged with obstruction. This is a murder enquiry.’

‘Murder!’ Dunwoodie gasped.

‘Yes. Murder. With a capital “M”.’

J.J. Dunwoodie reached for the file index on his desk and began to thumb through it. ‘Old fashioned, I know, but so what, it works. Ah. . here it is, Mr William Pilcher.’ He read out Pilcher’s phone number and Brunnie wrote it in his notebook. ‘I’ll have to phone Mr William and let him know that you called and demanded his phone number.’

‘Do that,’ Vicary replied. ‘And tell him to expect us very soon.’

‘Soon?’

‘As in just how long it will take us to drive from here to Virginia Water,’ Brunnie explained. ‘That sort of soon. Have a good day.’

John Shaftoe pulled down the microphone until it was level with his mouth and cast a despairing eye at the trembling and twitching Billy Button, who looked at the corpse with undisguised fear.

‘You know, Billy,’ Shaftoe leaned on the stainless steel table, resting his fleshy hands on the raised lip, ‘you could do worse than put it all into context for yourself.’

‘Sir? What do you mean, sir?’

‘Well. . tell me. . how old are you now?’

‘Me, sir, I’m fifty-seven, sir.’

‘Fifty-seven?’

‘Yes, sir, last July.’

‘Alright.’

‘So just three years short of your three score. . just thirteen years short of your three score and ten. .’

‘Suppose so, sir.’

‘And you’re still going strong.’

‘Suppose that too, sir.’

‘OK. Well, look at this fella here on the table.’ Shaftoe nodded to the corpse of Michael Dalkeith which lay face up on the table with a starched white towel draped over the genitalia. ‘How old do you think he is — or was — when he died?’

Button shrugged. ‘Forty, sir?’

‘Probably younger than that, probably a lot younger. I saw the conditions he lived in: one room in a shared house in Kilburn across the street from the railway line. So do you want to swap places with him? Would you want his living conditions rather than your own?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No, sir. . right, sir, you’ve already lived longer than he has lived. . lucky you. And you’ve a wife and a home to go back to each evening. He was born when you were already alive and you’re still alive now that he is no more. What have you. . you and me both. . what have we got to complain of?’

‘Well. . since you put it like that, sir. .’

‘Nothing is the answer. Nothing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the next PM we will be doing today, just a lassie, barely in her teens. I’ve seen her corpse. . wasted wee soul; she was brought in last night — almost like a skeleton covered in parchment. So context, Billy. . context.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if it’s being cut open after you are dead that scares you?’

‘Yes, sir. . those shiny instruments.’

‘I’ve told you before; the chances are it won’t happen.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right.’ Shaftoe reached for the microphone at the end of the anglepoise arm and switched it on. ‘The corpse is that of a well-nourished adult of the male sex who has been positively identified as one Michael Dalkeith of Palmers Green, who had also been resident in Kilburn. All details are with the police. The interested police officer is Detective Inspector Harry Vicary of the Murder and Serious Crime Squad of New Scotland Yard.’ Shaftoe paused. ‘There are no evident injuries. The deceased was found in an exposed place when the recent snow thawed, giving the clear indication that he had succumbed to hypothermia.’ He took a scalpel, and placing it at the throat of the deceased, drew it downwards over the chest to the stomach and then divided the incision to the left and the right, thus forming an inverted ‘Y’ on the man’s torso. ‘I am performing a standard midline incision,’ he said calmly for the benefit of the tape. Shaftoe peeled the skin back, exposing the internal organs. ‘Better take a deep breath, Billy,’ Shaftoe said as he pressed the tip of the scalpel into the stomach. He also took a deep breath and turned his head away as the stomach gasses hissed upon their release. He waved his hand in the air and took a step backwards. ‘I’ve smelled worse,’ he said, smiling, ‘a lot worse.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Actually, that is not bad.’ Shaftoe peered into the stomach, ‘Oh, one hungry boy. He hadn’t eaten anything for. . for probably forty-eight hours before he died, certainly twenty-four. . but he is so healthy, so well-nourished, yet the empty stomach would have made it even more difficult for him to withstand the cold. That is quite strange.’

