‘And the others?’ asked Erika.

‘There was one on a Saturday morning, I think? Didn’t you see him leaving early, Claude?’ asked Marie.

‘Yeah, the window from our upstairs loo looks down on the street; I was having a pee when I saw this young chap leaving early, around seven on a Saturday morning,’ said Claude.

‘And didn’t you think it was odd?’ asked Moss.

‘Odd? This is London, and it was before we knew he’d spilt up with his wife… It could have been a friend, a colleague, a medical student, or even a manny – you know, a male nanny,’ said Claude.

‘Do you think one of these men, you know, killed him?’ asked Marie.

‘I’m going to be honest with you: we don’t know. This is one of several leads.’

It hung in the air for a moment. Marie rubbed at the condensation on her glass. Claude put a protective arm around her.

‘Would you be willing to do a police e-fit? If we can get a likeness of these young men it could be very valuable,’ said Erika. ‘We can get someone over tonight, to do it in the comfort of your home?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Claude. ‘If it helps you catch whoever did this.’

Moss and Erika came back out into the baking street and moved across to the shady side.

‘I call that a result,’ said Moss.

‘And, with any luck, we could have a photo fit this evening,’ agreed Erika. She pulled out her phone and called Peterson for an update.

‘Nothing yet, boss,’ he said. ‘The fingerprint technician still isn’t finished over in Telegraph Hill. Estelle Munro has gone out for more milk… I don’t have a key to this place, so I can’t secure it.’

‘Okay, we’re on our way,’ said Erika. She hung up, tucked her phone back in her bag and looked at her watch. It was gone seven.

‘You need to be somewhere?’ asked Moss.

‘I’m supposed to be going for dinner, with Isaac Strong.’

‘I can stay here with Peterson if you want to scoot off. It looks like this is going to be a long boring one. I doubt we’ll get any prints off the frame, but I can let you know as soon as, and I’ll keep you posted on the photo fit.’

‘Don’t you want to be getting home, Moss?’

‘I’m fine. Celia’s taking Jacob to mother-and-baby swimming so I’ve got the evening, I know you don’t get out…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘You know I don’t get out much?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that, boss,’ said Moss, going redder than she already was.

‘I know. It’s okay.’ Erika chewed her lip and squinted at Moss in the sun.

‘Honestly, boss, the millisecond we lift a print, I’ll call. And the e-fit might take a few hours. What’s Isaac cooking?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘By the time you’ve eaten whatever it is we’ll have a some answers.’

‘Okay. Thank you, Moss. I owe you one. You phone me the second something happens, however small, okay?’

‘I promise, boss,’ said Moss. She watched as Erika went back to her car and drove off, and hoped that they would find something to further the investigation.

It looked like DCI Foster needed a breakthrough.

21

‘Next week will be the longest day of the year, and then the nights will begin to draw in,’ said Simone. She stood by the small window in Mary’s hospital room. It looked down over a cluster of industrial rubbish bins and the incinerator. The brick walls of the surrounding buildings loomed high, closing in on them, but a sliver of the London skyline blazed through a gap in the brickwork. The yellow orb of the sun looked as if it were about to be skewered on the spire of the clock tower above King’s Cross station.

Simone came over to the bed, where Mary lay with her eyes closed, the blanket pulled up to her chin. It barely moved with her shallow breathing, and her body seemed to taper away to nothing under the blanket. Simone’s shift had ended an hour ago, but she’d decided to stay on. Mary was fading fast. It wouldn’t be long now.

She took the black and white photograph of Mary and George out of the locker and propped it up against a water jug.

‘There, we’re all here together. Me, you and George,’ said Simone, reaching through the safety bar to take Mary’s hand. ‘You look so happy in the photo, Mary. I wish you could tell me about him. He looks quite the lad… I’ve never had a close girlfriend to talk to. My mother never talked about sex, only to tell me it was filthy. I know she was wrong. It’s not filthy. When coupled with love it must be perfect… Was it perfect with George?’