have a little loop on top. That’s not how we make them. The paper’s expensive, too … prewar, I’d say.’ He turned in his chair and held it up to the light. ‘I can see a watermark. I’ll hang on to this. I’ve a friend in Bond Street who’ll decipher those letters for us. And we’d better let the lab have a look at it, too.’
While he was speaking, Grace had returned to his chair, and the two detectives waited while their superior sat ruminating; gnawing at his lip.
‘We’re on to something.’ Sinclair spoke at last. ‘Just what, I’m not sure. Was this man actually in possession of these stones, or was he spinning Solly a line? And how did he get hold of this list?’
‘He must have had one stone at least,’ Billy suggested. ‘The one Meeks showed Solly.’
‘One which must have been on this list.’ The chief inspector weighed the piece of paper in his hand. ‘And that tells us, too, how Solly Silverman was lured down there. If these stones were stolen in Europe they wouldn’t necessarily be on the lists we’ve circulated, and that might have been enough to tempt him back into business.’
His glance fell on Lily Poole, who’d been standing all this time behind the two men, wordless, but with a rapt expression on her face.
‘How far have you got in your researches, Constable?’ he asked her.
‘Up to 1933, sir.’
‘Jewel thefts. What about them? Has anything caught your eye?’
‘Not really, sir.’ Lily Poole frowned. ‘Quite a few were reported, but the IPC messages don’t say much about them. They just give details of the stuff that was stolen and ask member countries to keep an eye out for it.’
‘But those would be pieces of jewellery, wouldn’t they? Not individual stones like those on this list?’
Poole nodded.
‘No matter. Stick to it. We’re looking for a jewel thief all right, but one who may be a little different from the general run. Keep that in mind.’
Not wishing to leave his superior in the dark a second time, Sinclair paid a further call on Bennett in the late afternoon.
‘I thought with the weekend nearly on us I’d better bring you up to date, sir,’ he said as he took his accustomed seat in front of Sir Wilfred’s desk. Outside, the early darkness of winter had already set in and the assistant commissioner’s windows, like his own, were blackened by blinds. ‘All in all, it hasn’t been a bad day. We’ve made some progress.’
The information acquired that morning at Silverman’s jewellery store made up the bulk of the chief inspector’s account, but there were other items to relate and he wasted no time in imparting them to his superior.
‘The post-mortems have been done. Ransom sent his report over. The bullets he retrieved from the bodies were all thirty-twos, as you might expect. There’s no way of telling what make of pistol was used, nor whether it belonged to this man or was acquired locally. The country’s awash with unlicensed firearms at present thanks to the war.’
The chief inspector had brought his file with him and leafed through the pages contained in it.
‘Styles and Grace collected Mrs Costa at her home in Stepney this afternoon and took her to Paddington to make a formal identification of her husband’s body. They were hoping the sight of her Benny lying stiff and cold might loosen her tongue for once — we’ve questioned her in the past, she’s as hard as nails — and they struck lucky. She told them Costa hadn’t heard from Solly Silverman in years. Like us, he thought he’d retired. And one other thing. When she saw Benny get out his shotgun she asked him if he was expecting trouble and he said no, not necessarily. But Solly didn’t know the man he was dealing with and it would be best not to take chances.’
‘The man he was dealing with …’ Bennett mused on the words. ‘He wasn’t referring to Alfie Meeks, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’ Sinclair tugged at an earlobe. ‘And that tells us something. There was no prior connection between them. We still don’t know how this man got hold of Silverman’s name.’
He returned to his file.
‘The Wapping police have found a witness who says he got a glimpse of the man who arrived with Meeks at the White Boar last night. He was relieving himself in the alley and saw them go in the side door. He says the man had a moustache, something Florrie Desmoulins didn’t mention in her description of him. I’m inclined to believe them both.’ Sinclair glanced up. ‘It’s entirely likely he’s done something to alter his appearance since killing those two young women. The more I think about him, the cooler he seems to be. There’s no hint of panic in his behaviour: if he’s grown a moustache then he knows we’re after him. He may even have guessed that we’ve already connected those two early killings: that we have a description of him. But he’s keeping ahead of us. We still have no clue as to his identity.’
The chief inspector closed his file and sat back.
‘There’s where we stand, sir. All we can do is keep at it. I’ve issued a statement to the press. You’ll see it in the papers tomorrow. It deals with the Wapping shooting only. I’ve not mentioned the two earlier murders, and until we’re sure of the link I intend to leave things that way. Last night’s events should be enough to keep them occupied. I’ll be at my desk tomorrow and I’ll keep you abreast of any new developments.’
‘What about Sunday?’ Bennett looked at his watch. ‘You must have some time off, Angus.’
‘Styles has volunteered to remain on duty here.’ Sinclair rose. I shall be spending the day in Highfield. I want to talk to John Madden again. We’re accumulating a lot of information and it’s a question now of making sense of it. That was always John’s strong point.’
‘Let me know what comes of it.’ The assistant commissioner began to tidy his desk. ‘Oh, by the way — ’he glanced up — ‘I can’t help but notice that you’ve been silent on the subject of the International Police Commission records. Am I to take it this initiative of yours has drawn another blank?’
‘Not at all, sir.’ The chief inspector smiled serenely. He’d been waiting for the question. ‘Constable Poole is still pursuing her task with commendable energy.’
In fact, he had left the young policewoman seemingly prepared to stay at her desk all night and had felt obliged to put a halt to her labours and order her home. In the course of the day she had made three separate expeditions to the record depository in the basement, returning on the first two occasions weighed down with the dusty files clutched in her arms and on the third wheeling a tea trolley, heavily laden, which she’d acquired from the canteen on some pretext.
Apparently unaware of the comments her presence in his office had aroused, she’d treated all she encountered — Sinclair excepted — with a jaunty self-assurance that had brightened the chief inspector’s days, particularly when he had seen it extended to one of a group of elderly constables still on the Yard’s strength, all of them well past retirement age, to whom the war had given the opportunity to cling like barnacles to their jobs. Congregated in a room a short way down the corridor from his own, they were available in theory for whatever duty might be required of them but in reality dwelt in an idleness that was virtually undisturbed, thanks to their uselessness for all but the most trivial of errands.
One of them, PC Mullet, had long since designated himself as Sinclair’s special creature and would bring him his tea and newspapers at the start of the day and respond thereafter, though with reluctance, to any further demands made on his time provided they came from the chief inspector himself. Ordered the previous day to bring a second cup of tea and a plate of biscuits for ‘the WPC’, he had dragged his heels in silent protest, returning only ten minutes later with the desired articles, to be greeted by a brisk ‘Thanks, Alf, but next time no milk’ from the young woman, who had hardly looked up from her files. Pausing only to cast an outraged glance at Sinclair, he had departed down the corridor, boots creaking in indignation.
Lost in pleasurable recollection, Sinclair walked down the same passage now, his own heels echoing on the uncarpeted boards, returning to what he thought would be an empty office, but which proved to be still occupied, despite his instructions to the contrary.
‘Constable!’
Not entirely displeased to find Lily Poole still at her desk, the chief inspector nevertheless felt it was time to remind the young woman that orders were there to be obeyed. He stood in the doorway frowning.
‘I thought I told you to go home.’
‘Sir …?’
Bleary-eyed from hours of scanning smudged type, her cheek smeared with carbon, she was slow looking up