Shaftoe took an electrically powered circular saw and cut down the centre of the ribcage, thus separating the ribs. ‘The heart appears healthy.’ Using the scalpel, he separated the organ from the body and placed it on a set of scales. ‘Heart is age/weight proportional. I’ll dissect it later but I am sure it was healthy.’ Shaftoe took the circular saw and cut round the circumference of the skull, just above the ears, and then lifted the top of the skull away. It separated with a loud sucking sound. ‘Similarly,’ Shaftoe said for the benefit of the microphone, ‘the brain appears healthy. Nice thick skull also. . lucky man. You know, Billy, I once did a PM on a young lad, just eight years old, who died of a fractured skull which led to brain damage. The story was that his dad had clipped him round the ear for being cheeky to his mum. . and succeeded in killing him. Turned out that the poor lad had an eggshell skull, so called, no thicker than a single sheet of newspaper. I told the inquest that any minor blow to the head could — in fact, would — have been fatal. If he played soccer and had headed the ball, he would then have lost his life. The poor lad was just a fatal accident waiting to happen. Any rough and tumble with his mates, any accidental knock to the head would have killed him. The coroner recorded a verdict of accidental death, which was a fair verdict but the boy’s father was beside himself with grief and guilt. So that’s something else to measure your life against, Billy. Context. . context.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Shaftoe took the brain and weighed it. ‘The brain is of normal weight for the age of the deceased.’ He placed the brain on the working surface and, taking a knife, he sliced it thinly. ‘All healthy,’ he said, ‘no stroke victim he. I will send a blood sample for a toxicology examination, but in the absence of poison, I will record a finding of death due to hypothermia, compounded by the empty stomach and insufficient clothing at the time of death. The empty stomach is puzzling though, very puzzling given his overall well-nourished state. This PM might not yet be complete. See what the toxicology test reveals, if anything.’

Hollow Hill, Virginia Water, Surrey. Large houses, large in any man’s language, were set back from the road, each house separated from the neighbouring property by small stands of woodland; large front gardens, larger back gardens, which gave way to an area of woodland. Vicary at the wheel, and Brunnie beside him in the passenger seat, sat in silence, though both men thought the same: here be money. Big money.

The house owned by the proprietor of WLM Rents sat well, it seemed to Vicary, with its neighbours. It was not significantly larger, nor markedly smaller than the other houses on the road. It blended, Vicary conceded, and did so neatly — painted in a soft green about the window frames and doors, faded brickwork under a brown tiled roof, with a double garage to the right-hand side. The broad driveway expanded into a wide courtyard in front of the house. To the left of the drive was a raised rockery of about ten feet high, which prevented any very occasional foot passenger passing along the pavement from looking into the house. The front door was enclosed within a solid wooden porch, with windows in the door and at either side. A small window at ground level to the left of the porch betrayed the existence of a cellar. Vicary turned into the driveway and halted the car beside the royal-blue Range Rover which was parked close to the door. ‘Dare say the Rolls-Royce is in the garage,’ he remarked as he switched off the car’s ignition.

‘Dare say it is — ’ Brunnie smiled as he unclipped his seat belt — ‘next to the Bentley. How much do you think it’s worth?’

‘I wouldn’t like to guess.’ Vicary glanced at the house. ‘Well out of our league, that’s for sure.’ The house was clearly an inter-war building, modern in many respects, but built when houses were still being built to last. His father-in-law’s warning of ‘Don’t even look at anything built after 1939’ had proved to be good advice for him and his wife.

Vicary and Brunnie left the car and walked up to the porch, but the door of the house opened before Vicary could press the doorbell. The man stepped forward and opened the porch door. He had a hard, humourless looking face, clean-shaven, cold blue eyes, close-cropped hair. He wore cream-coloured cavalry twill trousers and a white shirt, over which was a pale-blue woollen pullover. His feet were encased in highly polished brown shoes. The only jewellery was a Rolex on his left wrist.

‘You’ll be the police,’ he said. He spoke with a hard voice, almost, Vicary thought, a rasping sound, and both he and Brunnie recognized the type: a career criminal.

‘Yes, sir.’ Vicary showed his ID. Brunnie did the same. ‘I’m DI Vicary. This is DC Brunnie. Scotland Yard.’

‘Scotland Yard? It must be serious. . must be important. You’d better come in. My man only told me the police were calling to see me. He didn’t mention Scotland Yard.’

The officers entered a wide entrance hall, thickly carpeted, with stained and polished panelling on the walls, and a wide staircase angling up to the first floor. From the entrance hall they were shown into a room just to the right of the front door, which was clearly used to entertain official visitors. Evidently only guests were allowed to enter the inner areas of the house. Officials, and especially police officers, were kept by the door. The room itself was spartan in the extreme, with no floor covering, though the floorboards had been sanded and varnished, and four inexpensive, office-style easy chairs stood round a glass-topped coffee table. Though the room was still larger, Brunnie guessed, than the living room of his flat in Walthamstow, E17. The wallcovering was of green embossed wallpaper, which seemed to Vicary to be of the same vintage as the house and, when needed, the illumination would come from a single light bulb, which hung from the ceiling and was enveloped in a yellow, bowl-like glass shade dating from the 1930s. The room seemed to Vicary to be deliberately arranged to be uncomfortable, cold, unwelcoming and very hostile, and it had, he thought, a hard cell-like quality, with nothing, nothing at all such as a print on the wall or a plant in a pot, to offer any form of softening.

‘Do take a seat, please.’ The man spoke in a perfunctory manner. The words kept to the script, but the tone of voice was as cold and as hard as the room. Vicary, Brunnie and the householder sat down; Vicary and Brunnie side by side, the man opposite them, with the coffee table separating him and the officers. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how can I help you, gentlemen?’

