“It’s why I haven’t hoisted you out into the street yet. But we’re a bit busy at the moment, and it’s not part of my job to give tours.”
Kett motioned for Cinderhouse to precede him through the back hall. The tailor hoisted Pringle’s trousers high so that they wouldn’t drag on the dirty floor. He bit his lip. If Day had been in the squad room he might perhaps have welcomed Cinderhouse’s help. But the sergeant wasn’t interested and Cinderhouse couldn’t seem to make him interested, no matter how he approached the thing. There seemed to be no way to get close to the investigation and find out how it progressed. He was in the dark and would, it seem, remain in the dark.
“I s’pose if you really wanna be of help,” Kett said, “you could bring those catalogues you mentioned and let the detectives take a look at ’em.”
Cinderhouse turned suddenly, sending the heavy end of the trousers swinging.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Bring them in?”
“I don’t know. That might be a thing they’d wanna see.”
“But of course. I’ll rearrange my schedule. I have a few fittings, but they can easily be pushed off until tomorrow, provided I can get a message to my clients in time.”
“Don’t mean to put you out.”
“Not at all. Happy to do it. I’ll change my appointments, arrange for someone to watch my son, and be right back round with those catalogues.”
“No hurry, I’m sure.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep Inspector Day waiting. I’ll be back with them as quickly as I possibly can.”
Cinderhouse smoothed a leg of Pringle’s trousers over the hanger.
“Best take these back with me, anyway. Clumsy of me to have dropped them. Now I’ll have to press them again.”
“I’m sure they’re fine. You can leave them here for the constable.”
“Ah, you must not know Mr Pringle well. He’s very particular about his trousers. No, I’ll take them along to the shop. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll turn up after all.”
As he retreated down the hallway, his eyes darted back and forth, from walls to ceiling to floor, as if he were already caged. Entering the lion’s den had been a calculated risk, and he still wasn’t sure he had made the right choice. But waiting to see if the other shoe would drop was excruciating. He had to know what they knew.
There was one more thing he could do to keep Inspector Day under his thumb.
“Pardon me,” he said. He turned just inside the door. “This is frightfully embarrassing, but I’m afraid I need some directions.”
The sergeant looked at him without speaking.
“I forgot about Inspector Day’s new suit. I was supposed to take it round to his house, but I neglected to ask him for his address. I’d hoped to get it from him today, but since he isn’t here … Is there a chance I can get the address from you?”
The sergeant frowned and grumbled something under his breath, but he took a piece of paper from the desk next to him. He leafed through a large leather-bound book dredged from somewhere below Cinderhouse’s line of sight and wrote an address down. He handed the note to Cinderhouse without a word and went around the desk. He sat down and was immediately reabsorbed in his paperwork.
The tailor smiled and thanked the top of the sergeant’s head. He tucked the paper with the address into his pocket and left whistling a happy tune.
45
I’ll stay down here,” Blacker said.
“You’re not coming up?”
“Not a chance, old boy. It was difficult enough the first time around.”
“Wait for me, then. I’ll be a moment.”
“Take all the time in the world. I shall stand out here and enjoy the sun on my face and pity you up there.”
“I’m sure that will sustain me.”
Day smiled and shook his head. He opened the door and stepped through into the foyer of Inspector Little’s building. The space was so tiny and foul that Day kept his arms tight at his sides for fear they’d brush the walls and come away stained or sticky. To his left was a closed door and, directly ahead, a long dark staircase that disappeared into the gloom up above. He took a deep breath before letting the street-level door swing shut behind him, and then trudged up the steps.
“Damn Blacker for a coward,” he said.
He let a small amount of air out through his nose and could taste the old food odors that lived in the hall. The essence of stale spices lodged in the back of his throat and made him want to cough, but he stifled the impulse. He tried to remember the smell of trees outside his home in Devon, but could not.
The landing at the top of the stairs was as small as the foyer, and the door to the Little home was open a crack. Day could hear muffled voices inside, accompanied by an occasional high-pitched wail.
He swallowed, took a breath, and rapped lightly on the jamb. After a moment the door swung open wider and Little’s boy Gregory appeared in the gap. Gregory immediately turned and disappeared, but Day heard him speaking.
“Ma, it’s the policeman again.”
“Get ’im in.”
Day didn’t wait for the boy to come back. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The flat was much the same as it had been on his previous visit, but there were subtle changes. The window over the sofa was still curtainless, but the glass had been washed. Sunlight streamed into the room, lending it a somewhat cheerier appearance. Gregory, the helpful son, was fully dressed in clothes that looked reasonably clean to Day. The simple son, Anthony, was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, stacking wooden blocks. His empty chair sat in the corner, the straps hanging loose. Day was so surprised to see the boy quietly playing that he didn’t notice Mrs Little until she tugged at his sleeve. He jumped and turned.
“He ain’t breathin’, mister.”
Day saw with alarm that she was holding the baby and that its skin was pale blue. Without a thought, he took it from her and turned it over, laying it against his arm. He smacked its back with the heel of his hand, once, then again, and a third time.
Something small and brown thumped against the floorboards at Day’s feet, and a second later the baby began to cry, haltingly at first, its howls interrupted by hiccups, but then building to a startling crescendo.
Day passed the baby back to its mother. She bounced it up and down, her massive bosom jiggling. Day averted his eyes.
Anthony looked up and shouted something that Day found incomprehensible, but Gregory nodded and Anthony returned to his blocks, apparently satisfied.
“Thank you, mister,” the Widow Little said. “That was a close one.”
He looked at Mrs Little. She was watching him, biting her lip, rocking the baby back and forth in her arms. She looked much the same as she had that morning, but her hair had been washed and combed and her housecoat had been freshly pressed.
The baby’s skin had returned to a healthy pink color. Day smiled at the widow.
“This happened once before when I was a country constable,” he said. “The rector’s son choked on a bit of sausage.”
“This’un puts ever’ damn thing in ’is mouth. Can’t hardly keep up with takin’ it all back outten ’im afore he stops breathin’.”
Day decided not to ask why she didn’t simply keep small things out of the baby’s reach. The drama now ended, he scanned the floor, looking for the object the baby had been trying to eat. Gregory saw him looking and scampered over to the barrel-table. He reached down and picked up the tiny thing, which was hidden in the shadows. Gregory brought it to him and Day took it. It was a small round button, buff-colored, stained, and smooth.