As yet he had not once given the handle a turn. There had simply been no movement worth recording. A mange-ridden dog had cocked its leg and relieved itself in a doorway. In the same doorway, soon afterwards, a pile of rags had stirred and shifted, revealing itself to be a human being, now presumably one soaked in dog urine.

How could people live like this?

Behind him, crouched against the other side of the van, Inchball sighed and stretched. Macadam felt the van rock on its suspension. ‘Steady!’ hissed Macadam between his teeth.

‘Well!’ came Inchball’s barely voiced justification.

‘Sshh!’

Suddenly there was movement outside. Macadam’s hand tensed on the handle, but still he held back from cranking it. A diminutive figure had peeled itself away from another doorway and stepped out into the gloom. A child, a grubby-faced girl, lifted her head slowly, as if it was immeasurably heavy, and looked around. Her expression was resentful and at the same time confused, as if she did not understand how she came to be here. She eyed the van suspiciously. Formerly, it had been a baker’s van, and the advertising was still painted on the outside. A look of cunning settled over the girl’s features. She glanced furtively up and down the alley, before pulling her shawl over her head.

Then she stepped out and approached the van, causing Macadam to lose sight of her as she went to the back. The rear door handle began to rattle and pivot.

Macadam turned in Inchball’s direction and held his finger tensely over his lips. In the darkness, he could not make out Inchball’s expression, but he could sense his partner’s stiffening.

Naturally, Macadam had taken the precaution of securing the door. But the little would-be thief was persistent. Soon, more children emerged from different doorways and joined her. A lively and surprisingly foul-mouthed discussion broke out.

‘Ge’ a fuckin’ brick and smash the fuckin’ window,’ one piping voice suggested. The rear door had a window that had been blacked out and painted over.

‘My ol’ man’s got a fuckin’ crowbar. We can fuckin’ crack it open.’

‘Wha’ the fuckin’ ’ell is it?’

‘It’s a fuckin’ baker’s van, innit?’

‘’Ow you know that?’

‘I can fuckin’ read, carn I?’

‘Who taugh’ you ’a fuckin’ read? You fuckin’ cun’.’

The van began to rock. The handle on the rear door rattled even more violently than before. Macadam closed his eyes and shook his head, willing the awful creatures to go away. This was a circumstance he had not foreseen. His face tightened into a grimace of despair.

He felt one of Inchball’s fingers prod him in the side. He could make out the other man’s dim silhouette. His arms seemed to be raised in a questioning gesture. Macadam shrugged his response.

Their options were limited. They could sit still and hope that the brats lost interest and went away. Or they could make their presence known and hope to drive them away.

The rocking motion of the van accelerated. For a moment, it seemed possible that the gang might be capable of upturning it.

Macadam risked putting his eye to the peephole again. A small boy with an enraged expression – as if he were personally affronted by the van’s refusal to open up and deliver its bounty – was prowling along its side. Suddenly, he stopped in his steps and glared up directly into Macadam’s eye.

There was no doubt about it. He had been seen.

‘’Ere, you,’ said the boy to one of his companions, an older, lankier version of himself. ‘Gi’ us a fuckin’ piggy back.’

‘You wha’?’

‘You fuckin’ ’eard me. You wan’ some of that fuckin’ bread, don’ ya?’

The other boy scowled but did as he was directed. Despite his smaller stature, the first boy seemed to exercise some authority over the group. Macadam thought he recognized his voice as that of the child who could read.

Now the boy’s angry face was level with the peephole. He leaned in and put his own eye to the hole, so that he was eyeball to eyeball with Macadam. Then he leaned away and, before Macadam realized what was happening, stuck his forefinger through the hole straight into Macadam’s eye.

Macadam cried out, and recoiled from the attack, falling back into Inchball, whose reaction was characteristically profane. The boy started to laugh. His laughter was an ugly, jagged sound, every bit as angry as his expression.

‘Wha’ is it? Wha’ the fuck is it?’ demanded one of his fellows.

‘There’s some dirty geezer in here. Some dirty fuckin’ peepin’ Tom.’

Macadam groaned.

Someone banged on the side of the van. Presumably the boy. Immediately, the rest of the gang joined in.

Uncharacteristically, Macadam cursed under his breath. It felt as though they were trapped inside a kettle drum.

All at once, the drumming stopped.

An accented man’s voice addressed them. ‘What is going on, you children?’

‘A German!’ whispered Inchball. He pushed Macadam out of the way to peer out of the peephole.

‘There’s some fuckin’ geezer in there.’

‘I see. Here. Money for you all. Now leave. I will sort this. You children go and play now.’

Whatever largesse the German had bestowed was met with approval. ‘Ta, mister. You’re alrigh’, you are! A proper gent.’

The children’s unruly hilarity scattered. The alley fell suddenly quiet. Macadam could hear the German’s footsteps as he paced round the van. And then, without a further word, the footsteps went away.

THIRTEEN

Only one vertical wall extended to the full height of the department. Usually, in the middle of an investigation, it was covered in photographs of victims, maps, crime-scene diagrams, as well as lists of suspects’ names, together with photographs if available, and any other relevant notes. It was blank now, dully reflecting the wan sunlight from the window opposite, and reflecting also their lack of a case.

Since the fiasco in the van, it had naturally been difficult to continue the surveillance of the barbershop. Inchball had gone through his repertoire of disguises, before settling on the identity of a vagrant and taking up residence in a doorway opposite the shop. He had fallen into a turf war with the other tramp in the street, but had succeeded in seeing the fellow off thanks to his superior physical strength and sobriety. He had only had to tap the man once to knock him to the ground. A blow from which he did not immediately get up. For one sickening moment, Inchball thought he had killed the man. Not that he would regret his passing, simply that it would be another inconvenient distraction. What on earth would he do with the body? Fortunately, Inchball’s brusque encouragements – ‘Come on, ya bastard! On ya feet, ya louse!’ – coupled with a mild toeing, succeeded in rousing him.

As well as taking over the tramp’s patch, he also inherited the attentions of the pissing dog, who seemed to exist solely to add misery to the lives of the abject.

But the main problem with this disguise was that, while it enabled Inchball to linger unobtrusively in the alleyway, it was all too conspicuous elsewhere. It made it impossible for him to follow anyone who came out of the shop and down on to the Strand.

Quinn was especially keen to track down the man they called Hartmann, who appeared to be Dortmunder’s most frequent visitor, despite being – as Inchball continued to point out – ‘as bald as a bleedin’ coot’, and in no obvious need of a shave. Inchball was convinced that it had been Hartmann who had paid off the urchins.

Macadam had sunk into a slough of despond over his failure to record anything significant on the kinematographic camera, and the subsequent abandonment of that particular method of investigation.

Even the arrival of the projector – a Gaumont Chrono – did little to rouse him from his depression. He withdrew into the task of familiarizing himself with its operation and morosely informed Quinn that there was a discrepancy between the voltage of the power supply at the Yard and that required by the machine. The explanation went over Quinn’s head, but what he understood was that another piece of equipment had to be bought: a rheostat. This entailed the submission of a second formal request to the Procurement Department. There was no guarantee they would approve it. In fact, it was likely they would take the view that they had already spent enough on Special Crime’s new toy. Quinn felt sure they would refuse the application, even though the equipment they had already purchased was useless without this new piece of kit, and therefore the money they had spent so far, wasted. At any rate, there would be a delay.