‘You are?’

‘William Pilcher.’

‘You own WLM Rents?’

‘Yes, WLM of course being derived from my given name.’

‘I see.’

‘And yes, WLM Rents is my little portfolio.’ He smiled. ‘The stock market was. . useful to me once.’

‘So we understand from Mr Dunwoodie.’

‘J.J. Yes, he’s a good little beaver to have working for me. So, how can I help you?’

‘We are particularly interested in one of your properties in Kilburn.’

‘They are all in Kilburn. I began buying up Kilburn when I realized the properties were undervalued and the area was set for gentrification. Close enough to fall into the spill of the beam from Hampstead and Golders Green.’

‘The property on Claremont Road, 123 Claremont Road; Mr Dunwoodie described it as an ancillary property.’

‘Yes, awaiting development.’

‘Mr Dunwoodie described it as a “grace and favour” house.’

‘He did?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘He does tend to be. . don’t know the word. . but yes, I let people live there and they work for me, low-grade gofers really. They pay no rent, but if I need a favour, they oblige.’

‘So Mr Dunwoodie explained.’

‘Did he?’ A menacing growl entered Pilcher’s voice to the extent that Vicary felt a sudden chill of fear for the welfare of J.J. Dunwoodie. Working for Pilcher evidently did not mean you enjoyed the man’s protection.

‘We are making enquiries into a man called Michael Dalkeith.’

‘Irish Mickey? What about him?’

‘He is deceased.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I knew he had gone, seemed that he did a moonlight, but he didn’t owe me any money so I wasn’t too upset.’

‘So how did you know him? In what capacity did you know him?’

Pilcher shrugged in an uninterested way. Vicary thought that he did not seem at all concerned about the death of Michael ‘Irish Mickey’ Dalkeith. ‘He was an odd-job man. He did a little work now and then. He was no craftsman, just the old donkey jobs.’

‘Donkey jobs?’

‘Fetching and carrying, tidying up, making the tea for the working crew. . that number.’

‘You paid him in cash?’

‘Yes, he preferred it that way.’

‘So he could claim dole money?’

‘Yes, the old, black economy number.’ Pilcher paused. ‘Mind you, it was peanuts, his pay really was his rent-free accommodation, and that was worth a few hundred pounds a week.’

‘How long did he live at Claremont Road?’

‘On and off for a good few months, possibly about a year. He took up with a woman in North London somewhere and then returned — kept a girl in the room so I believe. Really it was J.J. that handled it; I had more important issues to work on.’

‘Alright, we’ll go back and have another chat with Dunwoodie, because you see there is a little more to it. .’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, the girl you mentioned. .’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, she is also deceased.’

‘Oh, my, what has been going on at that house?’

‘That’s what we want to know; also the other tenants are in custody and won’t be going anywhere soon. So, what do you know of the girl?’

‘Nothing about her. I heard that she was living with him but I have no interest in employees’ private lives. The purpose of the people in the ancillary properties is to keep the squatters out and do some occasional unskilled work. Like I said, I am a businessman and I am focused on other issues. If that is all. .’

Vicary and Brunnie stood. ‘Yes, that is all. . for now.’

‘For now?’ Pilcher also stood.

‘We never know what might develop, so yes, “for now”.’ Vicary smiled and walked to the door. He then turned and said, ‘Oh, just one thing. .’

‘Yes?’

‘When “Irish Mickey” Dalkeith died, face down in the snow on Hampstead Heath, he had no food in his stomach, yet the pathologist said he was well-nourished.’

‘So?’

‘So, a well-nourished man with no food in his stomach is a puzzle.’

‘It is?’

‘It suggests that he had been starved of food for a day or two before he died.’

‘Dare say it might suggest that.’

‘Well, it might mean something, it might not. Very early days yet and we’re in no hurry, but we are very dogged, eh, DC Brunnie?’

‘We are that, sir.’ Brunnie smiled at Pilcher. ‘Just as dogged as dogged can be. We don’t give up easily.’

‘But you know, he did us a favour,’ Vicary continued.

‘Oh?’ Pilcher seemed attentive, more so than hitherto, thought Vicary.

‘Yes, you know, he fell down right on top of a shallow grave. Might just be a coincidence, but as one of our constables said, it might also be that he was leading us there, right to the grave. . a young adult female, quite short, about five feet tall, been there a few years. . ten to fifteen years buried, something like that.’

Pilcher paled. His brow furrowed.

‘You don’t know anything about that?’

‘No!’ His reply was aggressive, defensive.

‘We’ll find out who she was soon enough, and all roads will lead to Rome. If there is a connection between the late “Irish Mickey” Dalkeith and the deceased woman who lay concealed under his dead body, we’ll find out. Well, we’ll say good day, Mr Pilcher. Thank you for your time.’

