He stepped outside and took his phone out of the breast pocket of his leather jacket. He dialed the number and waited. Looking up, he saw passengers walk out of the station’s stone archway as he put the phone to his ear.

“Hello.”

“I’m down here now,” Macdonald said.

“Okay.”

“I’ll probably hang around all day.”

“How about all winter?”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Silence at the other end.

“I’ll start up at Muncaster Road.”

“Have you checked out the pond?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Anything’s possible. That’s all I can say right now.”

“Okay.”

“I want to see the hotel room again.”

“Assuming there’s enough time.”

“I need to breathe in that air once more.”

“Keep me posted.”

Macdonald heard a click, and the line went dead.

Putting his phone away, he turned south on St. John ’s Road, waited for a break in traffic on Battersea Rise and continued along Northcote.

He turned left onto Chatto and gazed longingly at the Eagles pub. That was for later, he thought, maybe a lot later.

After another couple of blocks, he turned onto Muncaster. The row houses shone warily in the January sun. Their brick and plaster merged with the color of the pavement. A mailman appeared out of nowhere, wheeling a letter bag so red it made his eyes hurt. Macdonald watched him ring a doorbell. Postmen always ring twice, he thought as he opened a low wrought-iron gate. He lifted the knocker and banged loudly. Such a brutal way to announce your presence, he thought.

The door opened all the way to the end of a heavy iron chain, and he saw the outlines of a woman’s face in the dim hallway.

“Who’s there?”

“Is this the residence of John Anderton?” Macdonald rummaged around for his badge.

“Who wants to know?”

“The police.” He held up the badge. “I’m the one who called earlier today.”

“He’s eating breakfast,” the voice announced, as though interrupting it was out of the question.

She wants me to leave so she can finish making her kippers, he thought. The pungent odor of fried herring wafted through the crack in the door. “It won’t take long,” he said.

“But…”

“Just a few minutes of your time.” He put his badge back and waited. The chain rattled as it was removed. They must have spent a fortune on security, he thought. Nothing left over for a sturdy door. One of these days it’s going to collapse under the weight of its own apparatus.

She was younger than he had guessed. Not very pretty but in the bloom of youth, although that would soon be gone as well. She’s probably worrying about it already, he thought.

“Come in.” She pointed toward the living room. “I’ll tell John you’re here.”

“Show him in, dammit.” The man’s voice echoed through the hallway, his words both aggressive and jumbled.

He’s got a mouthful of eggs, Macdonald thought. Or bacon.

The kitchen reminded him of the café. The fumes from the frying pan burned his eyes.

Anderton was ruddy and stockily built.

He likes his cholesterol, Macdonald thought. I hope he doesn’t croak while I’m here.

“Perhaps the constable would like a little something.” Anderton waved at his wife and the stove at the same time. Apparently Macdonald could take his pick.

“No, thanks,” Macdonald said. “I already ate.”

“It’s fried with curry,” Anderton said.

“Very tempting, but I’ll pass.”

“Then what do you want?” he asked, as though Macdonald could use some fattening up. “Not even a hamburger?” His smile revealed a set of yellow teeth. “A Big Mac, maybe?”

“Tea would be great.”

“We’re out of milk,” the woman said.

“That’s fine.”

“No sugar either.” Her eyes were on Anderton.

I wonder if they’re married, Macdonald thought.

Anderton inspected him in silence.

I could always ask for a little herring just to be polite, Macdonald thought.

“Here you go.” The woman put Macdonald’s cup down in front of him.

He picked it up and took a few sips. It was just strong enough and not too hot.

“I found some sugar after all,” she said.

“What an honor to have a policeman in my very own home,” Anderton said. “I didn’t know they made house calls. I thought they took you down to the Yard in the middle of the night, even if it was just a case of a missing hamster.”

Macdonald observed him. The poor guy is just as uptight as everyone else, he thought. Chatter is the daughter of nervousness. Maybe he eats these grotesque servings just to unwind. “We appreciate your getting in touch with us, Mr. Anderton,” he said, taking a pen and notepad out of the right pocket of his jacket. He had hung his coat in the hallway.

“I was just doing my civic duty.” Anderton stretched out his arms as if auditioning to be a statue on the Common.

“Not everyone is so conscientious.”

“Not that I have a lot of information to give you.”

“You saw a man. Is that correct, Mr. Anderton?”

“Call me John.”

“Okay, John, you told us that you had seen a man talking to a younger guy.”

“The sun was setting and I had been down at the Windmill Pub, and after we had a couple of beers, somebody said that the night-”

“I’m most interested in what happened at Mount Pond.”

“Like I was saying, it was getting dark. I left the pub by myself and turned off Windmill Drive toward the pond.”

“What for?”

“Huh?”

“Why didn’t you walk straight ahead across the avenue?”

“What difference does it make?”

The woman was finished straightening up and stood by the stove with a towel in her hand. She looked out at the street with her back turned to them.

“If it’s so damn important, I had to take a piss,” Anderton said. “There’s some thick bushes between the pond and bandstand that come in handy if you have to answer the call of nature on your way home from the pub.”

“So you were by the pond.”

“I was pretty close to the pond, and when I was through, I saw this character come by with his arm around a young guy.”

“Were they touching?”

“The character had his arm around him, that’s right.”

“Why do you call him a character?”

“Because he looked like one.”

“What do characters look like?”

“To be honest, more or less like you.” Anderton grinned.

“Like me?”

“Ruffled hair, leather jacket, tall and athletic with dark wrinkles in his face that could scare the shit out of anyone.”

“Just like me, in other words.”

“Right.”

What a find, Macdonald thought. He’s about to drown in grease, but he’s got a sharp pair of eyes in his head. “So you were standing there looking at them?” he asked.

“Right.”

“Tell me in your own words what you saw.”

“Who else’s words would I use?”

“Just go ahead.”

Anderton tilted his cup, looked in it, reached for the teapot and poured. The tea had gotten much darker while they were sitting there, and he grimaced as it passed his lips. He ran his fingers over his balding scalp, the skin red where it had been stretched. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t especially curious. It’s just that there was nothing else to look at. But I said to myself, this character is twice as big and twice as old as the kid, and they sure as hell aren’t father and son.”

“But he had his arm around him?”

“Like I said. But it was mostly him who was doing it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was obviously more interested than the kid.”

Macdonald looked down at his blank notepad. The less I write now, the less irrelevant stuff I’ll have to sort through later, he thought. “Was he using force?” he asked.

“Where do you draw the line between force and affection?” Anderton asked, as though he were giving a philosophy lecture at the University of London.

“Where do you draw it?”

“He wasn’t dragging the kid along, if that’s what you want to know.”