statements as quickly as possible, and Heather Allen was adamant about having seen him on the edge of the waste ground.
‘You think they’re connected, don’t you?’ asked Randall. ‘Copeland and the Singh woman.’
‘We have no reason to think that, Mr Randall.’
‘She was of Indian extraction. Tamsin Wilton told us she’d been receiving offensive notes. You should be looking for a racist, not wasting your time picking on the black man.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, Mr Randall, you have an Egyptian lady across the road from you, a large Ethiopian family next door, a same-sex couple on your other side and several South African medical students in the end house. This is an ordinary London street, and I don’t appreciate you playing the race card. My visit has nothing to do with your ethnicity. I’m here because a neighbour identified you last night at the crime scene.’
The room was enveloped in a tomb-like silence. May could feel the temperature drop.
‘What do you mean, identified me?’
‘They say you had an argument, or at least a conversation, with the deceased.’
‘That’s a lie. I don’t have to listen to this. It’s that damned estate agent over the road, isn’t it? He has no right to tell people-’
‘Think about this rationally, Mr Randall, and you’ll help me to disprove the possibility. First, forget about who saw you, it doesn’t matter. When you take into account the distance and the weather conditions, it’s obvious to me that they’ve made a false assumption. All you have to do is provide me with details of your whereabouts to have the statement discounted.’
When Ayson glanced at his wife, May knew he was in trouble. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I was here.’ Another flick of the eyes, as if Ayson was seeking tacit support from his wife. ‘But I did talk to him.’
‘While he was working in the rain?’
‘Well, yes. I was coming home from work and saw him digging, but we didn’t argue. I just asked him why he was working in such lousy weather.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That the men in the builders’ yard were paying him extra to finish quickly.’
The Bondini brothers wore matching blue boiler suits, and looked like Italian acrobats. May half expected one to back-flip on to the other’s shoulders with a cry of ‘Hop-La!’ They came out of the shop wiping their hands on rags in unconscious mimicry of one another.
‘Builders’ supplies, right?’ May shouted above a cacophony of hammering.
‘Yeah, and manufacturers.’
‘What do you make here?’
Bondini One thrust his hand inside his boiler suit and pulled out a finely marbled fountain pen. ‘Traditional craftsmanship, mate. Look at the cap. See the metal ring around the base? We make those.’
‘Wrought-iron teapot stands,’ bellowed Bondini Two.
‘Stained-glass frames. Window boxes. Bathroom pipes. Garden furniture. Lots of stuff. Come inside.’
The machine shop was lethally active. Young apprentices-three or four, it was hard to tell exactly how many because they moved with such agility-hurled themselves in and out of doors, bursting up from traps in the sawdust-hazed cellar and down from hatches in the ceiling, laden with trays of searing metal, razor-sharp shards of steel, huge willowing sheets of glass, splintery pine beams, glinting drills and blades. May edged between the electric saws and tin-stamping equipment, trying to avoid being snagged. A young man, little more than a child, limped past him with blood seeping from a badly bandaged hand.
‘We got a lot of rush orders on,’ Bondini Two explained. ‘Big department stores, very low profit margins but we make it up on bulk. Oi, Darren, mind what you’re doing with that.’ This last admonition was directed at a youth with bleached and knotted dreadlocks who was bending over a lathe. ‘He’s always getting his hair caught in it. I’ve told him ‘undred times.’ The wood on the lathe had split and fragments were flying off at alarming tangents. Nobody was wearing goggles, or any kind of safety equipment.
‘Why were you paying Elliot Copeland extra to finish quickly?’ May shouted above the din.
‘You seen the state of it out there, all dug up? We got the concrete posts coming Thursday and new die- cutting machinery being delivered two days after that. Where else am I gonna put it all? I told him I’d pay time and a half.’
‘You’re expanding the premises,’ May answered. ‘Have you got permission from the council?’
‘Don’t come the old acid, Granddad, I’ve got all the documents. Bleeding council is a scam, we already own the property, innit? We’re just converting part of the waste ground into off-street parking and extending the machine shed, but we gotta pay the council for the change of use. Bleeding Camden Mafia, the United Bank of Backhand. Don’t make me laugh. I’d get a better deal in Palermo. They’re all crooks, innit?’
‘Did you have any trouble from Mr Copeland? Did he talk to you much?’
‘Nah, bloody good worker. His wife had left him-drank a bit, but blokes like that all hit the bottle, don’t they? My brother thinks he was pissed.’
Bondini One spoke up. Behind him, someone threw a sheet of glass into a bin with a smash. ‘Stands to reason, you’d have to be pissed to bury yourself under your own rubble, wouldn’t you?’
May decided not to bother explaining the logistics that would have prevented Copeland from falling under his own truck load. ‘Did he have any friends? Anyone who came around to talk to him?’
‘Nah, he was a real loner. Cut up bad about his missus. Never saw him with anyone.’ Both brothers shook their heads.
‘Well, thanks for your time,’ said May. ‘I’ll call again if I need your help.’ He stopped in the doorway. ‘Have you met anyone else in the street?’
The brothers conferred as jets of steam blasted around them. ‘The Caribbean bloke in the sharp suits,’ Bondini One decided. ‘He’s been coming around a fair bit.’
‘What for?’
‘He’s been buying wood, doing some shelves. And he had some glass cut.’
‘Can you remember when he last came around?’
‘Day before yesterday, wannit?’ More fraternal conferring took place. ‘Yeah, Tuesday.’
‘Anyone else apart from that?’ May breathed the scent of freshly sawn timber. It reminded him of the garden shed where his father had worked before the War.
The brothers exchanged glances, each waiting for the other to speak first. ‘There’s a bloke called Aaron- Jewish boy,’ said Bondini Two finally. ‘He lives down the street.’
‘Nah.’
‘Then what?’ There was something here that May wasn’t picking up on. He looked back at the machine shop and suddenly realized. ‘He’s got a friend here?’
‘Yeah, he comes round to see Marshall sometimes. Oi, Marshall.’ Bondini Two clearly did not approve.
May studied the muscular young man who looked up at the mention of his name.
‘John, I think you should come back as soon as possible,’ said Bryant. ‘Your friend Mr Greenwood’s on the move again.’
22. DREAMS OF DROWNING
‘I hate getting into this vehicle with you,’ admitted May, eyeing the rusted yellow Mini Cooper with alarm. ‘I don’t know why you had to get rid of your old Rover.’
‘It was starting to steer itself,’ said Bryant mysteriously. ‘The man in the garage said he’d never had a car fail every single item on its MOT before. He was quite excited. I had to go back to Victor here.’ The Mini had been purchased at the height of flower power, and still bore a painted chain of vermilion daisies around its roof. Its
