'I know you can't tell me the details, but you can tell me whether it's going well, can't you?'
'It's going ... OK. Just got microfilm eyes, that's all.'
Ron nodded in sympathy. 'You know how they used to get the papers flat enough so they could be filmed?'
'Can't say I do.'
'Iron. Used to have a team of women that flattened them with domestic irons.'
'Really?'
'Straight up,' Ron replied and took another enormous, loud drag on his cigarette.
Nigel realized he had to get more specific in his search. 'I need the Chelsea Times,' he said.
'I'll get down there and get it for you once I've finished smoking this,' Ron offered. 'Might take me a while, though. It's not life or death, is it?'
Nigel smiled. 'It could be.'
Foster was in his car, reliving the memory of the previous Sunday in Avondale Park in Notting Dale when he'd been called to the scene of the tramp's death. There had seemed little remarkable at the scene when he first arrived there. The rain had fallen steadily throughout the night, and he remembered the trees appeared to be bowing under the weight of water. The tramp had been found hanging from the frame of a children's swing, though he had been cut down by the attending officer in a vain attempt at resuscitation, so Foster did not see the body in situ.
He'd been back to the office and collected some pictures. The rope, the swing, the tramp's body, the area around the scene. None of it looked in any way out of the ordinary. The rope had been sent to forensics for examination and Carlisle had been summoned to do a second postmortem. Foster had called the park keeper, who had found the body at dawn, and been assured, as he had been the previous week, that no one had witnessed anything strange or different the day or night leading up to the body's discovery. Yet the park had been closed at five p.m., which meant the killer must have dragged or hauled the body into the park by some means. Foster had walked around the park perimeter and could see no obvious way in.
The question that bothered him was: Why was there no stab wound? Barnes had told him that all three victims in 1879 had been stabbed. So why hang the first one?
They needed an ID. He had asked for dental records to be prepared and compared against those on the missing persons database, but that would take time. So, here he was in his car, kerb-crawling through the streets of Ladbroke Grove and Notting Hill, armed with a stack of pictures of a dead man. He started by St John's Churchyard. Pieces of police tape attached to the railings still fluttered in the wind. But the churchyard itself was empty.
He drove along Portobello Road; the market stallholders had long since packed away their stalls, though the detritus of a busy Saturday still littered the road. He parked up when he reached the railway bridge, at the northern, darker end of the street. It was here the winos liked to hang out, in and around the alleys, buildings and dark corners that constituted life under the Westway.
He checked Acklam Road, a pedestrianized street running parallel to the overhead motorway. There was no sign of anyone, homeless or not. He crossed back over Portobello and walked beside the Westway towards Ladbroke Grove. There was a small park called Portobello Green, a haven for local workers eating their lunch by day, and for the chaotic and confused drifters drinking fortified wine by night. He pushed the gate that led into the park, and heard it creak. From the other side he could hear voices, people laughing and shouting. As he got closer he could see a group of homeless gathered around one park bench, falling quiet as he drew near, recognizing him as trouble.
The person he wanted was sitting in the middle, the others circled around her, like children hearing a story.
'Good evening, Sheena,' he said, as silence fell.
Ciderwoman was wearing the same clothes as on their previous meeting. In the late dusk, and away from the harsh lights of the police station, she appeared less grimy. Her eyes, yellow and narrow, stared long and hard at him for some time before informing the brain.
'What the fuck do you want?' she said, remembering him at last. She looked at the gnarled old man next to her, bald head, bushy dirty-grey beard, sucking on a cigarette as if his life depended on it while he rocked forwards and back. 'This one's a copper,' she slurred. 'Asked me about that murder in the church.'
'Sorry to gatecrash the party when it's going so well,' Foster said. 'But I'm afraid I need your help again, Sheena. The rest of you might be able to help me, too.' He pulled a copy of the photo of the dead tramp from his inside jacket. 'Do any of you know this guy?'
Ciderwoman snatched the photo from his hand and put it within an inch of her face. She shut one eye and tried to focus. Foster pulled a small torch from his pocket and flicked it on.
'This might help.'
He gave it to Ciderwoman. She held it unsteadily in one hand and shone it on the picture.
'He's fucking dead,' she said eventually.
'I know that. Do you recognize him?'
She looked again. The others had crowded behind both her shoulders to take a look. She passed the torch and picture to a few others.
'Never seen 'im,' she said with certainty.
The photo did the rounds: no one else had seen him either.
'If he did hang around this part of town, would it be fair to say you'd know him?'
She cracked her tombstone smile. 'If he'd hung around here, it'd be fair to say I'd probably shagged him,' she said, then let rip with her wheezy, gasping laugh.
The rest joined in.
That's an image that will take some time to dispel, Foster thought.
Nigel was browsing the online catalogue when Ron returned, a couple of bound volumes under his arm, wheezing with the effort. No microfilm, Nigel thought with some relief. He took them from him and placed one volume on the reading stand. He pushed his glasses back from the tip of his nose and opened the front cover. The pages were dry as sandpaper and as stiff in his hand. It felt wonderful; he could almost sense the years falling away. He flicked giddily through the pages, until he reached the edition of April 2nd.
He thought wrong. There wasn't a single word.
The newspaper consisted of two pages, both filled with advertising, grocery prices, a trade directory and other minutiae of Victorian life. Any other time it would have been a fascinating insight. But not now.
He needed news.
Ron had shuffled away towards his station. Nigel called him back.
'Can you get the Kensington News and West London Times for 1879?' Nigel asked.
'Never heard of them,' Ron said mournfully.
'It's one newspaper,' Nigel replied. 'A weekly.'
Ron ambled slowly out of the room, back towards the depths.
Half an hour later, Ron returned with another bound volume. Nigel found the edition for April 4th.
The murder spree was front page. It concentrated on the worried reactions of Notting Hill residents, including a number who believed the killer to be some sort of golem. One 'eyewitness' had described seeing a man 'more than seven feet in height, hair overgrowing his visage' in the vicinity of the first murder.
Nigel read the report carefully. Nothing was new until he reached the point where the reporter had managed to find a talking head who claimed to know the person who had found the body. The man, unnamed, had been taking an early-morning walk beside the Hammersmith and City Railway when he came across the body near the station.
He rose to go and ring Foster. Then he stopped: Notting Hill Gate was underground. Unless this guy lived in a tunnel, what the hell was he doing walking alongside the track?
Nigel sat back down. Hammersmith and City Railway.
Which line was that now? The Hammersmith and City Line still ran, of course, but it didn't go to Notting Hill Gate. That was on the Central Line.
He thought the Circle and District Lines ran through it too.
He needed a reference book. He checked a few of the shelves, but they had nothing useful. The Internet, he
