THREE

Josie Pinder blinked and drew on the cigarette. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, pulling the Bakelite ashtray across the yellow Formica surface of the kitchen table. ‘This is a bit early for me.’ She pulled the towelling robe around her.

‘You’ll be able to get back to bed in a while.’ DC Brunnie spoke softly but firmly. ‘Tell us about the girl in Irish Mickey’s room, then you can snuggle up to your mate for a bit more sleep.’

‘No, not so lucky, sunshine, I’ve got to go and see the Gestapo this morning.’ She glanced at the inexpensive battery operated travel clock which sat on the narrow window sill. ‘In fact, it’s probably a good thing that you did bang on the door.’

‘The Gestapo?’

‘The dole office — if I miss an appointment, they stop my benefit. And they enjoy doing it. They’re the bottom of the pile, you see, so they need someone beneath them; that’s what Sonya says, you see.’

‘I see.’

‘So they’ll want to know what effort I have been making to find a job.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Well, find me a job and I’ll do it, I say, but since I have never worked at all. . not one single job since I left local authority school with no qualifications. . I am not a good employment prospect.’

‘Never?’

‘Nope. . not ever.’ She drew heavily on the cigarette and exhaled the smoke through her nostrils. She was small, with short yellow hair. Brunnie thought she was barely over five feet tall and her pale complexion spoke of a poor diet. ‘Sonya’s the same, she’s never worked either, but we get by.’

‘Like the way Billy Kemp does? Cash in hand job at the Chinese eatery?’

‘Yeah. . but not proper work, we’re not paying National Insurance stamps and all that malarkey.’

‘So tell us about the girl.’

‘Not much to tell.’

‘Well that’s a damn sight more than we know right now. So tell.’

‘She moved in a few weeks ago. Irish Mickey brought her home and she lived in his room while he was at home in north London, Palmers Green, I think, with his family. Then he moved back here and shared the room with her. She was Welsh.’

‘Welsh,’ Brunnie repeated.

‘That’s a start.’ DC Ainsclough scribbled ‘Welsh’ on his notepad.

‘I had a little chat with her once. She was from the Cardiff area, she said. She had a Welsh accent. Very musical the old Welsh accent, and she used Welsh terms like “tidy” for “nice” or “good”. Once Billy came home and said he’d got extra hours at the Chinese restaurant and he’d be lifting more money that week, and she said, “Oh, there’s tidy for you”, and she also said “by here” instead of “just here” or “in there”, like “Is this your food cupboard by here?”’

‘OK. . Welsh.’

‘She was a runaway.’

‘From home?’

‘From a children’s home. Irish Mickey found her in King’s Cross; she was trying to sell herself on the street. He recognized what she was and he wanted to stop her becoming a brass, so he brought her back here.’

‘You mean he rescued her?’ Ainsclough could not help a note of surprise enter his voice.

‘Yeah, reckon you could say that. That was like Irish Mickey, he had a good old heart; not like him to get caught up with Pilcher.’

‘Did you see or hear anything the night she was murdered?’

Josie Pinder tapped the side of her nose. ‘I don’t mind telling you about her but I don’t want to end up like her.’

‘If you’re withholding information. .’

‘Hey, I’d rather withhold information and live, rather than give information and not live. This isn’t much. I am not much, but it’s better than being inside a block of concrete.’

‘Pilcher puts people inside concrete?’

‘So they say, and he was round here yesterday evening after we got back from the police station. We all got well warned not to go talking to the Old Bill or we’d be on the street. . or worse. He had a couple of soldiers with him.’

‘Soldiers?’

‘Heavies, ex-soldiers, fit and good at taking orders, all part of his firm. I’m listening to him, so’s Sonya and Billy Kemp. He’s off like a rabbit out of the old trap.’

‘Left?’ Brunnie reported.

‘Gone,’ Ainsclough added, ‘left his tenancy?’

‘Naw. . he left early to avoid talking to the Old Bill in case they came — and look who it ain’t. We should have gone with him I reckon, but try getting Sonya out of her pit. Billy will be sitting all day in the public library, just to keep warm. . sensible boy.’

‘You’re frightened of Pilcher?’ Brunnie remarked.

‘Oh, it shows does it?’ She flicked ash into the ashtray. ‘You hear things. He’s a nasty piece of work and you don’t mess with him, even if half of what is said is true. I mean, he owns property, buys up houses and does them up but. .’ she worked the cigarette butt into the ashtray. ‘Well, rumours is rumours, and all that concrete that goes into foundations can hide a chopped-up body easy-peasy, or a whole one. All those professional tenants in those done-up houses with their cellars — there’s lumps of concrete you don’t want to take an old pneumatic drill to. . so they say. I usually deal with J.J.’

‘J.J.?’

‘J.J. Dunwoodie, he looks after the office round the corner.’

‘Ah, yes, I’ve met J.J.’

‘He seems to like working for Pilcher for some reason, but Billy Kemp might know something that I don’t. He was frightened this morning, said J.J. had shot his mouth off about something and we’d better not do the same.’

Ainsclough and Brunnie glanced at each other, and Brunnie asked, ‘When did he say that?’

‘This morning, dark and early. I needed to get up and he was making himself some tea and was dressed to go out. . it was like he’d seen an old ghost.’

Ainsclough turned to Brunnie and said, ‘We’d better take a swift hike round there.’

‘Yes. We came to find out about the Welsh girl though.’ Brunnie turned to Josie Pinder, who was grappling another cigarette from the packet. ‘What was her name?’

‘Gaynor.’ Josie Pinder lit the cigarette with a blue disposable lighter.

‘Second name.’

‘Dunno. . just called herself Gaynor.’

‘Did she tell you her age?’

‘Naw, but she was under sixteen, she wouldn’t have been in a care home otherwise, would she? I mean, stands to reason doesn’t it?’

‘Fair point,’ Brunnie growled. ‘Did she go out?’

‘Hardly. . Irish Mickey sent her money.’

‘He did?’

‘Brown envelope arrived for her every now and then. I recognized Irish Mickey’s handwriting on the front of the envelope.’

‘There was no surname on the envelope?’

‘No. . just “Gaynor”.’

‘So she did jobs for Pilcher?’

‘Don’t think so. Never saw her do no work. Pilcher may not have known she was there.’

‘What do you do for Pilcher?’

‘We keep the squatters out. It wouldn’t be difficult for Pilcher to evict squatters but he’d rather not have them in the first place.’

‘Anything else you do for him?’

Again, she tapped the side of her nose. ‘You’d better go now if you want us to be safe; Pilcher will be watching this place.’

‘He will?’

‘Or his goons will. He’s frightened of the police.’

‘That’s interesting.’ Ainsclough stood.

‘Very, very interesting indeed.’ Brunnie also stood. ‘We’ll be back, but in the interests of your safety, we’ll go for now.’

