something so small could become so significant.
‘Quite possibly,’ said Trave, watching Ava closely. ‘You mentioned that your husband likes cuff links. Could this be one of his?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Is Bertie a suspect? Is that what you’re saying?’ Ava’s voice rose in sudden panic and she gripped the edge of the table.
Instinctively, Trave leant forward and put his hand over Ava’s for a moment, trying to reassure her. ‘I know this is difficult, but please try to stay calm,’ he said. ‘We’re looking at every possibility because that’s our job. As soon as we have some news, you’ll be the first to know.’
Ava nodded, visibly trying to control her anxiety.
‘But in the meantime, I think it would be best if we kept this evidence between ourselves …’
‘Don’t tell Bertie, you mean?’
‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’
‘All right, but Mr Trave …’
‘Yes?’
‘Please get this right. Find the man who killed my father — the right man, so you’re sure. Promise me you won’t leave any stone unturned.’
Ava looked at Trave hard, waiting with her green eyes fixed on his until he nodded his assent.
‘Well, did she recognize it?’ asked Quaid when Trave returned to their shared office after showing Ava and Bertram out.
Trave shook his head.
‘Pity,’ said Quaid. ‘But I’d still bet my bottom dollar it’s his. Do you think she’ll tell him about it?’
‘She said she wouldn’t.’
‘And did you believe her?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Well, it probably won’t make any difference one way or the other. We’ll see if we can dig up anything more on our friend the medicine man, tomorrow, and then, whatever happens, I’ll apply for a search warrant and we can find out what he’s got hidden away. I reckon we’ll find a lot more than just the matching cuff link.’
‘So you’re sure he’s guilty?’
‘Yes, have been from the moment I clapped eyes on him. I’ve got a nose for criminals, remember? And murderers are my speciality.’
‘But don’t you think we should look at other possibilities, even if just to eliminate them?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, did you find out anything about what happens at that place where Morrison used to work — 59 Broadway?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It’s exactly as I thought — the building’s a department of the War Office and the people there don’t need us poking our noses in where we’re not wanted.’
‘You were told to stay away?’
‘No, of course I wasn’t,’ said Quaid irritably. ‘I’ve got the right to take a search team into Buckingham Palace if that’s what a case requires, but this one doesn’t. We don’t need to complicate the investigation just for the sake of it, not when we’ve got the murderer staring us in the face. I’ve already told you that.’
‘Do you know who you spoke to?’ asked Trave, refusing to be put off. There was something terrier-like about his persistence.
‘It’s none of your business. And I don’t want to hear any more of your damn fool questions about the place,’ said Quaid, getting visibly annoyed. ‘You’re to stay away from St James’s Park, do you hear me? And concentrate on Bertram Brive. He’s the culprit and we need to bring him in — the sooner the better. I’m in court tomorrow morning, but we can catch up when I get back.’
All things being equal, Trave would have preferred not to cross his boss, but he felt he had no choice about going back to Broadway. There were too many unanswered questions associated with the place. Why had Albert Morrison rushed over there on the day of his death? And why was there no record of his visit? Was it because he had been intercepted? And if so, by whom?
Albert had worked at Number 59 until he retired. Thorn worked there still, and according to Ava, so did the man Seaforth, whom Thorn had attacked at the funeral. What was it that they were all doing inside the building with the flat, featureless facade and the blacked-out windows? And why had Thorn lied to him about the purpose of his visit to Albert’s flat and the note he had left with Mrs Graves? Because he had lied — Trave was sure of it. Just as he was sure that someone associated with Broadway had got to Quaid and told the inspector to call off the dogs. Why? It had to be because someone there had something to hide. But who? And what?
Questions leading to more questions — Trave felt as if he were in a blindfold, groping around in the dark, and he knew that the only way he was going to get answers was to find them out on his own. He remembered the dead man lying broken like a puppet on the hall floor at Gloucester Mansions and the promise he’d made to Ava to find the man responsible for putting him there. He couldn’t honour it without going back to Broadway, so first thing the next morning he took the Tube to St James’s Park and stationed himself behind a cup of coffee and a copy of
Between half past eight and nine, a succession of furtive-looking people went into the building, starting with Jarvis, the ancient doorman-caretaker in grey overalls whom Trave had encountered on his first visit. Thorn arrived on the stroke of nine, head bowed and back bent and with the smoke from his cigarette blowing away behind him down the street each time he exhaled. Such a contrast to Seaforth, who showed up soon afterwards, strolling down the pavement as if he hadn’t got a care in the world.
And then nothing for over two hours. Trave was sleepy and several times caught himself starting to nod off with his newspaper slipping from his grasp. The Luftwaffe seemed to have selected the streets around the rooming house where he lived in Fulham for special treatment the previous night, and he’d been up through the small hours helping to fight incendiary fires in neighbouring buildings with sand and stirrup pumps. He’d managed to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep after the all clear, and his body was crying out for more.
He was almost on the point of giving up and returning to Scotland Yard when the door of Number 59 opened and Seaforth emerged. He stood on the pavement, putting on his hat and gloves, and then walked away to his left. His lips were pursed and it looked as though he were whistling a tune. Trave waited until he had gone past and then followed him into the Underground station at the end of the street.
CHAPTER 7
Four miles away on the other side of the river, in the offices of Parker, Johnson and Hughes, Solicitors, in Battersea High Street, Ava fidgeted in the uncomfortable hard-backed chair that she’d been sitting in for more than an hour. She’d been finding it increasingly hard to control her irritation ever since she’d found out from the senior partner, Mr Parker, that her father had been a much wealthier man than she had ever suspected. At the start of the interview, he had produced a bulging file containing a portfolio of blue-chip investments, a well-endowed savings account, and the title deeds not only for the flat in Gloucester Mansions, but for two houses in south London that were rented out on long leases. Albert had been a miser. That was exactly the right word for it, thought Ava. He could easily have paid someone to look after him, just as he could have set her up independently long before she’d felt forced to marry an unsuitable man in order to escape his clutches. But he had chosen to hoard his money instead. For a moment Ava was glad he was dead, thinking he’d got exactly what he deserved, but then she was seized with shame. She remembered his body hurtling through the air and smashing down on the floor at her feet. No one deserved to die that way.
She glanced over at her husband, transferring her irritation in his direction. He’d dressed for the appointment in the same black suit he’d worn to the funeral, but Ava had been married to him long enough to know that behind his lugubrious expression he was rubbing his hands with glee. It was obvious that he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the money.
She looked at her watch. It was already half past eleven and she was going to be late for her meeting with
