Unfortunately at this moment Ann’s eye alighted on the ebony ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. She saw herself crossing the room, picking it up and handing it to Lionel with every good wish for a happy retirement. Her mouth twitched and she had to bite hard on her bottom lip. Covering her face with her hand she turned away.
‘I’m glad to see you still have some decent feelings, Ann.’ Lionel, now safely grounded, moved with hunted dignity towards the door.
‘One more thing,’ said Ann as she heard the handle turn. ‘I want that man out of the garage flat.’
‘I can’t get anywhere without Jax,’ said Lionel firmly. Then, with a little stab of triumph, ‘You’ll have to drive the car.’
‘There won’t be any car, Lionel.’
Kemel Mahoud, contacted on Barnaby’s mobile, gave his office address as 14a Kelly Street, just off Kentish Town Road.
He was a wiry little man with a smooth, fawn skin, almost bald but flashing a huge brigand moustache, two silky blue-black swags of hair waxed up at the ends into curly commas. He was obsequiously anxious to be helpful - suspiciously so, in Troy’s opinion.
‘A first-class tenant, Miss Ryan. First rate. No troubles. Rent paid. Spot on.’
‘She was a thief, Mr Mahoud,’ said Troy. ‘When the police followed her home, they found the place full of stolen goods.’
‘Ah!’ He gasped in what appeared to be real amazement. ‘I can’t believe. Such a nice girl.’
‘You knew her?’
‘No, my God. Just saw her one time. She gives deposit, three months’ rent, I give key. Two minutes - done.’
‘Well, now I’d like you to give me the key,’ said Barnaby. ‘We need to gain entrance to the flat.’
‘Won’t she let you in?’
‘Miss Ryan has disappeared,’ said Sergeant Troy.
‘But rent is due, two weeks.’
‘That’s not our concern. You’ll get the key back, don’t worry.’
‘No problem.’ He crossed to the far wall, three-quarters covered by a huge peg board on which hung masses of neatly labelled keys. ‘Always I wish to help.’
‘Slimy toerag,’ said Sergeant Troy, climbing into the Astra and ramming the key into the ignition. ‘Foreigners. They’re practically running the place.’
‘Watch that florist’s van.’
Crawling back down Whitechapel past the Bangladeshi stalls of wild-looking vegetables and ripe mangoes and glittering saris and cooking pots, Barnaby started to keep his eye out for a place to lunch.
‘Oh, look, chief! What about there?’
‘Keep your eye on the road.’
‘It’s the Blind Beggar. Where it all happened.’
‘Nearly thirty years ago.’
‘Couldn’t we, though? Please?’
Troy’s enthusiasm was great and his disappointment commensurate. A comfy, bright, clean pub with a nice thick carpet and all the expected furnishings. There was even a paved garden with white furniture and a dark green awning tacked onto one side. It being a pleasant day, this was where they took their hefty beef sandwiches and halves of Ruddles.
‘Your face.’ Barnaby was laughing.
‘What?’
‘Like a kid on Christmas morning with an empty sock. What did you expect, blood on the floor?’
‘Sawdust, maybe.’
‘Look, one Kray’s snuffed it, the other’s in for life and Frankie Fraser’s making a bomb on the celebrity circuit. It’s a different world.’
Troy smeared horseradish onto his sandwich and looked out at the crowded pavements and roaring traffic. This was life and no mistake. He started to relax and enjoy himself.
‘Actually, chief, I’ve been thinking about putting in for a transfer to the Met.’
‘You’ve been what?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’ll chew you up in two minutes flat then spit out the fur and gristle, that’s why not.’
‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘Can’t it?’ Barnaby laughed. ‘What put such a daft idea into your head in the first place?’
‘They get to drive a Porsche 968 Club Sport on patrol.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘It’s true. Inspector Carter told me in the canteen.’
‘Take out a second mortgage and buy your own.’
‘Maureen’d kill me.’
‘It’s still a safer option.’
When they returned at three o’clock to 17 Lomax Road, it seemed deserted. Before letting themselves in, Barnaby had tried the bell for Benson and Ducane (Chas) with no success. Troy rapped on Tanya Walker’s door and got the same result.