‘I’m a private detective,’ said Strike, pulling out a card. ‘I’m investigating a murder. Did you have to talk to the police about Todd? Confirm an alibi?’
‘Yeah,’ said the young man.
‘He was definitely playing cards with you that night?’
‘Yeah,’ said the other.
‘Until what time?’
‘Four. He wanted to keep the game going. Wasn’t even winning.’
‘When did you last see Todd?’
‘I dunno… week, maybe? Why’re so many people after him?’
‘There’s been someone else?’ said Strike. ‘Apart from me and the police?’
‘Yeah. ’Nother guy came looking.’
‘When?’
‘Dunno,’ said the young man vaguely. ‘Wednesday?’
‘White guy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Curly hair?’ said Strike.
‘I don’t know,’ said the kitchen worker. ‘He was wearing a hat.’
‘Wasn’t wearing sunglasses indoors, by any chance?’
‘Yeah,’ said the young man, mildly surprised by what he clearly thought was a lucky guess.
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Yeah. He was banging on Todd’s door. I was trying to sleep. I went outside and said, “Todd’s gone. Fuck off making that noise.” He said, “where’s Todd gone?” I said, “I don’t know, but he owes me fifty quid.” He said, “you’ll never see that”, and he left.’
Strike pulled out his wallet and extracted five tenners.
‘Your help could be very valuable to me,’ he said. ‘Can you remember anything else about the man who came looking for him? Facial features? Build? Clothing? Accent?’
Eyes on the tenners, the young man said,
‘He wasn’t as big as you.’
‘OK. Anything else?’
‘When he walked away… it was funny.’
‘A limp?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Is Todd’s room still empty?’
‘No, my friend’s taken it.’
‘Would your friend mind me having a look?’
‘I can ask him.’
He led Strike into a stairwell that smelled worse than Daz and Mandy’s, back in Newham. There was a slight suspicion of stale urine. A fluorescent light overhead was flickering.
Strike hauled himself up by the banister behind the kitchen worker. The building had clearly been adapted so as to house as many tenants as possible, and Strike doubted the alterations had been done with planning permission. A door ahead stood ajar, revealing a grubby shower room. Four more doors had been crammed in. His guide knocked on the second.
‘Gagandeep?’
After a minute’s conversation in Punjabi through the flimsy door, a second brown-skinned man opened up. He was tall, bearded, equally exhausted-looking and wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Understandably suspicious, he turned to his housemate and another conversation in rapid Punjabi ensued, at the end of which Gagandeep permitted Strike to enter.
The room, the dusty window of which looked straight on to the brick side of a building opposite, was small and contained a few pieces of very old, cheap furniture. The narrow bed, Strike thought, must have been uncomfortable for the almost spherical Todd. There was flaking paint on the walls, a naked overhead bulb and a much-stained carpet.
‘Did Todd leave anything behind?’ asked Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Gagandeep.
He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it to reveal his clothes lying partially piled beneath an inadequate number of wire hangers. After a few seconds’ digging, Gagandeep retrieved an old hardbacked book, which he held out to Strike:
‘I’d like to buy that from you,’ said Strike, pulling more cash from his wallet before handing five tenners to his first helper. ‘And if either of you see the man who was banging on Todd’s door again’ – he pointed at the card in the kitchen worker’s hand – ‘call me. There’s more money in it, if you can give me a lead on him.’
77
Robert Browning
Robin’s Valentine’s Day started badly. Murphy had stayed over at her flat. In addition to a card, he’d bought her a plush dog with a heart in its mouth, in allusion to his previous offer to buy her a puppy. After Robin had laughed and kissed him, he said,
‘You can take him with you on surveillance or whatever you’re doing tonight. Valentine’s date by proxy.’
Robin chose to ignore this broad hint that Murphy was still annoyed she had to work that evening, but the residual guilt and annoyance it had caused was still with her that afternoon, while watching Mrs Two-Times, who was shoe shopping alone. When Robin’s mobile rang, she was relieved to see the office number rather than her boyfriend’s.
‘Hi, Pat.’
‘A man called Wynn Jones called,’ said Pat. ‘Friend of that Tyler Powell’s.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Robin, who’d phoned the farm at which Jones worked and left a message, asking him to call her. ‘What did he say?’
‘That he doesn’t want to talk to you. He says he knows who’s hired you.’
‘Did he say who?’
‘“Fucking Faber Whitehead”,’ quoted Pat sniffily.
‘That’s the father of the boy who crashed Tyler’s car,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t suppose you saved Jones’ number?’ she added hopefully.
‘I did, yeah,’ said Pat.