Larry visited the cemetery, looked at the grave, walked around the area inside the cemetery and up Harrow Road and then down Kilburn Lane. He couldn’t see anything more. The cemetery employee who he had met on that day at the second grave came up to him, had a chat, offered him a cigarette.
‘Not much of a day,’ Larry said.
‘It’s about normal. You don’t expect much working here; no Christmas bonus from the residents.’
‘Any more?’ Larry asked as the two men leaned up against one of the graves. He thought that it was sacrilegious, but the other man didn’t; used to it, Larry thought. ‘Late at night, scare you sometimes?’
‘I’ve heard things, not that they worry me now.’
‘What sorts of things?’
‘In summer, courting couples. They can always find a way in, and once we had a coven of witches, attempting to summon the devil, not that they had much success.’
‘What happened?’
‘Sometimes I spend the night in my hut.’
‘Sometimes?’
‘Okay, every night. I don’t want for much and the hut, not the tidiest I’ll grant you, does me just fine. Can’t get cheaper and the neighbours don’t bother me, no screaming children, barking dogs.’
‘The coven?’
‘They were not far from the hut, not far from where you found the box.’
‘Any significance?’
‘I doubt it. It wasn’t the same grave, and it was eight, nine years ago. I was just getting off to sleep when they started up.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing, not with them, and besides, it doesn’t pay to become involved, not when I’m using the hut as a home.’
‘The cemetery doesn’t approve?’
‘As long as I keep it low-key, cause no fuss, they don’t bother me. Besides, it’s good to have someone here. A few vandals sometimes, although they’ve got better things to do nowadays, what with their smartphones and no discipline. I’ve not seen any of them in here for some time.’
‘The witches?’ Larry asked. The man was apt to deviate from what he was talking about. Larry thought that he was a lonely man who spoke to only a few people, and no doubt had a bottle of something strong in the hut. Not fit for human habitation, Larry would have said as he’d been inside it, but that wasn’t his concern.
‘I went outside the gate, phoned the police, not that they came quick and it was a cold night. They came into the cemetery, rounded up the offenders, not that they were doing much, not desecrating anything, and took them down to the police station.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Not sure. Probably not much, a fine for trespassing; it was an arrestable offence.’
Larry doubted if the man would have been as diligent with the courting couples.
‘We can’t find out who the dead woman was.’
‘I’m not surprised. We get all sorts in here, and that grave where she died, I’ve seen others.’
‘You didn’t tell us that before.’
‘You never asked. And besides, I keep a low profile. But now you’re here, scratching your head, I thought I should give you a hand.’
Larry felt like grabbing the man by the throat but knew that it would be him that would be in trouble, and the man would probably clam up.
‘In summer, people like to wander around, look at the headstones, the dates, speculate who they were, what their lives must have been like. I’ve done it myself, not recently though. I must have seen most of them, and there’s over sixty-five thousand. Did you know that Marc Isambard Brunel and his son Isambard Kingdom Brunel are buried here?’
Larry didn’t know, although he could remember from his schooldays that the father had been responsible for the construction of the Thames Tunnel, and the son had been involved in the construction of the first propeller-driven, ocean-going iron ship, the largest ship in the world at the time. Also, he was responsible for building the Great Western Railway.
‘Princess Sophia, King George III’s daughter, is buried here. Don’t know why she isn’t at Windsor Castle. Some say it was because she wanted to be buried near her brother, the Duke of Sussex, but I reckon it’s to do with her having an illegitimate child. But you’re a detective inspector, you’d know better than me.’
Larry didn’t. History hadn’t been his forte at school, and the teacher had been a boring man who rammed dates into the students, expecting them to learn them parrot-fashion: 1066, the Battle of Hastings, William the Conqueror, and a few other kings and queens. The only King George he knew of had been mad, but which number, he didn’t know.
‘The grave?’ Larry said. He didn’t need an interminable history lesson; he needed something tangible.
‘It was three weeks ago, a cold day, a wind blowing through the cemetery, although it wasn’t raining. I was up near there, tidying around the place, doing the best I could anyway. I see this woman, not the one that died. She’s interested in the grave, so I go up to her, ask her if she needs any help.’
‘She spoke?’
‘Not really. She said she was fine, polite to me, but nothing more. I couldn’t see any reason to hang around, so I left her to it.’
‘How long did she stay there?’
‘Five, ten minutes, no longer, but I thought it strange that she would have been interested in that grave, not when we’ve got others more famous. Not far from there we’ve got…’
‘The woman,’ Larry said.
‘She was young, in her early twenties, dressed in a buttoned-up coat. No hat, but she had probably come from somewhere cold, colder than here even.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know, but isn’t China cold?’
‘Chinese, are you certain?’
‘She could have been Japanese, I suppose. Not that I’d know. Her English was fine, a strong accent, but I could understand
