‘Not like you to steam in without a Section 8,’ Bryant sniffed. ‘I suppose you think I’d be holding you back. That’s fine, take Bimsley, because I have something to do tonight anyway. And it’s business.’
‘What are you up to?’ May asked suspiciously.
‘I’ve been invited out,’ said Bryant. ‘I’m going to a cocktail party.’
The gathering was uncomfortable. The hosts were nervous, the guests suspicious and argumentative. From Bryant’s point of view this made it interesting, as the bad atmosphere encouraged people to make mistakes. They had gathered in the knocked-through ground-floor rooms of number 43 Balaklava Street, home of Tamsin, Oliver and Brewer Wilton, ostensibly to celebrate their son’s birthday and to welcome Kallie to the street—but as no details of Ruth Singh’s death had been made public, everyone was anxious to know what the police thought.
‘And this is Mr Bryant,’ said Mr Singh. ‘Tonight I am saying farewell to my old friend.’ If Benjamin was upset with the outcome of the investigation into his sister’s death, he managed not to show it as he introduced the police officer to the assembly.
‘So you’re the detective—how exciting,’ said Lauren Kane, a thickly painted blonde who appeared to have designed her own clothes by removing strategic buttons. ‘This is my partner, Mark.’
A bulbous thirty-five-year-old in a straining blue-striped shirt reached over and shook Bryant’s hand vigorously. Arthur hated physical contact of this nature, and found himself surreptitiously wiping his fingers on his jacket. ‘Mark Garrett,’ said the estate agent. ‘I’m at number 7, the one on the end. The houses get larger as they go up the street because the shape of the plots is dictated by the line of the alley behind them. Dunno why. It’s the way the property was parcelled back in the 1850s.’
‘Take no notice of him—that’s shop talk, he’s in real estate,’ Lauren explained. ‘Mark’s idea of fun is to spend the weekend poring over an ordnance survey map, looking for bits of land to buy. He knows everything there is to know about this area.’ She didn’t make it sound like a good thing.
‘When are you deserting us, Benjamin?’ asked Garrett. There was no politeness in his voice, and since the sale of number 5, no love lost between them.
‘Tomorrow, and I am not sorry to go,’ replied Mr Singh. ‘There is nothing left for me in this city.’
‘Please spare us your this-country’s-gone-to-the-dogs speech again,’ said Garrett, looking to his girlfriend for approval and failing to find it. ‘We know what you think of the people around here.’
‘It’s not safe any more, Mr Garrett. You know that. You sell properties in the area but you never tell anyone how dangerous it is.’ His voice overrode the agent’s protestation. ‘Six brutal killings in as many weeks in the borough of Camden—this is why they are calling the High Street “Murder Mile”.’
‘Only the tabloids call it that, Ben, and the murders are mostly teenagers invading each other’s territories.’
‘So that makes it all right, I suppose? The police are too busy with these gang wars, they have no time to deal with muggings and burglaries. Yet there are flats being built on every piece of waste ground. You and your friends in the council, encouraging so many people to live on top of each other. Things will keep getting worse. Why not build a park or plant some trees?’
‘What’s the use of parks?’ Garrett demanded to know. ‘Look, I’m not personally responsible for the neighbourhood. I’m making a living, and if I didn’t try to increase my turnover I wouldn’t be very good at my job, would I?’
‘My sister stayed in her house for fear of going outside,’ said Mr Singh. ‘Somebody was sending her—’
‘Look, nobody ever saw these so-called racist notes she received.’
‘That’s because I burned them, as any decent person would have done.’
‘I’m sorry she died, but it’s nothing to do with any of us, all right?’
The evidence had been destroyed, and so it was an argument no one would win. Bryant dropped back from the group and found himself beside strangers. He had never possessed a facility for small talk, but having been unable to settle Ruth Singh’s death comfortably in his mind, regarded this evening’s gathering as a chance to meet the few people who may have known more about her than they were telling. He was studying the guests, his sharp crow eyes searching for detail, when a balding cherub dressed in black tapped him on the shoulder.