Cold caring. That was the expression. Cold caring. He looked at his wife, so attractive when she cared to be, but now lying on the carpet with her hair matted with her own vomit — she was snoring loudly and so was safe. She would wake soon, feeling frail and cold, and would have such a mess to clean, but all the learned advice said that this was the correct approach. She will not fight the drink unless she wakes up lying in the mess she, and she alone, has created. He walked out of the house, locking the door behind him.

Cold caring. Very cold. Very caring.

Ainsclough and Brunnie walked into the offices of WLM Rents on Fernhead Road, Kilburn. The premises were exactly as Brunnie recalled them from the previous day, but the helpful and, in Brunnie’s eyes, slightly sycophantic J.J. Dunwoodie was absent. Instead, a hard-faced blonde of about twenty-five summers sat in the chair he had occupied. She was dressed in black, was very slender, and had eyes of such steel-cold blue that Ainsclough felt a chill run down his spine. Brunnie, alarmed and worried, glanced at the top of the filing cabinets and saw a green, not a red, watering can beside the row of potted plants. He experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

‘Mr Dunwoodie,’ Brunnie asked, ‘is he here?’

‘Who wants him?’ The woman, immaculately dressed, sat back in her chair, filing her brightly varnished fingernails. Her thin fingers were bedecked with rings; her wrists were encircled by expensive looking bracelets which rattled softly as she worked the file over her nails, occasionally stopping to admire her work. A strong cloud of scent rose from her and reached the officers. She didn’t look up as she replied to Brunnie’s question.

‘Police.’

‘You have ID?’ Again, she didn’t take her eyes off her fingernails.

Ainsclough and Brunnie showed their ID cards and, still without looking up, the woman said, ‘OK.’ Then she added, ‘Mr Dunwoodie don’t work here no more, do he?’

‘We don’t know. Doesn’t he?’ Brunnie snarled.

‘No, he don’t. Not since last night he don’t. I’m in charge here now. . well, until Mr Pilcher can get a new office manager. I just answer the phone and take messages and if someone comes in looking for a place to rent. I take their name and contact details, and tell them someone will be in touch, but that’s only if they’re kosher, like all respectable and that, ’cos if they’re not kosher they don’t rent, not from here anyway. It’s a very responsible job. We don’t rent to no toerags, though.’

‘Seems so,’ Ainsclough replied drily. ‘So who are you?’

‘Felicity Skidmore.’

‘So why don’t you tell us your real name?’

The young woman glanced up and glared at Brunnie, though she said nothing.

‘We need to speak to Mr Dunwoodie.’

The woman admired her nails once again. ‘Well, I can’t help you, because he’s not here, is he?’

‘Home address?’

‘Don’t ask me, darling.’

‘You might not know it, but it’ll be filed away. Every employer has his workers’ home addresses on file.’

‘Maybe, but I wouldn’t know where it is. . have a look.’ She inclined her head towards the bank of filing cabinets.

Ainsclough glanced at the cabinets. He knew it would be a waste of time to look through their contents.

Felicity Skidmore, clearly satisfied, placed her nail file in a large black handbag. ‘Look, darling, I just got receptionist skills, nothing more. I got no office skills; don’t know nothing about filing or word-processing, nothing. I usually work in another office for Mr Pilcher, don’t I, and this morning he hands me the keys and tells me to drive over here and open up for him, and tells me what to do. . answer the phone, take details of the kosher ones and turn the toerags away — but diplomatic like, he don’t want his windows put through at night. Just say to them there ain’t nowhere to rent.’

‘A responsible job, as you say.’

Brunnie asked, ‘Where do you normally work?’

‘What’s that got to do with you?’ Felicity Skidmore flushed with indignation. ‘Bang out of order is that question. Bang out of order.’

Ainsclough smiled to himself. The legendary East End dislike of the police was emerging from Felicity Skidmore. Blagger, he thought. If Felicity Skidmore is not a blagger herself, then she’s a blagger’s tart or the daughter of a blagger. Definitely on the other side of the fence.

‘It’s got a lot to do with us,’ Brunnie replied. ‘It’s got so much to do with us that you could be looking at porridge for obstruction. This is a murder investigation.’ Brunnie paused. ‘And pretty girls like you are very popular in Holloway. You get traded between the butch dykes for an ounce of tobacco, and you don’t get any say in the matter.’

‘No say at all,’ added Ainsclough. ‘If we run you in, we’ll do an automatic check for any outstanding warrants and take your dabs to see if we know you under another name. We have plenty of room in the cells. You can even have one to yourself, but you won’t get that luxury in Holloway. Mind you, you probably already know that.’

‘I’ve never been inside!’

‘Yet,’ Brunnie replied calmly, ‘but obstruction in a murder investigation will guarantee the clanging of the door behind little you.’

Felicity Skidmore sighed and folded her arms. ‘Continental Imports and Exports.’

‘Continental Imports and Exports?’ Brunnie repeated.

‘That’s what I said.’

‘What does that outfit import and export?’

‘Furniture.’

‘Furniture?’

‘Yeah, like beds and wardrobes, and tables and chairs, and chests of drawers and that. . furniture. What with the European Community, people are buying houses in Frogland and islands in the old Med. . even in Eastern Europe, and they want their furniture with them. . And the foreigners, they buy in the UK, and they bring their old furniture with them. So Mr Pilcher, he provides a removal service.’

Brunnie and Ainsclough glanced at each other and smiled. ‘Furniture,’ Brunnie said.

‘Furniture,’Ainsclough echoed.

‘Well, I ain’t seen nothing but furniture going in and out. It’s not my fault I’m a looker. I just answer the old dog and bone and set the place off right. I do that at Continental and Mr Pilcher sent me here today to do the same thing.’

‘And turning the toerags away.’

‘Yeah, that too, but nicely with it. I get that responsibility.’

‘So where is Continental Imports and Exports based?’

‘Down the Mile End Road. Can’t miss it. Near the old junction with Cambridge Heath Road. Big sign. Black letters on yellow background.’

‘Did you know Mr Dunwoodie?’

‘Nope. It’s just the name of the geezer who sat here until yesterday; I don’t know no more than that, so help me. I don’t know nothing about him or why he isn’t here today, but I get a change of scenery and that’s as good as a rest, so they say.’

‘So what’s in the back room?’

‘Dunno. Wasn’t told and I didn’t ask. Them that’s asks no questions, gets told no lies.’ She smiled at Brunnie. ‘It’s safer that way, me old china, a lot safer. I wasn’t given the key anyway. So if you want to know what’s in there, and if you want to know where J.J. Dunwoodie is, you’ll have to ask Mr Pilcher, won’t you? If he phones, I’ll tell him the Old Bill was here. He’ll want to know.’

‘You do that.’

Walking away from the offices of WLM Rents, Ainsclough said, ‘“Me old china”? Never did work that one out.’

Brunnie fished in his coat pocket for his car keys. ‘China plate — mate. Me old china plate — mate.’

Joseph Halkier seemed to Vicary to shrink into his armchair. He nodded slowly and gently, and then said, ‘Thank you for calling on me and telling me in person. It’s good of you, I appreciate it. I thought you might send a uniformed constable, you see, so thank you. The DNA was a match. I knew it would be.’

