‘You mean you witnessed what happened?’
‘Well, I certainly saw something. One of your officers called on me but I was out. She left her number.’
‘Are you there now?’
‘I’m in my office, yes.’
‘Can we come over and talk to you?’
‘I am on my lunch break so I suppose it will be all right.’
Bryant and Banbury left the penthouse and made their way across the road. Ms Bederke was waiting for them in the company’s blankly corporate reception area. A small-boned, elegant woman in her late sixties, she led the way to a conference room at the front of the building. ‘We shouldn’t be disturbed in here,’ she told them.
‘Do you mind if I record a statement?’ asked Banbury, holding up his phone.
‘Please go ahead. There’s not an awful lot to tell, really. I didn’t realise what I’d seen at the time, but I heard about the death on the news last night, and thought back about it. I was going to report it anyway. First I called the Westminster police, but I couldn’t speak to the right person. Then I got your message.’
Banbury repeated Ms Bederke’s contact details, then asked her to explain what she saw.
‘I was required to work late on Monday night. The company is restructuring and we’re short-staffed. I’ve been here longer than anyone else in the organisation and know where everything is. I had hoped to finish by eight-thirty P.M. so I could catch the eight forty-five train from Charing Cross to Dartford, but the work ran over. I was packing up to leave—’
‘What time was this?’ interrupted Bryant.
‘A few minutes after nine, perhaps ten past, maybe a little later. I don’t wear a watch but there’s a clock in my office. I put on my coat and walked to the window to see if it was still raining. I’d heard the thunder, but you know what London rain is like, you can usually get away without taking an umbrella. I could see there was some kind of party going on because there was a doorman standing at the entrance to the building, and I could see lots of people in the big semicircular room upstairs. The floor above that is level with my office window. I was idly looking across, wondering who they were—as you do—and while I was watching, the window suddenly opened. It went up with a bang.’
‘Did you see who opened it?’
‘No, but then, I wasn’t properly looking—and it was raining very hard. There was no light on in the room—I suppose I noticed because I usually go home before the tenants arrive, and it was interesting to see who lived there. It looked like a very glamorous party. While I was watching, it appeared.’
‘What appeared?’
‘Well, I don’t want you to think I imagine things—I’m really not the imaginative type—but I couldn’t help but think it odd.’
‘Please, go on.’
‘There was this—thing. A horrible old gnome with yellow striped arms and a bright red face. It had a fat stomach and was wearing a pointed cap. Just under a metre tall, I suppose. It suddenly appeared at the window. It was carrying something wrapped up in its arms. It threw the bundle from the window and stepped back into the dark. I won’t forget the face, because it was so creepy.’
Bryant dragged out a pencil stub attached to a ring-bound notebook and handed it to her. ‘Do you think you could draw what you saw?’
‘I’m no artist but I can try.’
For the next few minutes, Ms Bederke worked on her sketch. Finally she tilted her head and approved. ‘That’s what it looked like. It reminded me of something from one of my childhood storybooks.’
She handed back the pad with a perfect rendition of Mr Punch on it.
DS Janice Longbright alighted at Bermondsey tube station, stepped out into the drizzle and made her way up Jamaica Road toward Rose Marquand’s house. Here, pale cohorts of low-income houses were arranged in regiments beside the dual carriageway, their front doors turned away from the traffic. Longbright saw the problem at once; residents had to walk twice as far to reach the main entrances of their homes. It would be easier to cut through the alleyways behind the terraces, but a lot less safe. The grim utility design of Hadley Street was an architectural admittance of defeat. As she rang the bell of number 14, she wondered if the planners had ever bothered to visit their designs.
A heavyset, tracksuited girl with a blond ponytail and cheap hoop earrings opened the door. She stared without speaking, her weight hefted to one considerable hip.
‘I’d like to see Rose Marquand,’ Longbright told her, indicating her Unit badge.
‘She can’t move about much,’ cautioned the girl. ‘I’m looking after her. I’ve had to move her bed into the lounge. It’s a bit of a mess in there.’