Driving back to central London, Vicary asked Brunnie what he thought of Pilcher.

‘A nasty.’ Brunnie glanced to his left as the car slid by the wealth of north-west Surrey, ‘too hard to be a stockbroker, like Durham E-wing hard; too ready to get rid of us and too frightened when you mentioned the fact that Dalkeith had died as if leading us to the shallow grave. Frankly, it would not surprise me one little bit if Pilcher was an alias and that he is well known to us under a different handle.’

‘Yes.’ Vicary smiled but kept looking straight ahead. ‘My feelings exactly. We need to find out just who he is — pick that up, will you?’

‘Yes, boss, I’ll get right on it. My curiosity is well aroused, very well up.’

For the second time that day John Shaftoe considered a corpse which lay upon the stainless steel dissecting table in the pathology laboratory of the London Hospital, although, on the second occasion, he had no need to adjust the height of the microphone which was attached to the anglepoise arm above the table. ‘Did you have a good lunch, Billy?’ He grinned at his nervous assistant, who he thought was looking more than usually pale and unwell.

‘It was OK, sir. Usual hospital canteen food but it filled the gap.’

‘Good. So, two in one day, not bad. . once did four in one day. I needed my sleep at the end of that day, I can tell you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Button whimpered.

‘Well. . let’s press on.’ Shaftoe spoke clearly for the benefit of the microphone. ‘The deceased is a frail-looking, undernourished person of the female sex. She is of Northern European or Caucasian racial extraction. Her age is as yet to be determined, but she is young and post-pubescent, and probably in her early teenage years.’ He paused. ‘Immediately obvious is the extensive bruising to the neck, which is indicative of strangulation. I also note ligature marks to her wrists.’ He pulled up the eyelids, one at a time. ‘Petechial haemorrhaging is noted, which further indicates that she was strangled. Care to look?’ Shaftoe turned to Ainsclough who was observing the post-mortem for the police.

‘Yes, sir.’ Ainsclough, clad from head to toe in the requisite green paper coveralls, stepped from the side of the theatre to the dissecting table and stood beside, and slightly behind, Shaftoe.

‘Little black dots in the whites of the eyes. . see? Blood spots, sometimes, if not black, they have a reddish hue, always a good indication of strangulation or asphyxiation, but we have to be careful not to jump to conclusions because such can also occur naturally, in the event of a brain haemorrhage, for instance, so this, in itself, is not conclusive proof of murder.’

‘I see, sir.’

‘But taken together, with the bruising to the neck, I think I am on safe ground to state, unless I find anything to the contrary, that this young girl was murdered by manual strangulation, as opposed to being strangled by use of a ligature.’

‘So murder, in that case, sir?’

‘Yes. Murder most foul.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Ainsclough retreated to the wall of the laboratory where he once again stood in deferential silence.

‘So the deceased, who regrettably had a short life, was also short in life in terms of her stature. Can you pass the tape measure, please, Billy?’

Billy Button picked up a yellow retractable metal tape-measure from the bench close to the dissecting table and handed it to Shaftoe, who extended the tape from the head to the balls of the feet of the corpse. ‘Four feet ten inches tall or one hundred and forty-seven centimetres in her cotton socks, poor thing. God rest her.’ Shaftoe took a metal file and scraped under the fingernails of the deceased, and deposited the detritus thereunder into a self-sealing cellophane sachet. ‘She might have clawed at her attacker’s face and captured his. . or her. . DNA. Might. . might, but the ligature marks on her wrists indicate that she was restrained peri-mortem, so we’ll have to wait and see what forensics can tell us. How old do you think she is, Billy?’

Button shrugged. ‘Not old, sir.’ Button looked at the thin, wasted frame, the ribs, the thin waist, the painfully thin legs which protruded under the starched white towel that had been placed over her middle, the tiny feet. ‘I see what you mean about being fortunate, sir.’

‘Yes, it’s all a matter of context, Billy, all a matter of context.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So we crack on, we continue. I will avoid damaging the face; she still has to be identified. Any ideas yet, Mr Ainsclough?’

‘None as yet, sir. We’re trawling through the missing persons reports, but she may be from outside London, as many young people are. If that is the situation here, she will only be registered as a mis per locally, that is local to her home.’

‘I see. Well, her hands are undamaged. I’ll cut them off and send them to the forensic laboratory together with her nail scrapings. They can lift her fingerprints. She might have a record. She might be known to you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘So, now we’ll see what she had for her last meal. . but, flat tummy, wasted, drawn looks, indicate little intestinal gas, which further indicates a recent time of death. I anticipate an empty stomach, she is close to anorexic.’

