Page 120 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Was that also in Brighton?’

‘No. I became a police cadet in Hendon, north London. I loved it. I was there for two years and I had a fantastic time … a great bunch of people. A lot of them are my friends to this day. The discipline was tough and they made us work hard. Basic policing, law, citizens’ rights, street operations. And I was only being paid twenty-five quid a week, but I felt I’d arrived. I won’t say I breezed through my exams, but I passed and the next thing I knew, I was a police constable in Hackney and Stoke Newington.

‘I always wanted to be a detective, though. There’s a lot of rivalry between uniform and CID – I’m sure you know that. I wanted to get onto the other side of the fence because I thought that was where the real work would be done. That’s where you get thrown in at the deep end and you must think for yourself. And I was lucky. I was still in my twenties when I got assigned to a specialist football unit. It meant going undercover with West Ham fans, getting in with the troublemakers and working out where and when the next hot spot was going to be. That went well and afterwards I took my sergeant exams and worked my way up to where I am now.’

‘Detective inspector.’

‘The higher up you go, the further away you are from the action and the more aggravation you get. I was a detective superintendent in Tower Hamlets for a time and I had a thousand cops working for me. And all the paperwork! In the old days there was too little of it. Now there’s too much. Anyway, I prefer to be out on the street. This business of yours, for example. Eliot Crace. I’ve never come across anything quite like it and I’ve been around, I can tell you. Butdon’t think of me as an Atticus Pünd. I’m not like that. I’m not that clever – although, more often than not, I get results.’

‘How come you’ve read all the books?’ I asked. My coffee had arrived and was getting cold on the table in front of me.

‘I like crime fiction. I always have.’

‘Any favourites?’

‘American writers mainly. Everything from Chandler to Michael Connelly, Harlan Coben, Robert Crais. Shari Lapena – she’s Canadian. I read Golden Age stuff too.’ He tore open a sugar sachet and stirred the contents into his tea. ‘I shouldn’t really say this to you, but I’ve always thought about writing a crime novel. I’ve done a few short stories to try my hand, but … I don’t know. It was something my wife always said I should do.’

The unasked question hung between us.

‘She died three years ago. Breast cancer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Life’s difficult without her, I’ll admit it. But you take what life throws at you and I’m lucky. I still have my kids. A brother and a sister, both married. And my parents.’

I picked up my coffee; a tiny measure of espresso in a porcelain cup. ‘There’s one thing you haven’t told me,’ I said. ‘And it was almost the first thing I asked you. Do you think I killed Eliot Crace?’

He had been about to drink his tea, but he put it down.

‘I would have thought the answer to that would be obvious, Susan. If I thought you were a killer, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you and I certainly wouldn’t have told you anything about myself. All that stays between us, anyway. I hope you understand that.’

‘Of course.’

‘I won’t lie to you. You’re a person of interest and we’re still searching for any sighting of your car in central London on the night Eliot Crace was killed.’

‘You won’t find it. It never left Crouch End.’

‘But unless it was planted, there’s strong forensic evidence that puts your MG at the scene of the crime, including dust samples in the tyre treads that definitely came from Kingston Street, although you’ll probably say that they could have been planted too. But let’s not forget that we have a witness statement that has you driving away from Trafalgar Square.’

‘An anonymous witness statement.’

‘That makes no difference. They were still able to give us part of your registration number – and if it’s not true, it does make you wonder how many people there are in this city with a grudge against you.’

‘It sometimes feels like it’s half the population,’ I agreed.

‘But on the plus side, I know everything about what happened with you and the death of Alan Conway. I’ve spoken to Detective Superintendent Locke – who doesn’t send you his regards and didn’t have a lot of nice things to say about you. But even he thought it unlikely that you had it in you to kill anyone.’

‘That’s very nice of him.’

‘I’ve come to the same conclusion. Eliot Crace humiliated you in front of a large group of people. Thanks to him, you’ve lost your job. The motive’s there, but I’d be very surprised if you had the temperament. You strike me as a very sensible person and the fact that you spent half the day at Belmarsh Prison is proof that you believe in your own story, even if it’sone of the most unlikely things I’ve ever heard. All of which leaves me in a bit of a quandary. Where do we go from here?’

‘The answer’s in the book.’

‘Pünd’s Last Case. Yes.’ He raised a hand, calling for the bill. ‘Just so you know, Susan, I’ve been round to Eliot’s home in Notting Hill Gate. I’ve read his book, or as much of it as he’d written, and I’ve also got hold of his notes.’

My heart leapt. ‘Can I see them?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t give them to you. They’re evidence. But we can look at them together, if you fancy doing that. You’ve been here before, so you probably have a good idea what might be hidden inside the text. You talked about anagrams and you’ve already found two of them. It’s always possible that Eliot came up with a third, although I haven’t managed to locate it just yet. Maybe we’ll have more luck if we combine our efforts.’

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