On the Loose(47)

Renfield snorted. ‘You can’t be sure who’s a villain these days. Says he works at a painting and decorating company in Highbury.’

‘Let’s go and talk to the downstairs neighbour,’ Longbright suggested.


‘I can’t tell you anything about him because I don’t know anything,’ said Mrs Mbele as she tried to claw her young son back from the precipitous drop of the stairs. ‘He was here before me, friendly enough but silent as the grave. You’re lucky to get two words out of him. A bit of a loner. Divorced.’

‘Did you ever see him throw a moody, keep bad company, get drunk?’ asked Longbright, thinking of the D&D charge.

‘No, a bit wobbly a couple of times coming up the front steps late but nothing to give you trouble. These floorboards creak and you can hear everything that goes on overhead, so it’s good to have someone nice and quiet here. Why? Has something happened?’

‘When did you last see him?’ asked Renfield.

‘About two weeks ago.’

‘Exactly two weeks? Morning or afternoon? Think for a moment, please. This is important.’

‘I think it was the Monday morning before last.’

‘Coming in or going out?’

‘Going out. I suppose he was going to work, ’cause he always left early during the week. We stayed at my sister’s that night so I didn’t see him again.’

‘How was he?’

‘Same as always. Smiled and gave my boy a little wave, went out the front door. I never encouraged him to be friendly.’

‘Any particular reason why not?’

‘He’s a bit rough, you know? What you call salt of the earth. I once heard him swearing on the phone to a mate. I didn’t want my boy picking anything up. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a very nice man, works long hours, always pleasant.’

‘Ever have any mates around here, did he?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Mrs Mbele picked up her scrambling son and threw him onto her shoulder like a cat. ‘Sorry, I’m not being very helpful, am I?’

‘Any women?’

‘One, quite young—not his wife, ’cause he showed me a photo of her.’

‘What did she look like?’

Mrs Mbele thought for a moment. ‘Ordinary,’ she said finally.

‘Amazing how people share the same house for years and know nothing about each other,’ said Renfield as he called the PCU’s Crime Scene Manager with their location. ‘What the hell could he have done to make someone want to saw his head off? It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.’

‘He might have surprised a burglary in progress,’ suggested Longbright.

‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Take a look at this place, Janice.’ He pointed up at the peeling stucco and dirt-crusted windows. ‘Can you see the signs of wealth that would attract a burglar to a dump like this? Besides, what kind of burglar arranges everything on the floor in neat little piles?’

‘Maybe he did that because he didn’t want to make a noise. You heard what she said about the floorboards.’

‘You’re not suggesting Delaney did it himself?’

‘Perhaps he lost something and was desperate to find it.’

‘So he slashes open his own sofa cushions and even empties out the kitchen flour jar? I thought you PCUers were supposed to come up with stuff that would never cross the minds of us lowly Metropolitan plods.’

Janice smiled. ‘You’re PCU too now, remember.’

‘Yeah, and you were Met once. You know what we’re like. Fair-minded, decent, but not always the sharpest knives in the drawer. And rough as guts, as you’re so fond of reminding us.’

Longbright remembered. If the Met coppers were blunt-edged it was because they had to be. You could only clean vomit off your trousers and return a runaway kid to its drugged-up parents so many times before you started wanting to smack someone or throw them in prison. And when you found yourself arresting the grandchildren of the men and women you were arresting at the start of your career, it was time to get out.

Renfield shot her a sly look. ‘Of course, I only switched sides because I thought it might give me a chance with you.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Don’t use a double positive to suggest a negative—it makes you sound like a teenager.’

Longbright raised an eyebrow. If there was one thing everyone knew about Renfield, it was that he had no sense of humour. Had he just made a joke? Wonders would never cease. ‘If you’re going to keep flirting with me, Jack,’ she cautioned him, ‘you’d damn well better mean it.’