Shaftoe took a scalpel and drew it across the stomach. Little gas escaped. He opened up the incision and peered into the stomach cavity. ‘Yes, as I suspected. No food at all.’ Shaftoe took a length of stainless steel and worked it into the mouth and prised the mouth open causing the jaw to give with a soft, cracking sound. ‘Rigor is established,’ he announced, ‘thus placing the time of death between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago but that is a very inexact science, as you know.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘Ah. . she is British, distinctly UK dentistry, and work was done quite recently, so dental records will be able to confirm any ID if her fingerprints are not on file, or if a relative can’t identify her.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Ainsclough replied, raising his voice to enable it to carry across the laboratory.

‘She didn’t leave you a message, no notes under the tongue or between her teeth and gums. I’ll check the other body cavities and send a blood sample for analysis, but it’s looking clearly like a case of strangulation after a period of being restrained. So I assume my report will be for the attention of Mr Vicary?’

‘Yes, please, sir.’

Frank Brunnie sat at his desk and read the ‘no trace’ result from his enquiry.

‘That,’ he murmured, ‘that I do not believe.’

‘You sound disappointed.’ Penny Yewdall glanced up from her desk which faced Brunnie’s. ‘Something amiss?’

‘What isn’t amiss? The whole wretched planet is amiss in one way or another.’ Brunnie leaned back and put his feet on his desktop.

‘If Harry Vicary catches you sitting like that you’re in the soup. You know what recent promotees are like. . new brooms sweeping clean; out to make a name for himself.’

‘Yes, he had a narrow escape. He’s consolidating now.’

‘So I heard. Drink, wasn’t it?’

‘Drink it was. He was given six months to get his act together, which he not only did, but he also did very well in the Jim Coventry murder.’

‘That’s the one in which Archie Dew was shot?’

‘Yes. Harry did well in that case. So, he sobered up, impressed their Lordships, got promoted, and he’s back on track, but he’s out right now. . so. .’ Brunnie let his feet remain on the desktop. ‘But this guy — ’ Brunnie tapped the computer printout — ‘“no trace”, “not known”. . no way, he’s a nasty. He smelled nasty, he looked nasty and I tell you, did he look alarmed when we told him that the guy Irish Mickey Dalkeith had gone to sleep in the snow right over the shallow grave of a woman. . or did he look alarmed? Guess which.’

‘I should guess. . er. . alarmed.’ Yewdall put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. ‘What does the Land Registry say?’

‘Same. The house in Virginia Water is registered in the name of one William Pilcher.’

‘You need a DNA sample or some item with his fingerprints on it.’

Brunnie grinned. ‘For that I will take my feet off the desk for Mr Vicary.’

‘You see, pretty girls do have their uses,’ Yewdall said with a smile.

‘So I am discovering. Fancy a trip out to sunny Kilburn?’

‘Not particularly,’ Yewdall replied. ‘It will take much to drag me to sunny Kilburn, not my favourite part of the Great Wen. . but. . but. .’

‘But?’

‘But anything to get away from this wretched paperwork. I know the value of it, but if I wanted to work in an office I’d have been a secretary or a bank clerk. So, let’s go.’ She stood and reached for her coat. Brunnie did likewise.

Thirty minutes later, Brunnie and Yewdall entered the premises of WLM Rents on Fernhead Road, W9, and were greeted by J.J. Dunwoodie snapping to attention with his eager to please attitude. Brunnie suddenly felt afraid for the safety of Dunwoodie, having just met his employer. He seemed to Brunnie to be akin to a lamb protecting a tiger.

‘Your boss?’ Brunnie said, shortly, abruptly.

‘Mr William?’

‘Yes, we need something he has touched.’

‘Oh.’ Dunwoodie paled. ‘I don’t know if I could. . if I should.’

‘Why?’ Yewdall smiled. ‘He couldn’t have anything to hide; he’s a very respectable, hard-working, clean-living businessman, a veritable pillar of the community.’

‘Yes. .’ Dunwoodie stammered, ‘he is. . but.’

‘But what? When did he last come here, to this office?’ Brunnie pressed.

‘Today’s. . about two, three days ago. Three days ago in the afternoon, late afternoon.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘He left to visit a property and then he was returning home.’

‘No. . no. . where in here? Where in this office did he go?’

‘Well, he went into the back office.’ Dunwoodie indicated the door behind to the left of him. ‘He keeps that door locked; even I can’t go inside there. I don’t know what’s in there.’

‘Even you?’

‘Well, I mean that I am the office manager and I can’t go in that room. All I need to access are the files kept in the cabinets. Everything I need is in those cabinets.’

‘I see, so where else did he walk?’

‘Nowhere. . just into the back office, watered the plants, then left to view the property Mr William hopes to acquire.’

‘He watered the plants?’

‘Yes.’ Dunwoodie pointed to a row of six money plants that stood on top of the filing cabinets in terracotta pots.

Brunnie noticed a small, red plastic watering can at the end of the row of money plants. ‘Did he use that watering can?’

‘Yes. . yes, he did.’

Brunnie walked across the hard-wearing felt carpeting and picked the watering can up by the spout. He took a large plastic bag from the inside of his coat and placed the can within it. ‘This will do nicely.’ He smiled.