‘No thanks are necessary, I assure you.’

‘But still. . you know, I knew it would be our Rose. I am not really one for all that other-worldly mumbo-jumbo — never have been one for the paranormal — but I went up to the Heath last night. . I followed your directions and was able to make out the police tape in the dark, well the white bits anyway, and when I got to the tape I felt a link, a bond. I don’t have the words, but I felt she was there.’

‘A connection?’ Vicary suggested.

Halkier smiled ‘Yes, that’s a good way of putting it. . a connection. I felt a strong connection with that location. I felt that I knew it had been our Rosemary who had lain there all those years. I picked up a bit of soil and took it home with me. That might be a bit morbid but I wanted to do it. . Quite near the road for a shallow grave?’

‘Yes. It would have been dug at night, in the summer when the soil would not be frozen.’

‘Sorry about the soil but Rose had touched it and I wanted some. I hope I wasn’t disturbing a crime scene.’

‘No, you did no harm and I don’t think it was a morbid act.’

‘Thank you. I was worried on those two counts.’

The conversation halted as that day’s post clattered though Joseph Halkier’s letterbox and fell on to the hallway floor. ‘Bills and junk mail, it’s all I get these days.’

‘Early?’

‘Yes, we still get our mail early in the morning, well, mid-morning, not like the six a.m. or seven a.m. deliveries as it was in the old days, but still reasonably early. So how can I help you? I’ll help in any way I can. She was my only daughter.’

‘Thank you.’ Vicary inclined his head to one side. ‘Well, we really need to know as much about your daughter’s private life as we can, as much as you can tell us. . her friends, associates; any light that you can shed on her day-to-day comings and goings. Was she employed?’

‘Yes, in a call centre, phoning folk and trying to make them buy things they don’t need. She hated it — modern day version of door-to-door salesmen. Phone sales. . it’s. . don’t know. . get right into people’s houses.’

‘I feel the same way,’ Vicary replied. ‘My wife and I have an answering machine; we keep it on all the time, even when we are at home. The telesales people hang up immediately they hear a recorded voice.’

‘That’s a good idea. You know, I might buy one. . in fact, I think I will. Well, the call centre. . this was ten years ago now.’

‘Appreciate that, but it’s a start.’

‘It was on the edge of the City, by which I mean the Square Mile.’

‘Yes. Understood.’

‘I still have the details upstairs.’ Joseph Halkier stood with what Vicary thought was impressive effortlessness and suppleness for a man of his years and left the room. Vicary heard him scoop up the post from the floor of the hallway and then listened as he skipped up the stairs. He returned a few moments later with one of Rosemary Halkier’s pay advices and a child’s exercise book, which had a smiley face sticker on the front. He handed both to Vicary.

‘The pay advice will give you the details of her last employer. You’re welcome to hang on to it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The exercise book is her address book. . that stays here.’

‘Of course.’

Halkier resumed his seat. ‘But you are welcome to copy down the addresses of her friends.’

‘Excellent.’ Vicary leafed through the book. It had, he thought, few entries.

‘You mentioned her male friend, the businessman who lived south of the river? Is he in here?’ Vicary leafed through the exercise book.

‘No. I looked. It was one of the first things I did when she was missing, but it all seemed to be the folk I knew; people in this area and that waster of a husband of hers, her children’s school and other addresses like the doctors and dentist. . one or two people she got pally with when she was in Clacton. But no businessmen, though she’d be well impressed with money.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, she never had none once she left home. She grew up here. . Leyton. It’s alright, we had a roof, we had a full larder, but she really scratched pennies in Clacton trying to survive on whatever he brought home in the summer, then making the dole stretch in the winter, and when she came back here. . well, the money in the call centre wasn’t great — long hours, low pay. So after ten years of scrimping and saving, yes, a guy with money would have an appeal for her. I can see that.’

‘But you have no idea who he was?’

‘Or still is. . no. . no idea at all.’

‘Did she have a particular friend who she was close to?’

Halkier paused. ‘You could try Pauline North.’

‘Pauline North?’

‘Yes, she’ll be in the address book somewhere.’

Ainsclough leafed through the book. ‘Nothing under “P” or “N”,’ he said.

‘She probably kept her address in here — ’ Halkier tapped the side of his head — ‘but her mother still lives in the street. Opposite side of the road, very end of the street. . five or six doors from the end of the street that way — ’ Halkier pointed to his left — ‘bright yellow door.’

‘Yellow door. Who is Pauline North?’

‘School friend. They were pretty well inseparable when they were children, drifted apart a little when they discovered boys, but picked up with each other again when Rosemary returned from Clacton. I reckon she’d be worth calling on. She’d likely tell Pauline things she wouldn’t tell her old man, and I didn’t pry.’

‘I fully understand.’ Vicary paused. ‘Did she seem worried at about the time she disappeared?’

‘Not that I recall.’ Halkier pursed his lips. ‘No. . I can’t say that she seemed worried, and I think I’d have been able to tell if she was. She wasn’t a girl to bottle things up. . so I can say she wasn’t worried.’

‘Alright.’ Vicary glanced round the room. It seemed to him to be marginally less tidy than it was when he had first visited Joseph Halkier, as if he was losing interest in his surroundings, which, Vicary conceded, would be fully understandable. ‘So, how long was it before you reported Rosemary as a missing person? That is to say, how long after you last saw her?’

‘Nearly a week, as I recall.’

‘That’s quite a long time. . I mean, if she was living with you.’

‘It was the Thursday before the Easter weekend. She left that morning to go to work. I heard her leave, so the last time I actually saw her was the previous evening. She had packed a weekend bag. She was going away with her man that weekend — leaving from work on Thursday to travel to his house, then returning here on the Tuesday after work. We only started to worry when we got a phone call from the call centre on the Tuesday at about midday; they were asking if Rose was coming into work, because she hadn’t phoned in saying she was sick.’

‘I see.’

‘So we waited and then reported her missing that evening.’

‘Yes. .’

‘A police constable visited and took some details.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we had no contact from the police from that day until your visit, sir, by which time Mrs Halkier had passed on.’

‘A very long time. .’

‘A very long time. You’ll do all you can, sir?’

‘All we can. You have my word.’

Tom Ainsclough entered the name ‘Felicity Skidmore’ into the computer and her approximate age as ‘mid-twenties’. There was no trace of her. ‘Not known,’ he said.

‘There’s a surprise,’ Brunnie replied. ‘I bet you it’s an alias.’ He continued to run his fingertip down the list of J. Dunwoodies in the London telephone directory. ‘I never knew there were so many, and for each entry there will be two or three ex-directory J. Dunwoodies. I once talked to a telephone operator and she told me that if all the domestic numbers were listed, the book would be twice the size it already is. . Lot of these are in the prestigious suburbs; a lot are too far to make travelling to work in Kilburn practical. . oh. . wait. .’

‘A hit?’ Ainsclough glanced up from the computer screen.

