‘But on Fridays at seven, when the performance started, you would have anything on your mind but grumpy, coughing old ladies with a stick. She wore a silk dressing gown with a Japanese pattern and black high-heeled shoes. At half past seven she received a male visitor. At a quarter to eight she had taken off the dressing gown and was sporting her black corset. At eight she was half out of the corset and humping away on the chesterfield. At half past eight the visitor had gone, the curtains were drawn and the performance was over.’
‘Interesting,’ said Robertson, flatly.
‘What was interesting was that there was never any trouble. If you lived on my side of the street, you couldn’t avoid seeing what went on, and lots of people in the block must have been following the performances. But it was never talked about, as far as I know, it was never reported to the police and there were no complaints. The other interesting thing was the regularity of it. At first I thought that had something to do with the partner, when he was available, he might have been working, or married, or something like that. But soon I realised she changed partners without changing the timetable. And then it dawned on me: she obviously knew what any TV programmer knows: once you have attracted an audience with a fixed slot it’s very damaging if you change the time of broadcasting. And it was the audience that spiced up her sex life. Understand?’
‘I understand,’ Robertson answered.
‘A superfluous question, of course. Now, why did I tell this story? It struck me that our comatose friend here, Joseph, was so sure you would come tonight I checked my calendar and most dates fitted. Tonight’s a Wednesday, the night Inger went missing was a Wednesday and the two times you were caught flashing were Wednesdays as well. You have fixed slots, don’t you.’
Robertson didn’t answer.
‘Therefore my next question is: why haven’t you been reported recently? After all, it’s four years since the last incident. And men exposing themselves to small girls in the park is not something people generally appreciate.’
‘Who said it was small girls?’ Robertson snapped. ‘And who said it wasn’t appreciated?’
If Harry had been able to whistle he would have done so under his breath. He suddenly remembered the couple arguing nearby earlier in the evening.
‘So you do it for men,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘For the gays in the district. That explains why you have to keep it quiet. Have you got a crowd of regulars as well?’
Robertson shrugged. ‘They come and go. But they certainly know when and where they can see me.’
‘And when you were reported?’
‘Just casual passers-by. We’re more careful now.’
‘So I could find a witness willing to state you were here the night Inger disappeared?’
Robertson nodded.
They sat in silence listening to Joseph’s light snoring.
‘There’s something else that doesn’t quite fit,’ Harry said at length. ‘It’s been at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until I heard that every Wednesday your neighbour feeds your dog and lets it out.’
Two men walked past slowly and stopped on the edge of the light cast by the street lamp.
‘So I asked myself: why’s he feeding it when Inger’s on her way back from the Albury with some meat leftovers? At first I dismissed the idea, thinking you’d probably talked about it. Perhaps the meat was for the day after. But then I recalled something that should have struck me straight away: your dog doesn’t eat . . . at least isn’t allowed to eat meat. In which case, what was Inger doing with it? She’d told people at the bar it was for the dog. Why would she lie?’
‘I don’t know.’
Harry noticed Robertson checking his watch. Must be show time soon.
‘One last thing. What do you know about Evans White?’
Robertson turned and looked at him with watery, light blue eyes. Was that a tiny glint of fear?
‘Very little,’ he said.
Harry gave up. He hadn’t made much progress. Bubbling away inside, he could feel an urge to hunt, to give chase and to arrest, but this scenario kept slipping further away all the time. In a few bloody days he would be on his way back to Norway. Strangely enough, though, this thought didn’t make him feel any better.
‘About the witnesses,’ Robertson said. ‘I would appreciate it if you’d . . .’
‘I don’t want to ruin your show, Robertson. I know that those coming will derive some benefit.’ He peered into his cigarette packet, took out one, and put the rest in Joseph’s jacket pocket as he got up to go. ‘I certainly appreciated the widow’s weekly performance.’