‘There’s a missing railing,’ he told me, without hesitation. ‘It’s the twenty-first along, counting from the north-eastern corner. I can only see the missing spike from my room, but I’ve been down to look and the whole of the railing is missing. No one big could get through, but a kid or a lady could.’
‘So why didn’t I see it?’
‘It’s behind some bushes. You can squeeze past the missing railing, through the bushes and you’re in.’
‘Any idea how long she’s been coming to the park?’
‘I’ve only noticed her a couple of times,’ he said. ‘She looks sad, doesn’t she?’
‘She certainly does,’ I agreed.
‘Do you think she was anything to do with what happened there? You know, when the man got burned?’
A horrible thought struck me. ‘Barney, did you see that?’
He shook his head. ‘I was downstairs with Dad, watching TV,’ he said. ‘We didn’t know anything was going on until we heard the sirens. Dad wouldn’t let me go out to look.’
‘Quite right too.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Look, is he back soon? It’s getting quite late for you to be on your own.’
Barney’s eyes fell away from mine. ‘Any time,’ he said. ‘I’d better go in now. Bye, Lacey.’
I watched him close the door and heard the lock turn. I didn’t like the idea of him being on his own, but on the other hand, I’ve never imagined it’s easy bringing up a kid alone. And he seemed a bright, sensible boy. On a whim, because I really make a point of not getting involved – with anyone – I scribbled my mobile number on a square of paper, along with a note. Call if you need me. I pushed it through his door and turned back to the street.
I was on edge after my adventure in the park, still jumpy, alert for anything out of place. Otherwise, I might not have noticed the man on the other side of the road, some seventy yards away, watching me.
Five foot eight or nine, medium build, in jeans, boots and a dark, padded jacket, with a hood pulled up around his head. Although I could tell he was looking my way, I couldn’t see his face. His hands were tucked into his pockets and he stood half hidden inside a doorway, clearly trying not to be seen. He might have succeeded had his jacket not had triangles of a lighter-coloured, fluorescent fabric on the shoulders and cuffs. It wasn’t a jacket I remembered from the night of the murder, but people can have more than one jacket, can’t they?
I started to walk towards him, reaching in my own pockets for my warrant card and radio, but a second after I moved, so did he, stepping out of the doorway and heading off towards the main road. I picked up speed, he did the same. He reached the corner and turned. I was too far behind but I carried on, making my way through the snow as best I could. I got to the main road, but even with all the snow, there were still too many people around. He’d gone.
8
THE NEXT DAY I went to consult my plastic surgeon, which, in all honesty, is not something I ever thought I’d say. But in the midst of the Ripper investigation, I’d been at the centre of an attempted apprehension of a suspect in the early hours of the morning. On Vauxhall Bridge, he and I had had a difference of opinion about the wisdom of plunging into the Thames. He’d won. His victory, though, was short-lived and his body had been pulled out of the river by the Marine Policing Unit some days later. I fared a little better, managing to cling to some lines and be fished out like floating jetsom. For weeks afterwards I looked like the loser of a prize-title fight, and, specifically, my nose had been broken just above the bridge. As it had happened in the line of duty, the Met was paying to get it put right.
Mr Induri sat me down, shone bright lights, poked something long and sharp up both nostrils and took photographs from so many angles I wondered if he’d missed his vocation as a portrait photographer. Finally he projected one of the shots on to a white board behind his desk and picked up a felt-tip pen.
‘I like to take a conservative approach,’ he said, redrawing the outline of my nose in a thin black line. ‘When I work on a nose, I want the end result to be the patient looking better, not different. In your case, we’re largely trying to sort out some damage and get back to where we were before. Is that fair?’
I agreed that it was, and then he asked me if I was involved in the investigation into the Aamir Chowdhury murder. I nodded warily.
‘I knew Aamir,’ he said, adding a few curves to the end of the nose. ‘He was doing a rotation with me here when it happened. Have you made any arrests yet?’
This was the first time I’d come across someone who had actually known Chowdhury. I’d been aware that he worked at St Thomas’s, but it’s a big hospital.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It was a terrible thing to happen. And the investigation is still ongoing, I’m afraid.’
As Mr Induri stepped back to consider his line-drawings from a different angle, something made me ask, ‘Did you know him well?’
‘Rhinoplasty is a mixture of science and art,’ he answered, drawing more lines around the nose on the white board, as though the subject of Chowdhury had never come up. ‘The nose has to work. Fitness is very important to you, I see that from your file. You need to be able to breathe easily and well.’
I agreed again. Since my nose had been broken, it had been difficult to keep up my usual regime of exercise. The oxygen just wasn’t getting through the way it used to.
‘Aamir kept himself to himself,’ said Mr Induri. ‘Young men from devout Islamic backgrounds often do. No one seems to have known him too well. But he was intelligent and hard-working. Always very polite. And respectful – towards the patients as well as his colleagues. It was a dreadful thing.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Especially for his family.’
Mr Induri placed his hands on his hips, looking from my face to the one on the white board. ‘Unimaginable,’ he agreed, before bending forward at the waist, removing his glasses and peering at me. ‘This is not just about science. A surgeon needs a good eye,’ he said. ‘You need to know what looks good. I like to think I know what looks good.’
‘I hope so,’ I said, as he turned from me once more. ‘I think I saw his sister last night. At the park where it happened.’
Mr Induri nodded. ‘Yes, I think he mentioned sisters,’ he said. ‘And brothers, too. I got the impression of a large family. Now, we can smooth out these bumps and ridges fairly easily. The scarring will be around the nostrils and not noticeable after the first few weeks.’
I didn’t want to think about scars. ‘Did you ever meet any of his family?’
‘No. I think I saw a lady waiting for him outside one day – she could have been a sister … We’ll have to take some tissue from your scalp and maybe even some cartilage from your ear, so there’ll be secondary healing sites, but nothing to cause us too much concern. What I would really be tempted to do, in your case, is make it a bit longer. Can you see? ’
I looked again at the picture on the wall. Mr Induri had extended the length of my nose by roughly a quarter of a centimetre, giving something to my face I didn’t think I’d seen before. Then he flicked photographs to a profile shot and started drawing again.
‘You’ll now have perfect classical proportions,’ he said. ‘Before, you were a tiny bit snubbed. Now, perfect.’
As I left the hospital, I realized I had to talk to Aamir Chowdhury’s sister, if indeed it had been her in the park the previous night. And also that I’d just agreed to spending several thousands of pounds of taxpayers’ money on giving myself a bigger nose.