‘Possibly.’ Brunnie picked up his phone, pressed nine for an outside line and then dialled a number. The call was quickly answered by a tearful sounding woman with a shaky voice. Brunnie said, ‘Hello, madam, sorry to bother you. This is the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard; I am trying to trace a Mr J.J. Dunwoodie who is employed at WLM Rents in Kilburn.’

‘Oh. . he’s in hospital. .’

‘Hospital!’ Brunnie repeated for the benefit of Ainsclough who began to listen, keenly so.

‘The Westminster Hospital,’ the woman explained. ‘He got set on last night, after work. . two thugs and they hurt him bad. . really bad. And you’re the police?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well you should know about it. There’s a copper with him in case he wakes up.’

‘I am sorry to bother you. I hope all is well. We clearly had a communication breakdown here. Sorry.’ Brunnie replaced the phone. ‘Westminster Hospital. . got worked over last night.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘What have I done?’

‘What do you mean?’

Brunnie told Ainsclough about the watering can.

‘You believed Pilcher’s prints would be on it?’

‘Yes. . whatever his name is. . his prints would be on the can. I told Dunwoodie to get an identical one from the local shop, but I noticed a green one there this morning, not a red one.’

‘That’s a bit of an offside thing to do, especially for you.’

‘I know, we can’t use it to arrest him for anything but at least we’ll know who he is.’

‘Yes, I know. It’s one thing to take fingerprints after a break-in. . even from the staff. . we can tell them it’s so they can be eliminated, but it gets names and prints on file for future reference. If all the totally innocent citizens whose prints are on file knew about it, there’d be riots in London.’

‘I honestly thought he’d be safe. I thought it would be so simple for him to get another red watering can.’

Ainsclough rested his chin in the cup of his left palm, with his elbow resting on the surface of his desk, ‘You’d better go straight to Harry Vicary, the moment he gets in.’

‘Yes. . that’s the best thing to do. . best thing to do rather than let it emerge, but if Dunwoodie registers a complaint, and I wouldn’t blame him if he does, I’m up the creek without a paddle. Disciplinary procedures. . the lot. Oh boy, he could even sue the police.’

‘But only if he can show the assault was connected to him handing over the watering can. The assault might be unconnected.’

‘Good point.’ Brunnie smiled at Ainsclough. ‘I can live in hope. I think I’d like to get over to Westminster Hospital.’

‘Yes. I’ll cover for you. Penny Yewdall is in as well, enough plain clothes if anything develops, and we have your mobile phone number. Swannell is still on leave, but it’s enough.’

‘Yes.’ Brunnie stood. ‘I’ll walk round there, quicker than taking a car, no place to park anyway. But what have I done?’

Harry Vicary knocked gently on the yellow door of the house at the far end of Albert Road, Leyton, E10. An elderly lady opened the door, silver-haired, floral dress, hands twisted with arthritis. ‘Mrs North?’ Vicary took off his hat and replaced it again.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was shaking with apprehension.

‘Police.’ Vicary smiled. ‘Don’t be alarmed.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs North relaxed and smiled.

Vicary produced his identity card. ‘I understand you have a daughter, Pauline.’

‘I did.’

‘Oh. . I am sorry.’

‘No, no. . still alive.’ Mrs North smiled. ‘She’s Mrs South now.’

‘You’re joking,’ Vicary grinned.

‘I kid you not, young man. The jokes they made at the wedding reception, about compass needles spinning round until North became South. . Go North, young man. . I can’t remember them all, but one telegram after the other had some crack in it about points of the compass. The best man was the groom’s brother but they managed to find an usher called West and another called Eastman — it became a theme of the wedding.’

‘How amusing.’

‘Yes. She did well; her husband is a good man and she has two lovely children.’

‘I am pleased to hear it. I really would like to speak to her. She has nothing to worry about; I need to pick her brains.’

‘She’s not in trouble?’

‘No. I just need information.’

‘Alright. . well if you don’t mind, I’ll phone her and ask her to contact you.’

‘Of course.’ Vicary handed her his calling card.

Mrs North read the card. ‘Detective Inspector Vicary. That’s quite a high rank.’

‘Not really. It’s quite modest.’

‘Can I tell her what it is about?’

‘Yes, I don’t see why not, it’s in connection with Rosemary Halkier.’

‘Oh. . Rose. . she disappeared.’

‘Yes.’

‘Has she been found?’

‘Well, let’s just say that there has been a significant development. If you could invite your daughter Pauline to phone me at her earliest convenience?’

‘I will. . yes, I will. I’ll phone her right away; she doesn’t work. I mean, she’s not employed during the day, she keeps house when she is not needed for supply teaching and that’s sufficient work for any woman. . but if she isn’t at home now, she’ll be out somewhere close by. . at the shops or something.’

‘I see.’

‘She lives in Mill Hill. Well, I’ll phone her. Will you be going direct to Scotland Yard, sir?’

‘No. . no. . I have another call to make first.’

Vicary walked home. He was anxious to get there, but he did not want to lessen the impact of the cold caring policy. He reached his house and let himself in. His wife was on her hands and knees cleaning the vomit from the carpet with her head wrapped in a towel. Clearly she had washed herself first. She looked at him and then avoided eye contact. After a period of silence he asked, ‘Is there any more? I found the bottles under the eaves. You know we made an agreement. So, is there any more?’

‘In the garden.’ She spoke with clear difficulty. Even from the distance he stood from her, he could smell her searing breath. ‘Behind the shed.’

Vicary walked to the kitchen and out into the back garden. He looked behind the garden shed and found a metal bucket covered with a generous amount of sacking. Neither the bucket, which was shiny and new, nor the sacking, which was old and worn, had he seen before. He took the sacking from the bucket and exposed three more bottles of gin contained within the bucket. He opened each bottle, and holding it away from him and with his head turned from it, lest he got a whiff which he would find difficulty in resisting, he emptied the contents on to the ground. Holding the bottles as far from him as he could, he took them into the kitchen and rinsed each one clear of any trace of alcohol. He then placed them in a plastic bin liner, and went back outside and picked up the screw tops from each bottle, and those too he rinsed and put in the bin liner, which he secured with a firm knot at the top.

He stood silently in the kitchen wondering if he should make his wife a cup of strong black coffee, but he decided against it. He said not a word, and walked out of the house carrying the bin liner with him, which he would place in the first waste bin he came across.

Cold caring.

DC Frank Brunnie walked into the front entrance of the Westminster Hospital and enquired at the reception desk as to the whereabouts of patient J.J. Dunwoodie. Following the directions given, he took the stairs, rather than the ease of the lift, to the given floor, and walked along the corridor, which had a light-fawn coloured floor and cream-painted walls, busy nurses scurrying about and aloof doctors who moved more leisurely, but who were equally serious in their attitude. It had that distinct smell which Brunnie could never analyse. It smelt. . just like a hospital. He saw a police constable sitting on a chair outside a private room. The constable stood defensively as Brunnie approached him. ‘Help you, sir?’ he asked coldly.

‘Alright — ’ Brunnie showed the constable his ID — ‘I’m in the club.’