‘Can you do that?’ Dunwoodie spluttered.

‘With your permission,’ Yewdall said, also smiling.

‘Well, I don’t. . I mean. .’

‘Thanks.’ Brunnie turned toward the door. ‘We’ll return it.’

‘Did you buy it locally?’ Yewdall asked.

‘Yes, the hardware shop, five minutes’ walk from here.’

‘So go and buy another one, an identical one, then no one will ever know, will they?’

‘I will have to tell Mr William,’ Dunwoodie squeaked.

‘No,’ Brunnie turned back and faced Dunwoodie, holding eye contact with him. ‘No. No. No. For your own sake. . no.’

‘For my own sake?’ Dunwoodie’s face paled.

‘Yes, for your own sake.’ Brunnie remained stone-faced. ‘Lock up the office and go and buy a watering can from the hardware shop. A watering can identical to this one, and return and place it on top of the filing cabinets.’

‘Simple as that,’ Yewdall added.

‘You know, fella,’ Brunnie continued, ‘I don’t know what you think of your boss, but I can tell you that it won’t be the same as what I think about him. So go and buy another watering can and mention our little and very brief visit to no one.’

‘No one,’ Yewdall added, ‘no one.’

In the car, driving southwards in slow moving traffic, Yewdall glanced to her left at the residential houses and occasional shop. ‘Any more stunts like that,’ she said, ‘and you’ll have us both put against a wall and shot.’

Brunnie grinned. ‘You put the idea in my head, but at least we’re going to find out who Pilcher really is, and Dunwoodie will be safe if he buys another watering can and keeps his mouth shut.’

Yewdall turned to him. ‘If,’ she said coldly, ‘if, it’s a big if. . a very big if.’

Vicary smiled. It was serious. Very serious, but he managed to smile. In the margin of the report on Michael ‘Irish Mickey’ Dalkeith’s blood toxicity, which spoke of milligrams per millilitre of alcohol being present, John Shaftoe had clearly anticipated Vicary’s bewilderment and had written in a neat hand, ‘sufficient to knock out a horse’. Vicary said ‘Thank you’ aloud and laid the toxicity report to one side, and picked up the post-mortem report, also submitted by John Shaftoe, in respect of the shallowly buried, skeletonized corpse which was found beneath Michael Dalkeith’s frozen body. The post-mortem findings had been compared to information on missing persons and Vicary saw that, worryingly, quite a few women of about five feet tall in height had been reported missing, and were still missing, in the Greater London area within the last fifteen years. The vast majority, however, were very young — teenagers or early twenties — but one, just one missing person’s report stood out as being the most promising potential match to the post-mortem findings. Rosemary Halkier was thirty-five years old when she was reported missing some ten years earlier. The mother of two children, she had been reported as a missing person by her father with whom she was living at the time in Albert Road, Leyton, which was, as if fate was helpfully intervening, very close to Vicary’s route home. If he left the tube train just one stop earlier than usual, he could very easily call in at the Halkier household, make a brief enquiry and then walk home from there in less than fifteen minutes. Vicary glanced out of his office window. He noted the sky to be low and grey but, thankfully, it was not raining, and as such it made a stroll from Leyton to Leytonstone on a dry winter’s evening seem very inviting. Very inviting indeed. He stood and worked himself into his overcoat and screwed his fedora hat on to his head. He signed himself ‘Out — not coming back’, and walked out of the Murder and Serious Crime Unit. He took the lift to the ground floor and exited New Scotland Yard by the main entrance in front of the triangular sign which read, ‘Working for a safer London’. He took the District Line to Mile End and there changed on to the Central Line and, as he had planned, left the tube at Leyton.

Albert Road revealed itself to be a residential street lined with solid Victorian terraced housing, but was interspersed with post-Second World War development on the southern side, which, as very frequently in London and other cities in the UK, indicated where bombs had fallen during the Blitz. The Halkier household was, like the houses around it, a clear survivor of Nazi bombs: brick built, white-painted around the front bay window, and a black-gloss-painted door with a brass knocker. A small front garden of just four feet separated the house from the pavement. Vicary pushed open the low metal gate, which squeaked on dry hinges as he did so, and was, whether by design or not, he thought, a very efficient burglar deterrent. He rapped on the brass knocker, employing the traditional police officer’s knock. . tap, tap. . tap. The door was opened rapidly by a slender, healthy looking man who Vicary assessed to be in his late sixties.

‘What!’ the man demanded, aggressively.

‘Police.’ Vicary showed the man his ID. ‘No trouble, just seeking information.’

‘Oh. . I see.’ The man instantly relaxed. ‘It can get bad round here, kids knocking on doors and then running away. Dare say it could be worse. I moved the old knocker higher up the door but they can still reach it.’ The man spoke with a warm London accent. ‘And if it’s not kids, it’s folk trying to sell me double glazing.’

