‘Thanks, but you didn’t need to lie for me.’
‘It’s more like I bent the truth a little. Crowley is under immense pressure. He knows what he did was wrong, not that he’d ever admit it. He was hoping that the sketch would lead to the discovery and arrest of the IRA man in the surveillance photo. He bent the truth hoping the end would justify the means.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, but it’s still left me in an awkward and vulnerable position.’
‘I know, but my advice would be to let it go. If we get the man Crowley’s after then he may lead us to the whole ASU, and vice versa if we get the man Daphne described. Do you think you actually saw the same suspect as Daphne?’
‘I’m not 100 per cent sure, but it makes sense that I did… Then again maybe it’s like you said… there was another man acting as lookout who caught my eye and he was the one I chased.’
‘It’s possible, Jane, but don’t beat yourself up about it, we’ll get the bastards responsible.’
Dexter headed towards St John’s Wood, before driving towards Belsize Park and Hampstead.
‘I thought we were going to Woolwich?’ said Jane. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Daphne’s place in Hampstead. I’ve got a couple of guys checking it over to make sure it’s secure. If the IRA have got wind she exists they might have been to her house… I’m also having an alarm put in that’s linked to the Central Control Room at Scotland Yard.
Dexter eventually turned off into an area with expensive large houses, many of which had been divided into flats whose gardens overlooked Hampstead Ponds. It was clearly an affluent area and Dexter slowed down as he drove along Nesbitt Avenue. He parked the car and waited for Jane to get out before locking it and striding ahead of her towards number 16.
The glass-panelled front door had a row of doorbells next to it. Dexter pressed the ground floor bell, which had ‘D. Millbank’ neatly printed on the name plate. The door was opened by a plainclothes officer in his mid-thirties. He had red hair and was wearing jeans and a loose jacket over a T-shirt.
‘Anything of interest, Johnny?’ Dexter asked.
‘Not yet, Al. We got in with a set of skeleton keys, did a clean sweep of the entry hall, back door and French windows… there’s no sign of any forced entry.’
Dexter and Jane followed Johnny into the house. The wide, mosaic-tiled floor was well swept and there was a polished mahogany table in the centre for the occupants’ mail and deliveries. The door of Daphne Millbank’s ground-floor flat was wide open. Dexter stopped to have a long, concentrated, look around the entire door frame before he seemed satisfied that it had been checked out.
In comparison to Dexter, Johnny seemed easy-going. He was deferential towards the sergeant, who kept up a quiet conversation. The décor inside Daphne’s flat appeared to almost be stuck in a time warp of the forties. The decorations were faded, and the curtains and furniture equally so. The old-fashioned kitchen was painted in a dull green and contained old appliances, but everywhere was spotlessly clean.
The sitting room had two large French windows overlooking an untended garden, with a tall hedge that needed cutting back and an old rickety gate that led straight onto the Heath. Old plant pots lined the fence, all containing bedraggled and dead plants, and a rusted watering can lay on its side next to a rolled-up hosepipe attached to an outside tap.
Jane followed the two men as they walked around outside, listening to their conversation. Dexter was asking exactly how long it would take to fit the alarm. Johnny was giving him details of the areas that needed wiring and said they should finish it today, by late afternoon. When they went back inside the flat they inspected the dining room and study, which was lined with framed black-and-white photographs. There was one of Daphne on her wedding day, and numerous large photographs of her in ornate ballgowns, as well as one of her in uniform as a Wren.
‘She was very beautiful,’ Jane said quietly.
Dexter nodded and walked around the room. Jane told him that Daphne needed some reading glasses and Dexter told her it was OK to have a look round for some. She opened a drawer in the old desk and took out a few pairs of glasses.
‘Her husband was a pilot,’ Jane said, looking at a photograph of a handsome man in a flying jacket.
Neither of the men seemed interested so Jane continued to look at the other photographs lining the walls, as well as the many silver-framed photographs that covered every available surface. Many of them were of handsome young men in evening suits, and there were some of Daphne in full riding kit, as if about to go on a hunt. She was always smiling, and although there were a few more recent photographs, most of them appeared to be of her past. In one of the oldest shots she was a very young woman, wearing a full white evening gown with a diamond necklace and elaborate tiara.
‘She was a debutante,’ Jane said, softy, as she took an envelope from the desk and put three pairs of glasses into it. ‘Now I’ve got Daphne some glasses we could get an artist’s impression of the suspect she saw,’ she added.
Dexter was quick to reply. ‘Crowley’s got it in hand. He visited her last night. After yesterday, I’d leave it to him.’
Jane nodded in agreement, put the envelope into her handbag and stood waiting patiently as Dexter and Johnny discussed the security of the building.
‘We may be lucky and it won’t be leaked about her being able to ID the suspect… but it’s better to be safe than sorry. When the time comes for her to return I want it all rechecked,’ Dexter told Johnny.
All three of them jumped as a loud voice boomed out, ‘What the hell is going on here?’
Dexter was the first out into the hall, and was confronted by a white-haired elderly man using a walking frame. He was smartly dressed, wearing blazer and flannel trousers, with an RAF tie. His snow-white hair was cut short and he had a small white moustache.
Dexter hastily showed his ID and asked who the old man was, but had to wait whilst his ID was scrutinised.
‘I’m Raymond Brocklesby, an old friend of Mrs Millbank. I was very concerned to see the front door left wide open, and then to discover strangers wandering around her home. Where is Daphne? Has something happened to her? Is she sick? Has she been run over?’
Dexter put on the charm and asked Mr Brocklesby to join him in the sitting room. Despite his infirmity, he moved quickly towards the room.
‘I’ve not heard from her for days. We always have a game of bridge, regular as clockwork. Has something happened to her?’
Dexter waited for him to sit down before he gently explained that Daphne had been in an accident, and that she was in a critical condition. He took down Mr Brocklesby’s address and phone number, which he obtained from a laminated mobility card that the old boy took out of his wallet. Dexter said that they would inform him as soon as she could have visitors, explaining that they were visiting Daphne’s flat as a matter of course because they had been told she had no immediate family.
‘That’s right. She never had children. Her husband died in the war; he was a bomber pilot… brilliant chap. Daphne is my sister-in-law, from my first wife, so we’re not actually related by blood, but we’re very close. As I said, we play a hand of bridge on a regular basis.
‘I see there have been no newspaper or milk deliveries?’
‘No, she likes to walk to the local newsagents and prefers to get her own milk. She says it’s better not to give any burglars a hint when she’s not at home… she travels a lot, you know. I’ve been worried sick because she usually tells me when she’s off on one of her jaunts, and I’ve been calling and calling.’