‘Oh. . sorry, sir, didn’t recognize you.’ He was young, early twenties Brunnie guessed.

‘No worries. What happened?’

‘Don’t know a right lot, sir.’ The constable spoke with a distinct Lancashire accent; a young man taking the opportunity through his employment to live in London for a few years, as do many teachers and other public and civil servants, before returning to the provinces and their roots, where housing is affordable. ‘I am told not to allow anyone in except hospital staff and the interested officer, sir.’

‘Who is?’

‘DC Meadows, Kilburn nick, sir.’

‘I see. DC Meadows. .’ Brunnie committed the name and workplace to memory, noting that he knew a Meadows once — the name would be easy to remember because of it. ‘I’ll take a drive over to Kilburn.’ He nodded to the door. ‘How is he. . the patient?’

‘Unconscious, sir, all wired up like I don’t know what. I think he was worked over and left for dead, so I heard, but I wasn’t told that. I’m just here to make sure no one goes in apart from those what should go in, those what has a right to go in, sir.’

‘Someone wanted him dead?’

‘Sounds like, sir.’

‘He must be in a bad way.’

‘Not moving. . and I heard one of the doctors say that it was a miracle he was still alive and that he must have a right strong will to live, but he’s a long way to go before he’s out of danger.’

‘That was said?’

‘Yes, sir, the doctor was explaining the situation to the nursing team and I was standing there in the background, like, but I heard him say that. This must be more than a random attack in the street, otherwise I would not be here to protect him, would I?’

‘Probably not. DC Meadows of Kilburn nick, you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Harry Vicary easily found the call centre. It still occupied the same premises as it did when Rosemary Halkier was employed therein, and still had the same business name. He pushed open the glass front door of the building and walked across deep carpeting to the reception desk. The receptionist’s smile was broad, with teeth that could sell toothpaste, and, like an air hostess who does not want to be flying again so soon, utterly disingenuous. She wore loud scarlet lipstick and had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Police.’ Vicary showed the young woman his ID. The reception area smelled powerfully of air freshener and polish, so much so that Vicary felt overwhelmed. The absence of even a plant in a pot did not surprise him.

‘Oh. .’

‘I would like to talk to a senior person. . the manager. . the personnel officer, someone who can tell me about staff here, long-serving staff.’

‘Yes, sir, please take a seat.’ The woman picked up a brown-coloured phone off her desk, pressed four numbers and relayed Vicary’s request, and then said, ‘Yes, alright. I will.’ She smiled another broad ‘I’m only doing this job for the money’ smile at Vicary and said, ‘Mr Perkins will see you directly, sir.’

Vicary, his hat resting upon his crossed knees, inclined his head in thanks. He and the woman then proceeded to sit in an awkward silence, and Vicary sensed from the young woman’s embarrassment that it was clear she had nothing to do all day but receive visitors and answer the telephone, with not even a colleague or two to talk with. Being photogenically attractive clearly had its downside. Moments of awkward silence elapsed and then the door at the side of the reception area was opened, and a short man in a sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers stood in the doorway. Vicary thought him to be mid-thirties. He had a businesslike manner about him, and upon his entrance the receptionist lowered her head slightly as if making a careful study of her desktop. She was evidently intimidated by him and perhaps, Vicary pondered, the reception area, being out of the way, was the safest place for her.

‘Police?’ The man was clean-shaven with piercing eyes.

Vicary stood, ‘Yes, Detective Inspector Vicary, New Scotland Yard.’

‘Scotland Yard? Must be serious.’

‘Murder and Serious Crime Squad.’ Vicary showed Perkins his ID. ‘Doesn’t get more serious.’

‘How can we help you, sir?’

‘I need information about your staff.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Rosemary Halkier.’

‘Halkier. . Halkier. . I confess that name doesn’t ring any bells but I have only been here for six weeks; I was headhunted from Thames Bridges.’

‘Thames Bridges?’

‘Oh. . a rival company.’

‘I see, well you won’t know her, she used to work here but that was about ten years ago.’

‘Ten years!’ Perkins gasped. ‘We might have some documentation. We have a few long-staying staff but most go after a few months. The only person who is likely to be able to help you is Mrs Maas, she deals with our personnel, and she’s been here for a long time.’

‘She sounds ideal. Mrs Mars, like the planet?’

‘Pronounced the same but not spelled the same.’ Perkins corrected Vicary on the spelling of the lady’s name. ‘I’ll take you to her.’

Perkins led Vicary up a narrow stairway of unsurfaced breeze-block walls. On the first floor the workers sat in small cubicles, each isolated from the other, each with a headset rather than a hand-held phone, each in front of a computer screen and keyboard. Perkins walked quietly by. With working conditions like this, Vicary thought, the call centre could aptly be described as a modern day sweatshop. Perkins led Vicary across the open-plan area of the call centre operations room, humming with voices, and opened a door at the far end, which led on to an area of individual offices. He walked to an office on the left-hand side, tapped once on the door and opened it. ‘Mrs Maas, this is a Mr Vicary. .’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Mrs Maas was middle-aged, portly and with a ready smile, which, unlike the isolated receptionist’s, Vicary thought, was a genuine smile.

‘Mr Vicary is with the police.’

‘Oh. .’ Mrs Maas looked worried.

‘I will leave you,’ Perkins said to Vicary, ‘I have work to address. If anyone can help you, it’s Mrs Maas.’ And with that, in a brisk about-turn, he left the office, pulling the door shut behind him.

Mrs Maas indicated a vacant seat in her office. ‘He’s new,’ she explained. ‘He’s very efficient. He was headhunted and is anxious to prove the great and good made the right choice, bless him.’

‘So he told me.’

‘So. . police?’

‘Yes, Scotland Yard, Murder and Serious Crime Squad.’ Vicary read the room — neat, efficient, no natural light, very sweatshop-like.

‘Murder!’

‘Well, yes. . but as I said to Mr Perkins, ten years on, and so this is a bit of a long shot, in fact it’s one hell of a long shot, but they’ve paid off before. We are interested in finding out as much as we can about a lady who used to work here, a lady employee by the name of Halkier, Rosemary Halkier. . home address in Palmers Green.’

‘Ten years. .’ Mrs Maas relaxed. ‘You know there might be one or two still here who were here ten years ago; seems that you move on quickly or you work your way into the bricks.’ She swivelled on her chair and slowly tapped at her computer keyboard. ‘If we search for all current employees with more than ten years’ service, and there won’t be many. . and the not many is. . five. I count five names, all women, who do tend to stay longer than men.’

‘Oh?’

‘Flexible hours — they can work round school commitments and work on weekends, leaving hubby to watch the baby. Not a few say that working here keeps them sane, gives them the break they need from demanding children and demanding spouses, and we pay quite well for a call centre. The work is tedious but not demanding. Mr Perkins is keeping them well at it but it’s still easier than unskilled work, and it’s better than the dole. We pay basic plus commission. The harder you work, the more you earn, and we tell them, you don’t just work for yourself or your family, you work for the person next to you; if this company sinks the work could be relocated overseas.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Vicary replied drily. ‘Telephone directory enquiries is now located in the Philippines.’

