gas regulator. Set a leak so that when he switched it on it would explode? Is that what you’re thinking?’
‘Could be. Forensics are working on what’s left of the barbecue. It may show that the regulator was tampered with.’ She shrugged. ‘It may not.’
‘I guess those two from the hospital are worth checking out. See where they were prior to the arranged meeting time. See if they had opportunity.’
‘It’s not the opportunity that I am puzzled by,’ said Natalie James.
Kirsty waited for her to finish the thought.
‘It’s the motive.’
Chapter 82
Police Constable Mark Smith was a tall man.
Somewhat over six foot. He wasn’t sure by how much any more. At one time he was six three but the years on the beat and the ageing process generally meant he rode a little lower in the saddle nowadays. And he didn’t have the heart to measure by how much.
He was in his early fifties and looking forward to retiring sometime in the near future. He had it all planned. Out of the city, off to the coast. He’d leave his uniform behind happily, and swap his baton for a fly-fishing rod. His wife was a history teacher in a state school in Ealing, and she was looking forward to retiring too.
Between them they had a nice pension organised and enough money to buy a small B amp;B on the South Coast. Community meant something there, and if a man was found lying on the street he wasn’t just stepped over. Mark Smith was happy to be a plain old-fashioned beat copper, and, truth to tell, he was proud of it too. Just because he was looking forward to retirement didn’t mean he thought any less of his job.
‘It’s like that old guy from Greek legend, you know?’ he asked me as we sat by the window in a Middle Eastern cafe on Old Compton Street, drinking cups of coffee you could have stood up a spoon in and watching half the world throng past.
I nodded. I knew exactly who he meant – we had had this conversation many times before. He continued anyway.
‘Sisyphus, the old geezer punished by the gods for killing travellers and visitors. He had to roll this huge rock up a big hill and, before he could reach the top, it would roll all the way back down and he had to start all over again.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘And you know what the ironic thing is?’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s not the travellers or the visitors who die out there on those cold streets…’
I looked out of the window at the heat shimmering off the pavement. Today might have been a preternaturally hot day. But the streets of London could certainly get cold.
Cold enough to kill.
Mark Smith knew that better than most. He was part of the Westminster Police’s Safer Streets’ Homeless Unit, the SSHU. They dealt with about sixteen thousand or so homeless people who slept rough on the streets each year. No matter what the weather. Up to two hundred a night sometimes.
I passed the photo across the small ridged aluminium-topped table and he picked it up and looked at it. Mark fumbled in his pocket and produced a slim spectacle case, sliding out a pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of his nose.
He nodded almost immediately. ‘That’ll be the Major,’ he said.
‘Major?’
‘He’s certainly been in the service sometime. That’s how he got the name, plus the fact that he’s from an educated background.’
‘Which is rare on the streets.’
‘More common than you might think.’
Mark was right, of course.
People ended up on the streets for all kinds of reasons. Mental-health issues. Children running away from abusive homes, adults fleeing from the demons they could no longer confront. Many of the homeless people on the streets of London were like the Major – ex-servicemen and women battling with alcohol and depression. A vicious circle of self-medication that spiralled out of control.
I finished my coffee and stood up. ‘You know where he is?’
Constable Smith looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a good idea.’
I tossed a five-pound note on the table which just about covered the tip and two coffees, and headed out into the bustle of the metropolis.
I slipped on my pair of Ray-Bans and slung my jacket over my shoulder, following the tall policeman as he led me along Charing Cross Road towards Tottenham Court Road.
Chapter 83
There are A number of soup kitchens, plus day and night drop-in centres, for the homeless in London. If you know where to go.
Part of PC Mark Smith’s job was to let people know. Some people were made homeless through a change of circumstances – the breakdown of a relationship or the loss of a job, for example. Their homelessness could often be a temporary state, but for others it was a way of life. For these people there was a pattern to their lives on the street and Mark Smith got to know them pretty well.
Not all the centres were open on a Sunday, but St Joseph’s off Tottenham Court Road ran a soup kitchen on Sunday afternoons, between services.
Sure enough, the Major was where PC Smith expected him to be. A number of people, young and old, were gathered around the van which was parked outside the church.
The man was instantly recognisable. Had a dark brown tartan picnic blanket from Aquascutum draped over his shoulders, despite the heat. He was sitting on the church step, sipping on a large styrofoam cup of soup.
He looked up at us as we approached. His eyes seemed sharp, focused – he could have been forty or he could have been sixty. He had long grey curly hair and an unruly beard and, although he was ill-kempt, he looked clean. He took care of himself as best he could, that much was evident.
He nodded to PC Smith, gave me an appraising look and then saluted me. I smiled. It was a good sign. I saluted him back.
He nodded, pleased. ‘I thought you were military.’
‘Ex.’
‘RMP?’
‘You’re pretty good at this.’
‘You’re with him.’ He nodded at PC Smith. ‘You walk like military. Hold yourself like military. Reckon you could handle yourself if push came to shove.’
‘It has been known.’
‘So what do you want with me?’
‘We’ve got a couple of questions for you, major.’
‘I wasn’t there,’ he said. Then his body convulsed in a hacking cough, soup spilling onto the step. He shuffled sideways, away from it.
‘We’ll get you some more,’ I said.
‘I still wasn’t there,’ he mumbled, looking at the floor. His eyes were slightly out of focus now.
‘Weren’t where?’
He looked up at me, his eyes brightening again.
