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