‘Exactly.’ Mrs Maas raised her eyebrows. ‘And national rail enquiries are in India. So if the crew want to keep the jobs in the UK, they work for each other.’ She stood. ‘I’ll go and chat to the five names, see if any remember. Sorry, who are you enquiring about? My memory. .’

‘Oh, yes, Rosemary Halkier, lived with her parents in Palmers Green, had two children, short girl, just five foot tall with dark hair.’

‘Rosemary Halkier. . Rosemary Halkier.’ Mrs Maas left the office repeating the name to herself, trailing a heavy cloud of perfume behind her. She turned and pointed to a white coffee machine which stood on a table in the corner of her room. ‘Do help yourself to coffee.’ She smiled. ‘It doesn’t taste anything like coffee but it’s hot and fluid.’ She turned again and was gone.

‘No thanks,’ Vicary replied to an empty room.

Mrs Maas returned some five minutes later in the company of a woman in her forties, who seemed curious and also pleased for the break in her day that Vicary’s visit had caused. ‘This is Sandra Winthrop. Do take a seat, Sandra.’ Mrs Maas sat behind her desk, as Sandra Winthrop sat in a chair adjacent to Vicary. They smiled and nodded at each other.

Mrs Maas opened the discussion. ‘Well, it seems you have good fortune and also bad fortune, Mr Vicary. Mrs Winthrop here tells me that while she remembers Rosemary Halkier, perhaps the person you really need to talk to is on sick leave, so she is accessible but not at this location. I took the liberty of phoning her and she says she would be pleased to receive you, but you will have to visit her.’

‘Not a problem,’ Vicary replied, ‘but if she is unwell. .’

Mrs Mass smiled ‘Broken arm, so not unwell as such.’

‘Ah. . I see.’ Vicary turned to Mrs Winthrop. ‘You knew Rosemary Halkier?’

‘Yes.’ Sandra Winthrop was a warm-faced woman with short black hair. She wore a blue blouse and a long blue skirt.

‘Well?’

‘No, sir, not very well at all. The person whom you need to talk to more than I is Rachel Pontefract, as Mrs Maas has just indicated.’

‘The lady with the broken arm?’

‘Yes, she was Rachel Graff in those days but she knew Rosemary very well. They were very good friends. They were known as the “Rolls-Royce Crew”, double “R”, you see. . Rachel and Rosemary.’

‘Got you.’

‘I was a sort of hanger-on. The three of us went for a drink after work each Friday. We called it the “Friday Club”.’

‘Alright, I am particularly interested in her life outside her employment. Any male friend you know of?’

‘She was separated.’

‘Yes, I know that, but we believe she had a male friend.’

‘She did have a significant other, yes. He lived in the south.’

‘The south?’

‘South of the river. He wasn’t married and that attracted Rosemary because her husband wasn’t much of a provider. . but her enthusiasm seemed to wane.’

‘Really. .? That is interesting.’

‘So it appeared. Initially, she was very enthusiastic about this fella, but then she seemed preoccupied, as if good living came at an unexpected price, as if she was worried about what she had got herself into.’

‘Did she elaborate?’

‘Not to me, but she might have taken Rachel Pontefract into her confidence.’

‘We’ll find out, I dare say. Did she mention a name?’

‘Again, not to me, but her worry. . and it might have been fear she was experiencing. . it seemed genuine. It was about that time that she disappeared.’

‘Did you tell the police that?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. I was never asked, none of us were, she was a missing person, so there was no investigation.’

‘Of course, we would only investigate missing children.’

‘Why the interest now, may we know?’ Mrs Maas glanced at Sandra Winthrop and then at Vicary.

‘Yes. . her body has been found. There has been a partial press release about a body found on Hampstead Heath.’

‘Oh. . I saw that.’

‘All London did.’ Mrs Maas sighed. ‘But she was unidentified.’

‘She has now been identified. Her next of kin have been informed and we will be making another press release in which we will name her and ask for information. If you could let me have Mrs Pontefract’s contact details?’

‘Of course,’ Mrs Maas replied with a shaking voice.

Frank Brunnie travelled to Kilburn police station. He entered by the main public entrance and went to the enquiry desk, where he showed his ID to the duty constable and asked for DC Meadows. Two minutes later he and Meadows were walking down the CID corridor towards the detective constable’s room. Upon entering the rectangular room, Brunnie noticed that it was crowded with desks, some occupied, others vacant, but all appeared to be in use. Meadows led Brunnie down to the far corner of the room and sat at a desk, and then pointed to the opposite desk. ‘Take that seat, please, that guy’s in Tenerife right now.’

‘That’s a coincidence.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, my detective sergeant is due back from there soon — tomorrow, possibly.’ Brunnie sank into the chair. ‘He says it makes sense to go to Tenerife at this time of the year.’

‘That I can readily go along with, Tenerife and the Med are too damned hot in the summer, but January and February, well, they’re pleasant months to go south of the fiftieth parallel. I learned the hard way — went to Crete in June once a few years ago, spent the days aching for the night to come, then you only had mosquitoes to deal with. . but the temperature became bearable. So, what brings New Scotland Yard to our little hole?’

‘J.J. Dunwoodie.’

‘Oh, you have an interest?’

‘Well. .’ Brunnie glanced round the office. Neat and functional, he thought. ‘Well, yes and no. What I mean by that is that we have little or no interest in him, but more with his employer.’

‘WLM Rents?’

‘Yes.’ Brunnie paused. ‘And I fear I may be responsible for the attack on him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. If you tell me what happened, I’ll tell you why I may be responsible.’

‘Simply, the poor lad got duffed up. I mean, well duffed up. . well and truly rolled.’

‘Yes, I visited the hospital. You have him under police protection.’

‘Yes.’ Meadows opened a case file. ‘We have a witness to the incident. Too frightened to talk, certainly too frightened to give a statement or go into the witness box, and she also seemed to have something to hide. I mean, this is Kilburn, if it breathes it’s probably known to the police.’

‘Oh, I thought it was getting gentrified, that’s what WLM Rents are pursuing — extending the concept of Maida Vale and Hampstead to include Kilburn.’

‘If that’s the case, then take it from me, they still have a long way to go. In the evenings the streets round here are still full of urinating Irish women or brawling Irish men.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Anyway, the witness, a young black female, saw Dunwoodie being bundled into an alley at the end of his working day yesterday. It was dark by then, and two huge geezers set on little J.J. Dunwoodie.’

‘I see.’

‘They proceeded to give him a right hiding and this wench, the witness, was watching as the turn went down. She was a few feet away, hiding behind a wheelie bin. She was skip-dipping, looking for food. The supermarket dumps all its goods that are past the sell-by date into the wheelie bins in that alley.’

‘Yes. .’

‘If they can, they give it to hostels and the Salvation Army and such like, but they have to do that before midnight of the sell-by date — just one day beyond the sell-by date and it goes into the skip. It’s still perfectly edible, but in these claim-culture days no chances are taken. Such a waste, it annoys me.’