‘Well, I’m not either one,’ Vicary replied softly. Behind the man he saw a neat, well-ordered hallway with everything just so, and the smell of furniture polish from within the house reached him. He stood on the threshold, but still out of doors. ‘Can I ask, are you Mr Halkier?’

‘Yes, that I am. Joseph Halkier. Why?’

‘Did you report your daughter as a missing person some ten years ago?’

‘Yes. .’ The man’s voice seemed to rise in its pitch. ‘Yes, our Rosemary. Why?’

‘I’m afraid I may have some bad news for you.’

Joseph Halkier stiffened. ‘After this length of time, there can be no bad news. If it’s about our Rosemary it can only be good news, even if her dear old body has been found that’s still good news, because it’s better than not knowing.’ He stepped aside. ‘You’d better come in, sir.’

Vicary stepped over the threshold and wiped his shoes on the ‘welcome’ mat just inside the doorway. Joseph Halkier, dressed in a blue sweater, jeans and sports shoes — which made him appear younger than his likely years — shut the door behind Vicary with a gentle click and asked him to go into the first room on his right, which transpired to be the living room of the home. It was furnished with a 1950s vintage three-piece suite, heavy 1930s vintage wooden furniture and a dark-brown carpet. The room had a surprisingly musty smell, and that, and the absence of any form of heating, suggested to Vicary that the room was designated to be the ‘best’ room of the house, used only on special occasions or to entertain official callers. The day-to-day living in the house — including the television, radio and music player and the heating — was likely to be confined to the rear of the house. Joseph Halkier followed Vicary into the room and indicated the armchairs and the settee, and said, in a sombre, resigned tone, ‘Please do take a seat, sir.’

Vicary sat in the armchair which stood furthest from the door so that he had his back to the window as dusk enveloped the street. Halkier sat opposite him in a matching armchair. He remained silent but stared intently at Vicary.

‘No easy way of telling you, Mr Halkier, but a body has been found. It is a body which matches the description of Rosemary but. . but I have to say that the identity has to be confirmed.’

Joseph Halkier’s head sagged forward. He held it like that for a few moments before recovering. ‘I’m glad she isn’t here. .’

‘Sorry?’ The reaction astounded Vicary.

‘Oh. . no. . sorry. .’ Halkier stammered, ‘don’t get me wrong. I mean my wife, Mrs Halkier.’

‘I see.’

‘She died a year ago without knowing what had happened to Rosemary, but she always lived in hope. Even just before she died she would say things like, “She’ll be in a hospital somewhere, not knowing who she is. . lost all her memory, that’s why she hasn’t contacted us. She’ll phone soon, you’ll see, just you wait and see. . it happens all the time.” I never said anything but. . after a week I knew we’d never see her alive again. It was so not like her to not let us know where she was. But the identification will be positive. Where was she. .’ Halkier paused, ‘where was her body found?’

‘Her body — if it is hers — was found on Hampstead Heath.’

‘The Heath.’ Halkier sighed. ‘All these years and she was so close. . as the crow flies. . ten miles, perhaps a little more. That’s close considering where she could be, like the north of Scotland, but at least my wife died before she was found. She never gave up hope.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘So, whereabouts on the Heath?’

‘Close to the Spaniards Road entrance.’

‘Spaniards Road?’

‘Yes. If you go to that entrance you might probably see the remains of blue-and-white tape strung about the bushes. There will be a hollow just inside the shrubs, hidden from view.’

‘A hollow. . a shallow grave?’

‘Yes,’ Vicary replied solemnly, ‘it was a shallow grave for someone, a female, possibly mid-thirties, just five feet tall.’

‘That’s Rosemary.’

‘And who has given birth.’

‘Again. . that’s Rosemary.’

‘We still need something to make a positive identification.’

‘Such as?’

‘A full-face photograph, the name and address of her dentist. . something with her DNA on it. . a sample of your DNA, a sample of her children’s DNA.’

‘You can have all of them from me, but her ex-husband has custody of the children.’

‘Alright, that is not a problem. I will arrange for someone to call tomorrow to collect a sample of your DNA.’

‘Very well, I’ll also try and find something with her DNA on it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll wait in. . then I’ll go up to the Heath — Spaniards Road entrance?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll buy some flowers, then go up there.’

‘Yes,’ Vicary replied softly for want of something to say. ‘Yes, I can understand you wanting to do that.’

‘Dare say I’ll be going up quite often from now on. What father has two graves to visit for one daughter? I’ll visit the one she was in and the one she’s going in.’

Vicary remained silent for a moment and then asked, ‘Can you tell me anything about her disappearance?’

‘Went out. . leaving the children here, and she didn’t return. That’s it.’

‘She was living here at the time — not with her husband?’

