“Incredible,” Banbury admitted. “It could be anything. It looks like a henhouse drawn by Picasso.”
“I was trying to capture the building’s spiritual resonance.”
“It would help if you put the doors in. Let’s work from my layout, shall we? OK, it’s a corner property on two floors with windows on both sides. Two-thirds of the lower floor is given over to the lounge, with kitchen, loo, TV room and utility room coming off the corridor from the front door, main staircase and lift. The rear door opens onto the fire escape at the back, which is where the guests went to smoke. A single staircase goes up to the floor above, where there are three bedrooms and three bathrooms. The bedrooms are as follows: main double, guest double, smaller guest room. It’s this last one that was made into a nursery.”
“No fire escape on the top floor?”
“No. The idea is that if there’s a fire you’d make your way down one floor and use the rear exit.”
“Can you get onto the roof?”
“There was access before the conversion, but it was removed.”
“How long does it take to get from the lounge door to the nursery door?”
“I timed it climbing the stairs at a reasonable pace. Seven to ten seconds.”
“The nursery is at the end of the hall, so you pass the other two rooms and the toilet first. In theory, someone could have been hiding in one of the other rooms.”
“Unlikely. Although they aren’t lockable, Mrs Kramer closed them before the party because she didn’t want anyone going into the private areas, and hers are the only prints on the handles.”
Heading upstairs, Bryant stood before the toilet door and tapped its window with his walking stick. “Smoked glass. You can just about see if there’s someone inside.” He reached in and turned on the light, checking the level of visibility from outside. Then he tried the door handle, examining it carefully. “There’s something wrong with the inside bolt.”
“Funnily enough, it’s the one room you need a lock on and it doesn’t work properly. Someone painted over the hasp. You can get it shut, but you have to push hard.”
Bryant stepped into the toilet and looked around. “Another exit,” he noted.
“Yeah, the door on the far side opens into the guest double, so it functions as another en suite bathroom or as a stand-alone toilet if you’re having a party.”
“Righty-ho, so if the culprit had been hiding in there, anyone queuing for the loo would have been able to make them out through the glass.”
“I understand a number of people ended up waiting out here in the hall, because they couldn’t access the locked en suite bathrooms. Now, let’s check out the nursery.” Banbury led the way and opened the door. The cot had been left in position. “Nothing has been moved. The Mr Punch doll came down from its hook and was found by the side of the cot that faced away from the window.”
“Just as if it walked over, opened the window, picked up the baby and hurled it out.”
Banbury threw him a look. “I think we need to establish something, Mr Bryant. The doll did not climb down from the wall and commit murder. I can’t work from that supposition.”
“That’s fine,” said Bryant. “I’m keeping an open mind.”
“No, you’re not. You’re talking about the supernatural. I have to be more realistic.”
“I appreciate that. You gather up your spoor – your skin flakes and hairs and particles of food – and ship them off to a company who’ll tell you what they mean. I’ll attempt to communicate with the spirits of the departed.”
“You don’t mean that literally.”
“Most certainly. Everyone leaves a trace, Dan, you should know that.”
Banbury tried to work out whether he was being teased, but as usual it was impossible to read Bryant’s thoughts. The detective’s phone bleeped, but by the time he’d removed the bits of string, rubber bands, coins, conkers, boiled sweets, keys and pencil stubs from his pockets, the caller had rung off. “Bugger. Do you know how to retrieve a call?” he asked. “I’m sure it must be in there somewhere.”
“Give it to me.” Banbury snatched the mobile from him and studied it in amazement. “Where did you find this?”
“I bought it from a splendidly moustachioed Russian gentleman in the Edgware Road. I accidentally micro-waved my old one. There’s something odd about it, though. I keep getting crossed lines with angry-sounding foreigners.”
“That’s because it’s a State Security Agency phone from the Republic of Belarus. It’s illegal to possess one of these. Don’t ever press the red button.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll accidentally call the Russian secret police.”
“Really?”
“Try it if you want to watch your credit cards get cancelled in under thirty seconds. It’s been reconditioned, but I can’t imagine what made you buy it.” He handed the phone back. “There’s your number.”
“Thank you. Now what do I do?”
“Press that one.” Banbury indicated a button, and watched as Bryant fudged and fuddled his way around the keypad.
“Hello? Who am I speaking to?” Bryant bellowed.
“Hello?”
“Yes, I can hear you, hello?”
“What do you want?”
“You called me. I mean, I called you but only because you called me first.”
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
“I’m Arthur Bryant. What do you want?”
“You called me.”
“No, you called me.”
“Dear God, if I ever get like you when I’m old just shoot me,” Banbury muttered.
“You just rang this number a minute ago.”
“Ah yes,” said a mature Germanic voice. “I was given it by a lady at your division. My name is Irma Bederke. I work in the Human Resources Department of Farcom. It’s a telecommunications company.”
“If you’re trying to sell me broadband, you’re wasting your time,” said Bryant. “I’m broke.”
“No, I’m in the building opposite the apartments at number 376 Northumberland Avenue. I was working late on Monday evening.”
“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 realize 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 organization 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.”