‘Yes,’ Brunnie said again. ‘Just twelve hours flying time to Ethiopia, where folk are starving, and we chuck food out, and do so in massive quantities. Madness.’

‘So that’s what our witness was doing — living a feral existence, tearing into packets of teacakes she had found in the skip, when she saw Dunwoodie getting kicked. In the gloom she was well camouflaged — she is black, like I said, Afro Caribbean — and had on dark clothing: shoes, trousers, jacket, hat. . all dark. She shrank into the shadows and waited till they had finished, and then she phoned us.’

Brunnie smiled. He enjoyed Meadows’ dry sense of humour.

‘Anyway, she is crouching there frozen with fear, and when it seems safe, she phones us. Good lass. . good for her. . anyone else would have scarpered, just melted into the night and left him to die, or left him for someone else to find, whichever happened sooner. We got there with the paramedics and they put him straight into the ambulance and took him to the Westminster Hospital. We spoke to the witness and she said she heard one of the attackers say, “That’s it. He’s dead”.’ Meadows consulted the case file. ‘And the second attacker she heard say, “We’d better make sure”, to which the first attacker said, “He’s dead I tell you, no one could survive that. I’ve done this before, Rusher, so have you”, to which the first attacker, one “Rusher”, said, “The boss was clear, he wants him chilled”, to which the second attacker apparently said, “He’s chilled, let’s get off the pitch. We have to get well clear.”’

‘Hence the protection?’

Meadows nodded. ‘Hence the protection. This was no random attack. We’ll wait until he wakes up and then see what he can tell us. So where does New Scotland Yard fit in?’

‘In respect of his boss, who gives his name as William Pilcher. We have good reason to believe William Pilcher is involved with the murder of the woman whose body was found in a shallow grave on Hampstead Heath.’

‘Interesting. . I read the report in the Evening Standard; heard about it on Radio London as well.’

‘So we want to talk to him a bit more. He lives in a pile in Virginia Water. . some pile. . I mean, a serious pile.’

‘Virginia Water? It would be very handsome; only big money camps in Virginia Water.’

‘We visited, and believe me, one copper to another, he had “nasty” written all over him.’

‘I know what you mean, squire, I well know what you mean.’

‘He hummed of suspicion. . reeked like you wouldn’t believe. . or maybe you would believe. Ran a trace but we have no record of him, not by the handle he gave.’

‘I see.’

‘So. .’ Brunnie shuffled in his chair, leaning forward with hunched shoulders, ‘this is where it gets uncomfortable. .’

‘Go on, you’re among friends.’

‘I. . well. . a colleague and I visited yesterday, looking for something he had touched. . Pilcher had touched during one of his visits to WLM Rents.’

‘To get his prints?’

‘Yes.’

‘Unorthodox but it happens all the time.’

‘Yes. . I know. . I know. . but not with these consequences. You can’t use the prints obtained in that way to prosecute but you can identify the person concerned — let’s us know who we are dealing with. Anyway, it turns out that Pilcher is a bit of a green-fingered sort of geezer — a lot of nasties have a soft side. . dogs, cats, pigeons. It seems that in Pilcher’s case, he likes plants, and he waters the potted plants in the offices of WLM Rents with a little red watering can. .’ Brunnie took a deep breath. ‘So I bullied J.J. Dunwoodie into letting me take the watering can away and told him to get another one, an identical one; told him his boss would be no wiser. He said he couldn’t do it, and I said he could and took the can. Called this morning to find that he had been replaced by a hard-nosed looker who works in another of Pilcher’s little enterprises — an import/export outfit down the East End. She was there filing her claws ’cos Dunwoodie had “gone sick”, she said. Then I saw a green watering can.’

‘Oh. .’ Meadows caught his breath. ‘I see your problem.’

‘Yes, so at some point Pilcher visited, probably noticed the red can had been replaced by a green one and asked questions, and Dunwoodie told him. Dunwoodie seemed to worship Pilcher for some reason. He might even have told him about the watering can before Pilcher noticed it had been replaced.’

‘Not good.’

‘Not good at all; not good for Dunwoodie’s health, not good for my promotion prospects and very not good for my conscience. I have made a few mistakes I have to live with and I am trying not to accumulate any more.’

‘Reckon we are all in the same boat on that score.’

‘So if Pilcher is a nasty, and I believe he is, he’ll want a victim. . and I-’

The phone on Meadows’ desk warbled. He let it ring twice, and then picked it up, identified himself and listened attentively, a worried look appearing on his face as he did so. Eventually he said, ‘Thank you, you’d better get back here.’ He replaced the handset gently. ‘Well, Pilcher got his victim alright.’

‘He’s dead!’

‘Yes, they called it about ten minutes ago — massive heart attack brought on by the assault.’

‘So it’s murder?’

‘Yes.’ Meadows sat back in his chair. ‘We’ll be passing the file to your boys now.’

‘Yes, but I’d better come clean with my boss.’

‘There’s things we have to do yet, so you’ll have time. . wrap up the paperwork, get a copy of the death certificate, notify his widow.’

‘Yes, that will give me time.’

‘I’ll have to record your visit. I’ll say you were enquiring about his employer, but anything about the watering can and removal of same-’

‘Don’t compromise yourself, so record what it was I told you. . everything.’

‘If you’re sure?’

‘Yes, I am sure. I’ll get to my governor first; make sure he has the full S.P. before the file arrives.’

‘But he gave you the can. . Dunwoodie I mean. . he gave you the watering can.’

‘Yes, though it was more in the manner of me bullying him into letting me take it.’

‘But he did not prevent you from taking it, or say you could not remove it from the premises.’

‘No. . no he didn’t.’

‘Reckon you’re covered. If he was stupid enough to tell his governor what had gone down, then it’s his lookout.’

Brunnie stood. ‘Even so, even so. I’d better go back to the Yard and talk to my governor.’

Tom Ainsclough glanced at the computer screen and smiled, ‘Well, well, well, that’s a turn up for the books and no mistake.’

‘What is?’ Penny Yewdall turned away from the window, where she had been pondering the dull, overcast weather which had settled, stubbornly it seemed to her, over London town, and smiled at Ainsclough. ‘What’s a turn up?’

‘Pilcher. Frankie Brunnie’s guess was correct, he is a felon.’

‘The prints from the watering can?’

‘The prints from the watering can. . and I mean, is he known or is he known?’

Yewdall walked from the window and sat in her chair opposite Ainsclough’s desk. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘Yates. . he is yclept Curtis Yates.’

‘That name rings bells.’

‘So it should. He’s done time. . murder reduced to manslaughter. . he got out after doing five of a ten stretch; that’s what you get for volunteering to clean the toilets and joining the Christian Union.’

‘Cynic.’ Yewdall smiled. ‘Probably quite true but you’re a cynic just the same.’

