surprise, packed neatly in greaseproof paper. I gave them an experimental sniff.
‘Not tripe this time?’ asked Lesley.
‘Spam, I think,’ I said as I opened up the parcels and lifted the top slice of homemade bread. ‘My mistake,’ I said. ‘Spam, cheese and pickle.’
‘He’s coming out,’ said Lesley and raised the camera again.
Kevin emerged from the front door carrying a battered cardboard box. From the way he carried it I assumed it was heavy. This was confirmed when the van sank on its rear axle as he dumped the box in the back. He rested for a moment, panting, breath visible in the cold air, before returning to the house, where a minute or two later he reappeared with a second box and loaded that.
It’s a funny thing, but you only need to be following someone for a very short period of time before you start identifying with them. Watching Kevin stagger out the front door with a third heavy box I had to fight down the urge to jump out of the car and give him a hand. If nothing else, it would have speeded things up. As it was, we waited and watched him bring out two more boxes while taking the occasional picture to relieve the boredom.
Much too Lesley’s disgust I ate the spam, cheese and pickle sandwiches.
‘Are you planning to spend the rest of the day breathing out?’ she asked.
‘It’s an autonomic function,’ I said smugly.
‘Then open the window,’ she said.
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘It’s too cold. Tell you what, though.’ I fished out a Christmas-tree-shaped air freshener from the glove box and hung it from the rear-view mirror. ‘There you go.’
I was probably only saved from death, or at least serious injury, by the fact that Kevin chose that moment to get back into his van and drive away. We waited a couple of minutes to make a note of the house number and call AB for a pool check and then drove after him.
Kevin’s next stop was fifteen minutes away on the other side of the Westway in what had to be the last unconverted warehouse in the whole of West London. It still had its double-width wooden loading gates on which the original blue paint had faded to a scabby dark grey.
We drew up and watched as Kevin left his van, stamped over to the gates, unlocked the inset pedestrian door and stepped inside.
‘I’m bored of this,’ said Lesley. ‘Let’s go in and search the place.’
‘If we let him move on,’ I said. ‘We could have the place to ourselves, have a good look around before anyone finds out.’
‘We’d need a search warrant,’ said Lesley. ‘On the other hand if we wait for little Kevin, who I believe you witnessed assaulting someone yesterday, to carry a couple of boxes in then we’re just investigating his suspicious behaviour. And once we’re inside—’
She was right, so that’s what we did. When Kevin opened the gates and drove his van into the warehouse we drove in just behind him. He didn’t even notice until he came round the back his van to unload.
‘It wasn’t me,’ he said.
‘What wasn’t you?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘What’s in the boxes then, Kevin?’ asked Lesley.
Kevin actually opened his mouth to say ‘nothing’ again, but realised that was just too stupid even for him.
‘Plates,’ he said, and it was true. Every box was full of plates all made of the same tough biscuit-coloured stoneware as the fruit bowl in James Gallagher’s flat – and the shard that had killed him. But that wasn’t all.
The loading bay was a wide two-storey space that penetrated through the centre of the warehouse. At the far end was another set of wooden loading gates that opened directly onto the tow path of the Grand Union Canal, which ran along the rear. Opening off the bay on either side were two storage rooms, a pattern duplicated on the first floor and again, albeit with larger rooms, on the second. All but one of the rooms were fitted with rotting wooden shelving itself piled with pottery.
Leaving Kevin to Lesley’s tender mercies I wandered through the warehouse. In places the shelving had collapsed to create drifts of dinner plates or saucers which could be treacherous underfoot. In the far rooms I found piles of tureens and soup bowls covered in a thick layer of dust and the shelves ragged with old cobwebs. I definitely heard rats scuttling out of my way as I entered each room. In one I found a long shelf on which ranks of salt cellars were lined up like an army of miniature Daleks and on the shelf below a different army of little drunk men in tricorn hats – toby jugs. I pulled a few out for a closer look and as I touched them I felt a little flash of vestigia – the pigsty smell, but also beer and laughter. I saw that the face on each jug was subtly different, as if they’d all been individually made. As I walked out I could feel them leering at my back. In another, amidst what looked like chamber pots and milk jugs I found a shelf of statuettes – my old friend goddess-surprised-by-a- sculptor.
One room, on the ground floor at the back, had been partially cleared of shelves and pottery. In their place stood, almost as tall as Lesley and smothered in bubble wrap, a brand-new 15 kilowatt kiln. I found out later that this was just about the largest and hottest unit it was possible to buy off the shelf. Other packing cases were arrayed around it which turned out to be full of kiln furniture and bags full of mysterious coloured powders which were identified later as ingredients for making various types of ceramic glazes.
I thought of James Gallagher and his new-found interest in ceramics. A kiln like that would have to set you back a couple of thousand quid at least and the Murder Team would have flagged an expenditure like that on day one of the investigation. Likewise if he was renting the warehouse as a studio.
‘Where did all this stuff come from?’ I asked Kevin.
‘Which stuff?’ he asked. Even inside, Kevin kept his hoodie up, as if worried that without it his brains would fly out of his ears.
‘The pottery,’ I said. ‘The stuff what you’ve been trying to sell to the traders on the Portobello.’
‘Comes from here, don’t it?’ he said.
‘Not from Moscow Road then?’
Kevin gave me an accusing look. ‘You’ve been following me?’
‘Yes Kevin, we’ve been following you,’ said Lesley.
‘That’s a violation of my European human rights,’ he said.
I looked at Lesley – surely nobody could really be that stupid? She shrugged. Lesley has a much lower opinion of humanity than I do.
I gestured at the kiln. ‘Do you know whose this is?’ I asked.
Kevin glanced incuriously at the kiln and then shrugged. ‘No idea,’ he said.
‘Have you ever noticed anything weird happening around here?’ I asked.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Ghosts, mysterious noises – weird shit?’
‘Not really,’ he said.
‘It’s time to call in Seawoll,’ said Lesley.
We made Kevin sit on the edge of the kiln’s loading pallet and walked out of his hearing.
‘Is this anything he wants to know about?’ I asked.
‘This could be the source of the murder weapon,’ said Lesley. ‘It’s down to the SIO to decide what he wants to know about.’
I nodded, she was right but I was thinking that this could have been where James was sloping off to during those gaps in his timeline. James was a student, but his father was rich.
‘I want to talk to the senator,’ I said. ‘Maybe he paid for all of this.’
Lesley reminded me that little miss FBI agent was likely to take a close interest in any visit, so I phoned Kittredge.
‘Have you found your little lost sheep?’ I said.
‘Why do you ask?’ Special Branch might have been reorganised out of existence but they were still the same cagey bastards they’d been when they were doing the legwork for MI5 during the Cold War.
‘Possible sighting in Ladbroke Grove,’ I said. ‘I just thought I’d check with you before wasting any time on it.’
‘She’s back in the bunker,’ he said. ‘Has been since about nine this morning.’