‘No. She was divorced. We were pleased about that, her husband was no good, a real waster. . he probably still is, and I fear for my grandchildren with him for a father. They live with him in Clacton. . Clacton.’ Halkier shook his head slowly. ‘He does summer work in the amusement arcades and on the dodgem cars. He lives for the summer, all those bright lights and machines making noises, and in the winter he just mopes about. In his head he’s about six years old. Eventually Rose left him and brought the children back here, and she and my wife looked after them. They settled into the school and after a bit of a slow start their school work improved no end. Rose got interim custody of the children, pending the final divorce settlement, and got a job, a telephonist in a call centre; modern day sweatshop she always used to call it but at least it was a wage coming in.’

‘Was she seeing anyone at the time she disappeared?’

‘I think she was but we never met him. I didn’t like the sound of him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lived well south of London, large house, but was very cagey about what he did for a living. . always a bad sign.’

‘Indeed.’

‘But that was our Rosemary, lovely looking girl, just five feet nothing but. . oh so beautiful. . and such a personality, men really went for her. She could have had her pick but would she pick a good man? Just a halfwit who likes amusement arcades and a dodgy sounding character who lives in a huge house in Surrey, and won’t tell her how he makes his bundle — total, total, total shtum about that bit. Dodgy.’

‘Sounds it.’

‘But it was more than casual; she would go to live with him for a week at a time, longer sometimes. Then she took a bag of clothes and just didn’t come back. She said she went to work each day from his house.’

‘I was going to ask. .’

‘Yes, well, once her husband found out she had been reported missing, he came up from Clacton on the first old train he could get and took his children back with him. I do fear for them with him as a father.’

‘You can’t do anything, sir.’

‘I know. Just exchange cards at Christmas now; send the children birthday cards as well, and things like book tokens instead of cash, but that’s all I can do. I’ll go for a pint tonight — that’s what I do when I have things to think about, walk to the boozer, then walk the streets.’

‘Don’t like it.’ The man screwed the cigar stub into the large ashtray. ‘The Old Bill have found her, that’s what they called to tell me. They weren’t interested in Irish Mickey Dalkeith, the little toerag; it was that old brass they found under his body. I know it was a bad call telling him to get rid of her body; I should have had more loaf. The Bill just called to tell me they are going to pull me for it.’

‘You don’t know that.’ The woman sat on the settee with her legs folded up beneath her and pulled on a cigarette held in a long, ivory holder. ‘You weren’t even there, was you?’

‘I didn’t need to be. . do me a favour. . I didn’t need to be. I gave the nod didn’t I?’

‘Have it your own way, but I reckon you’re panicking for nothing.’

‘Yeah. . well it ain’t your bonce on the old block is it?’

The woman, sensing she was caged with an angry tiger, picked up a copy of Cosmopolitan and hid behind it.

Harry Vicary walked from the Halkier house to Leyton High Road and crossed it at a pelican crossing, and continued down winding Longthorne Road, past the hospital and turned left into Leytonstone High Road. He crossed the high road, also at a pelican crossing. The traffic being heavy by then, and in his opinion the crossings were the only safe way to cross the road after dusk had turned to night; like most police officers who had attended numerous road accidents, Vicary had developed a strong sense of caution. He turned off the main road into quieter Lister Road, enjoying the walk and the peace, and the sense of space that it afforded. He chose to follow Bushwood Road, with thickly wooded Wanstead flats to his right. At that moment, the flats looked bleak and sinister, with the tall, leafless trees standing motionless in the dark, while to his left the homely lights burned in the houses. He turned into Hartley Road and walked up to the front door of the house, which was of similar vintage and design to Joseph Halkier’s home. He let himself in and was instantly aware of the silence within the house, and he knew something was amiss.

He found his wife in the front room. She was sitting upright on the settee, quite still but not in any form of resting position. Her eyes were wide open yet she seemed to be registering nothing at all. Vicary groaned. She had been doing so well, so very, very well. They both had. The gin bottle lay on the floor at her feet. Empty. He took his wife and gently pulled her off the settee and laid her on the floor in the recovery position, lest she vomit in her condition, or later, when she had fallen asleep. He took off his coat and phoned his wife’s place of work, explaining that she had been taken ill and because of this she would not be at work tomorrow, and probably not the day after either. He placed a frozen pizza in the microwave and ate it quietly with a marked lack of enthusiasm. After he had eaten he searched their house. One bottle would mean, two, or three, or four. . and they would be somewhere she had not used before. Room by room, cupboard by cupboard he searched the house and found them: two bottles of Gilbey’s, as he had expected, in a place she had not used before. On this occasion he found them under the eaves in the attic conversion. Beneath the table by the wall was a small one-foot-square doorway used to access the wiring of the house. He opened up the door and one of the bottles fell into his hand; the other was to be seen lying on its side. Both were full and unopened. He emptied the contents into the sink.

Then, like Joseph Halkier, he went out to walk the streets, but unlike Joseph Halkier, he could not, would not, dared not, seek comfort and refuge in a pub.