Vault

times of the night, he thought that he would quite like to embrace Burden when they met after an absence, though he drew the line at that triple kissing. Thinking of telling Burden this and his reaction – a kind of incredulous but well-veiled horror – made Wexford laugh out loud.

‘What’s funny?’ Burden brought their two red wines to the table.

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘My grandma who lived until I was about eight used to tell me about some comedian on the music halls when she was about eight herself. His name was Ernie Lotinga – isn’t it strange I can remember that, all those years ago? Anyway, his catchphrase when he’d cracked a joke was to put on this deadpan face and say, “I don’t see anything funny to laugh at.” Apparently it rocked them in the aisles.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ Wexford said. ‘He was T. S. Eliot’s favourite comedian.’

Burden wasn’t interested in that, as Wexford had known he wouldn’t be. ‘How are you getting on with the bodies in the coal hole?’

‘Not very well. We can still only identify one of them and she was pretty obvious from the first. How would you find a woman who is probably about thirty, not particularly honest unless she’s changed a lot, most likely a Londoner, speaks French or is French, of the name of Francine?’

Burden suggested all the methods Tom Ede had used. ‘But I suppose there are a lot of them?’

‘Too many. You see, I’ve said she’s probably about thirty and she won’t be much younger, but she may be a lot older.’ He told Burden about La Punaise and the woman’s name written on the slip of paper. ‘Although the assumption is that he intended to ask this woman for a translation, there’s nothing to tell us that she was his sort of age. She might be his former teacher or a friend of his mother’s or a neighbour.’

‘She might be a murderer.’

‘It has crossed my mind.’

‘You could advertise for her. If she killed them she won’t reply, but you’ve no reason to think she did, have you?’

‘None. Advertise for her how? She would have to be – well, distinguished by her association with Orcadia Cottage on the lines of “Will Francine who had a connection with Orcadia Cottage, Orcadia Place, London NW8 twelve years ago, please get in touch with the Metropolitan Police …”? You can see what that could lead to, the real Francine not replying because although she was asked to translate something twelve years ago, she had never heard of Orcadia Cottage until the bodies were discovered in the vault and she read about it in the papers. And hundreds of false Francines making all sorts of crazy claims.’

‘You could mention the translation, but you don’t really know why her name was on the same piece of paper with that French word? You don’t really know that, do you? He, whoever he is or was, might have written La Punaise on the paper because he thought it was a restaurant and the number could be Francine’s phone number without the area code because he already knew those three digits.’

‘I’ve told you, Mike, we don’t really know. I can go and see this woman in Highgate, but she’s no more likely to be the Francine than any of those Tom has checked on.’

Burden helped himself to an olive, speared on the end of a cocktail stick. ‘So what are you doing? What will you be doing when you go back?’

‘What we’ve been doing all along,’ Wexford said. ‘Dodging between a bunch of architects, builders and plumbers and possible Francines. Paying yet another visit to Martin Rokeby and another to Anthea Gardner and Mildred Jones, though as far as I can see they have nothing else to tell us.’

‘Your Francine may be the young woman in – what do you call it? – the vault. Have you thought of that?’

‘She would have had to be about twelve when the other bodies were put in there.’

‘Why not?’

It had been a less rewarding encounter than he had expected. This was hardly Burden’s fault, Wexford reflected on the way home. There was so little to go on, nothing that he and Tom and Lucy with a whole team of investigators hadn’t already thrashed through. He had started with such high hopes and he believed Tom had had high hopes for him. Or perhaps that was something he imagined and Tom had never seen him as any more than someone to talk to about the case, to act as a kind of sounding board on which to bounce off ideas. All he had done was find a car and all Forensics could do was find that that car had transported the body of Keith or Kenneth Bray, Gray or Greig.

Rain had begun to fall, thin as a mist at first but gradually increasing, so that he asked himself why he hadn’t brought a raincoat or an umbrella. By the time he reached home he was soaked and he went straight upstairs to change before finding Dora.

‘Walking has its pitfalls,’ Wexford said, ‘when you don’t come to it till late in life. Have you spoken to Sylvia while I was out?’

‘She phoned. She said she’d go to bed early and watch television and that was what she was doing. It was a relief to hear from her.’

He took hold of her hand. ‘What have you been imagining now?’

She sighed a little. ‘Darling, you remember a few years back Sylvia had that – friend. I don’t want to say boyfriend and I just can’t say partner. And he was violent to her and sort of imprisoned her and you and I went over and you knocked him down and got rid of him.’

‘Of course I remember him.’

‘Well, I’ve been wondering if she sort of attracts men like that, even if she wants men like that and if this Jason might come to her again, might even be with her now. So her phoning was an enormous relief.’

‘If he came,’ Wexford said, ‘because she’s come back and he knows it, she won’t let him in.’

‘Yes, but there’s something I have to tell you. It’s what she told me on the phone just now.’ Dora freed her hand from his and closed it over the other one. ‘He’s got a key.’

Wexford said nothing. He sat very still.