He turned right into one such large house, which had all the front room lights turned on, with a U-shaped drive — though the car by the door was only a modest Volkswagen — and unlocked the front door. He peeled off his jacket as Linda Shaftoe, tall and slender, and, he always thought, holding back the years with admirable success, greeted him warmly. ‘Good day, pet?’ She took his jacket from him as he sat on the bench beside the front door and began to tug at his shoelaces.
‘Busy,’ he said, easing his right foot out of a tightly fitting shoe, ‘busy enough to make me glad to be home.’
‘Well. . good, hot stew in the pot for you.’
‘Champion, pet.’ He eased the other shoe off his foot and reached for his slippers. ‘Champion.’
Harry Vicary surveyed the room. It was, he felt, the room of a lowlife murderer; there was a tangible cheapness of life about the four walls and the space within which reached him, deeply so. He sensed that here, in this room, humanity had little value. The contents, too, were cheap, inexpensive; they seemed to have a careworn, overused, second-hand quality about them. The cluttered room also had a sense of age, as though the contents had been allowed to accumulate over time. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves he began gingerly to open the drawers of the dressing table, ensuring that the police constable then present was watching him closely as he did so. He needed a witness for anything he might find, and also a witness that he did not unlawfully remove anything. He found little of apparent interest: some loose change, a rent book in the name of one Jennifer Reeves, which seemed to be there because no one had thrown it out — the last rent collection entered being some ten years previously. Yet, the clutter in the room suggested to him a longer-term tenant than Michael Dalkeith, who had reportedly moved into the room some twelve months previously. The seemingly long-established musty smell also seemed to speak of a long-term tenant. The owner of the property, as given on the dated rent book, was WLM Rents of Kilburn, with an address in Fernhead Road.
‘Fernhead Road?’ Vicary turned to the constable.
‘Just round the corner, sir,’ the young, serious-minded constable replied. ‘It’s the main road round here.’
‘Ah. . thanks. One to be visited tomorrow.’
‘Sir?’
‘Oh, just muttering to myself. The landlord will be someone to visit; see what he can tell us about his tenants.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Notice anything about the room, constable?’
‘Messy, sir.’
‘Yes. . too messy for someone who has just moved in. .’
‘Now you mention it, sir. Confess I hadn’t read that.’
‘These things you will learn, these observations you will be taught to make.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And a deceased female also.’
‘So I believe, sir, but I came just now, sir, just as the body was being removed.’
‘Yes, I know. . but no female clothing. I haven’t looked in all the drawers yet, but I’d still expect to see a woman’s coat or pair of shoes. . something like that.’
‘Yes. . or a handbag, sir.’
‘Yes. . good observation, no handbag either. Runaways are unlikely to have a handbag but only unlikely. . so it’s a good observation. The door was locked. . easily forced but still locked; no one had come in and rifled the room. Sorry, just musing again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He brings the girl in, brings her from somewhere. . strangles her, takes all her clothing and her handbag, and heaven only knows what else. . and then goes for a walk on Hampstead Heath in a blizzard. . and does so ill-dressed for the weather conditions on that day or night, or whenever, and then lies down in the snow to sleep his final sleep right on top of a corpse that was already there, and had been for a number of years.’
‘You mean like he knew it was there, sir, like he was leading us there, sir? Telling us about the corpse?’
Vicary looked at the constable and did so with widening eyes and a slackening jaw.
TWO
WLM Rents occupied the ground floor of a house on Fernhead Road, Kilburn. Vicary had never before set foot in Fernhead Road. It was a narrow road, he found, probably wide enough to accommodate vehicular traffic in the late nineteenth century, when the tall, elegant terrace houses which stood on either side of the tree-lined road were built, but now, in twenty-first-century Britain, it would, Vicary thought, be a bottleneck during the rush hour. He walked into the office of WLM Rents and was met by a bright, airy interior, smelling of air freshener, with large colour photographs of London landmarks — Trafalgar Square, the Tower, Westminster Bridge — attached to the walls. A water dispenser, filled with mineral water, stood in the corner by the door. Comfortable looking upholstered chairs lined one wall and in front of them were two coffee tables standing end to end, upon which lay copies of London Life, Time Out and other magazines about living in London and the Home Counties. Upon Vicary and Brunnie entering the premises, a young man, dressed in a suit and tie, stood smartly, smiled and said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?’
‘Police.’ Vicary showed his ID.
‘Oh.’ The man, J.J. Dunwoodie by the nameplate on his desk, paled. ‘No bother, I hope?’
‘Plenty.’ Vicary smiled. ‘Always, always, always plenty of bother. . no shortage of bother at all, keeps us in gainful employment, but we are here only to seek a little information.’
‘Of course.’ Dunwoodie indicated two easy chairs with wooden arms that stood in front of his desk. The officers took a seat, and only when they were seated did the young Dunwoodie also sit. He was, thought Vicary, a young man who seemed conscientious and took his job very seriously, although working for a private landlord would, he mused, offer limited potential for advancement and would not have the generous conditions of the service enjoyed by public or civil servants. He said to himself, ‘You can do better than this, young Dunwoodie. Much, much better,’ but he said aloud, ‘We understand that WLM Rents owns a property near here, specifically on Claremont Road, by the railway, particularly number 123; can’t forget that house number. Very convenient.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘You seem to know it?’ Vicary noticed Brunnie take his notepad from his coat pocket and a pen from the inside pocket of his sports jacket.
‘Yes, I do, I know it well, but it is not typical of WLM Rents.’
‘Oh?’
‘Oh, not at all, WLM is more upmarket than 123. We rent to young, professional people. Number 123 is one of our ancillary properties.’
‘Ancillary properties?’
‘It will be developed soon, when Mr William is ready. It has been an ancillary property for a year or two.’
‘And you have permission from the local authority to use it as business premises?’
‘Yes, all legal and proper. It was derelict and Mr William negotiated the change on the deeds as part of the condition of undertaking its development. It was a real eyesore; in fact an oak tree was growing up from the basement. So the local authority was pleased when someone was prepared to take on the renovation. It gave Mr William a bit of leverage you might say, to negotiate the change to the deeds.’
‘I see.’
‘So. . 123 is awaiting development, then we’ll rent it to the young professionals. Kilburn is very convenient for the City so we have a lot of bankers and stockbrokers on our books. I mean, direct tube to central London, just one change to reach the Square Mile; our tenants are between university and their first mortgage. That’s how Mr William made his fortune.’