progress, even if she felt that doing so would facilitate the discussion. Instead she concentrated on David Denjhi’s background.
“Our families had known each other in India,” Sirina explained, “and although our marriage was not arranged it was understood that one day we might wed. Our parents were business partners, you see.”
“What kind of business were they in?” asked Longbright.
“Exporting silk. At first it was very successful, but then David’s father died. Our money was invested in a business that went bankrupt. We lost everything. David was a good father, a good provider. He worked hard to keep his company afloat, still dreaming that one day his children would run it. But it was not to be.” She folded her hands in her lap, looking away.
“Tell me what happened after the company collapsed.”
“David set up the window-cleaning firm. He was expanding it, taking on office contracts. His head was filled with ideas.”
“Did your husband have many friends?”
“We were his friends. His family. He had no others. People saw him in the street, at his job, but I don’t suppose they really saw him. People don’t, you understand? They don’t notice us. We go about our work, we spend time with our families, but to most English people we’re quite invisible. The hostile ones see us, of course. The others are neither angry nor happy that we’re here – just disinterested. When we came to this country, we thought we had left the castes behind, but we hadn’t. We simply became a new one.”
Silence settled in the room. “We need to talk about David’s disappearance,” Longbright said. “I know you’ve already made a statement, but I must ask you to think harder. You say he’d been troubled…”
Sirina Denjhi withdrew a handkerchief from her sari and dabbed her nose. “That’s right. It was on Friday morning. The devil was in him. He would not go to work, and he would not tell me why. He was furious with the children. Our youngest daughter broke a saucer, and he slapped her face. He had never raised his hand in violence before. His mood grew worse and worse. Finally, just after ten in the morning, he stormed out without a word.”
“You asked him where he was going?”
“Of course, but he gave me no reply. I watched from the window as he drove off in the van.”
“Had he ever done anything like this?”
“No, never.”
“And the name Peggy Harmsworth, he’d never mentioned it to you?”
Sirina shook her head. She turned her amber eyes to the sergeant. “You must find out why this terrible thing happened. Perhaps he was possessed. All I know is that we have been visited by devils, and there will be no rest for us until we know the truth.”
¦
By lunchtime the blustery day had swept the sky clean of cloud, and the two detectives sat in the operations room at Mornington Crescent bathed in winter sunshine. Bryant was trying hard to stay awake, but the long hours were beginning to take their toll. They were awaiting the preliminary forensic report on David Denjhi’s body.
“You haven’t found any connection at all between Denjhi and the Whitstables?” Bryant asked May.
“Not on the surface, but it’s conceivable the families had crossed paths in business. I’ll have to go through Denjhi’s company records. And I’ll see if he’d ever had window-cleaning appointments at any of the Whitstable houses. God, Arthur, a window-cleaner. It doesn’t make sense.” He shoved the folder away from him. “Jerry saw him leave the crypt seconds after Mrs Harmsworth screamed, so there’s no doubt about who attacked her.”
“It’s in,” called Longbright, walking briskly between the typewriters with a pair of document pouches in her hand. Bryant was charmed by his glamorous sergeant, just as he had been by her mother so many years earlier. Last night, without a word of complaint, she had stayed with them through the shift in order to help clear the backlog of interviews. “Finch wasn’t going to release it without speaking to you first, but I managed to persuade him.”
“You know what that means,” said Bryant, accepting the papers. “He must have found some positive matches. No one else knows about this yet, do they?”
“I’m afraid he’s already copied in Raymond Land, Sir.”
“Bugger, there goes our head start.” Bryant yanked open the first document pouch. “I haven’t got my glasses. Could you decipher?”
May took the papers. “We’ve got multiple matches. Fingerprints all over the crypt, and on the knife Denjhi threw into the grass. For some reason he decided not to use it on her. Peggy Harmsworth’s blood on the crypt floor, and on Denjhi’s shirt and trousers. It looks as if she banged her head in the struggle. Keys fitting the crypt found on his body. No positive matches with the other deaths, but it’s early days yet. They need to check with the partials found on segments of the bomb that killed Peter Whitstable.” He pulled out another carbon. “Definitely no match with the prints we found on the razor from the Savoy barbershop, though. So we’re dealing with at least two different killers. Oh, and Finch confirms that Denjhi died at the accident site.”
“You can tell a man is dead by sticking his finger in your ear,” recalled Bryant unhelpfully. “If you put your own finger in your ear you hear a buzz from tiny muscle movements.”
“Two or more murderers,” mused May. “I suppose it fits in with your Victorian conspiracy theory, not that it makes a blind bit of sense. Anything new to report on that front?”
“I’ve got some people working on it.”
“A couple of clairvoyants and a palmist, no doubt.”
“There’s no reason why you should place more faith in technical wizardry than in the supernatural.”
“Technology is about accurate prediction, which is more than can be said for your crystal-ball merchants. I know you’ve been seeing them again, Arthur, don’t pretend that you haven’t.”
Just then the overhead lights momentarily dimmed.
“So much for the reliability of science,” said Bryant with a mocking smile. “We’re not much good without electricity, are we? Suddenly we’re back in the Dark Ages, telling ghost stories in front of the fire. Janice, your interview with Mrs Denjhi was very thorough, but there’s still one thing I need to know. Where did he get the money?”
“I’m sorry, Sir?”
“Denjhi lost everything when his company collapsed. You can’t start a new one without capital outlay. Find out where he got the cash.”
The telephone rang, and Bryant answered it. “I just wanted to be the first to offer my congratulations to you and your colleagues,” Faraday bellowed. The junior arts minister sounded extremely cheerful. “A job well done, I’d say. I haven’t received your full report yet, of course, so if you’d – ”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” snapped Bryant, although a terrible thought was forming in his mind.
“Catching our vandal,” Faraday explained. “The news couldn’t have come at a better time. Things were getting pretty sticky with the Aussies, I can tell you.”
Suddenly the realization dawned on Bryant.
Raymond Land had read the report and had immediately contacted the Home Office. Faraday seemed to have assumed that with the death of a confirmed assassin, all loose ends connected to the vandalism of the loaned Waterhouse painting were now tied up. It was essential for Land to prove that the new unit was getting results; it had been funded for an initial eight-week trial period. Bryant knew he would be expected to back up his superior. He also knew that he could not do so without compromising everything he believed in.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr Faraday,” he said finally. “We’ve confirmed the identity of the person who assaulted Mrs Harmsworth last night, but that’s all.”
“How can that be? I don’t understand,” said Faraday with an anguished squeak.
“Put simply, there’s a murderer very much at large.”
“You mean you still don’t know who he is?”
“Worse than that,” replied Bryant. “There’s more than one. And we don’t know who