‘He was part of a team who robbed a security van taking a payroll to a large company — killed a security guard. Poor guy had only been in the job for a few weeks. That was fifteen years ago. He’s been off the radar since then but he’s flagged up as being of “great interest” — believed to be behind a lot of high-profile jobs in the Greater London area.’

‘Mr Big?’

‘Seems to be.’ Ainsclough continued to read the computer screen. ‘His wife disappeared shortly after he was released from Wandsworth ten years ago.’

‘That’s also about the time Rosemary Halkier disappeared.’ Penny Yewdall sat back in her chair and absent-mindedly straightened out a paper clip.

‘So it is, both women went missing at the same time. He has a neat way of getting rid of unwanted partners. Oh, my. . one Charlotte Varney. . she was reported missing before he went to prison, but she is cross-referenced to him because she was his partner at the time.’

‘Three women!’

‘One of whom is known to have been murdered. There’s a long list of criminal associates, one of which is none other than Slick Eddie “The Dog” Vasto and another is “Fulham Fred” Morrissey.’

‘Eddie “The Dog” Vasto — he was believed to be responsible for the building society job down in Kent a few years ago, I’m sure it was him.’

‘It was. Twenty million smackers and it’s still missing — won’t turn up now it’s been well laundered — and if I am right, “Fulham Fred” Morrissey was thought to be the brains behind the bullion robbery at Stansted Airport. If he’s moving in circles like that, explains why he doesn’t like coppers.’

‘What explains who doesn’t like coppers?’ Frank Brunnie entered the room, peeling off his raincoat as he did so.

‘This does.’ Ainsclough jabbed a finger in the air towards the monitor screen. ‘Your guess was right. . well done.’

Brunnie stood beside Ainsclough, bent forward and read the screen. ‘I see. . I see. .’ he murmured, ‘a breakthrough, but I have little to smile about.’

‘Why? You got a result.’

‘Possibly, but it was at the cost of an innocent seeming office manager being battered to death.’ He sank into his chair.

‘Who?’ Yewdall gasped.

Brunnie told Yewdall and Ainsclough about J.J. Dunwoodie, and a silence fell on the room. Eventually Yewdall said, ‘But he let you take it. I said in the car that I wasn’t happy with what you did, but he didn’t protest or put up any objection. I witnessed that. Alright, you pressured him, but he still allowed you to remove the watering can from the office.’

‘That’s true, but I am still pushing the envelope of reasonable conduct. . fair play. I am going to have to tell Harry Vicary. Is he in?’

‘No.’

‘When is he due to return?’

‘Not known. May not be until tomorrow now, he’s making enquiries in respect of Rosemary Halkier.’

‘Alone?’

‘Just background information — not interviewing anyone as such.’

‘Ah. . I need a drink. . how I need a drink.’

‘We got a second result while you were out.’ Yewdall patted her notepad.

‘Oh?’

‘South Wales Police contacted us. They suggested the ID of the murdered girl in Michael Dalkeith’s room in the house in Claremont Road, Kilburn.’

‘Oh?’ Brunnie repeated.

‘A fifteen-year-old runaway from a children’s home in Pontypool; they’re sending her prints to us.’

‘Prints?’

‘Yes, she has priors for shoplifting. She is confirmed as being one Gaynor Davies; couldn’t get more Welsh than that. Older than John Shaftoe thought. She must have been a waif of a lassie. So where does she fit into the mix, I wonder?’

‘If she does fit in anywhere, or at all; her murder might be incidental.’

‘Or fitting Dalkeith up?’ Yewdall added.

‘Who knows?’ Brunnie stood. ‘But since Harry’s not here, I’m going for that beer. I need it.’

Tom Ainsclough alighted from the train at Clapham and walked across Clapham Road, using the pelican crossing, and into Landar Road. Walking on the right-hand pavement, he passed the newly rebuilt Lambeth Hospital and turned right into Hargwyne Street, which he found, as always, to be a pleasingly homely road of nineteenth-century terraced housing, though many, like his, had been converted into two, or sometimes three, separate flats. He stepped up to the front door, opened it with his key and entered the communal hall. He checked the tabletop for mail, and walked to the right-hand door of two internal doors, both of which were secured by mortise locks. He unlocked the door, which opened on to a narrow staircase that led to the upper two storeys of the house; the other, left-hand, door opened on to the ground floor and the cellar, which had been turned into a comfortable bedroom area of three separate rooms. Tom Ainsclough considered himself lucky to have the downstairs neighbour he had. The Watsons both worked in the health-care field — he was a pharmacist at the hospital and she a nurse at the clinic attached to the hospital. Ainsclough lived upstairs with his wife, Sara, a nurse, although she was a staff nurse at the hospital itself. Each family entertained the other for drinks at Christmas time, but otherwise kept themselves to themselves, and made certain to keep any noise they might generate to a minimum. When they met in the communal hall or passed in the street, the greetings were warm and convivial. Tom Ainsclough often envied the Watsons’ short walk to the hospital, and his wife’s also. But he had more of a sense of being ‘at home’, because, unlike them, he did not have to look at his place of work each time he glanced out of the rear window of his flat. He entered the kitchen, and he and his wife greeted each other with a brief hug. Ainsclough changed out of his suit and into jeans and a rugby shirt, and relaxed in front of the television, sipping a chilled lager which had been pressed into his hand by a smiling Sara Ainsclough. Later they shared a meal in relaxed silence, punctuated by an occasional comment or two. At nine p.m., Sara excused herself and changed into her nurse’s uniform, and after kissing her husband goodbye, she left the house to walk to the hospital in good time to start the night shift at ten p.m. Ainsclough glanced at the framed photograph of himself and Sara taken for them by a stranger whilst on their honeymoon in Crete. The photograph had become a favourite, capturing, he thought, the bliss of those two weeks, and Ainsclough often wondered whether it was the nature of their marriage — the passing each other at the door, and spending the night together only when their shifts allowed them to do so — that was the reason why they remained so content.

Penny Yewdall left the train at Maze Hill Station and turned right into Maze Hill, over the railway bridge, and walked slowly down towards Trafalgar Road, which, at that time of the evening, was log jammed with traffic. She walked down Woodland Crescent and into Tusker Road. She let herself into a small terraced house, just one room downstairs, which served as a sitting room and dining area, with a guest bed under the stairs, and a small yard enclosed by a high fence to the rear of the house. She went upstairs and undressed, and soaked in a bath, as was her wont — unless she felt dangerously sleepy — so as to wash the day off her. She dined at mid-evening and later went for a stroll along the side of Greenwich Park. That she was a policewoman and trained in self-defence made her feel more unafraid than most women would be in such circumstances, but Greenwich being Greenwich, she never had to put her training to use. She returned to her modest house, made a cup of cocoa and had an early night. Her house was small, but it was hers. She liked it like that, and she liked it like that in Greenwich. She felt that no other part of London would work for her the way Greenwich worked for her.

The man and the woman held hands and stood up in the hushed room. The man spoke. He said, ‘Hello, we are Harry and Kathleen and we are alcoholics.’

The people in the room answered, ‘Hello Harry and Kathleen.’

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