‘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,
