He had never looked further.

Alec had grown up but his thoughts, attitudes, knowledge of his uncle Rupe hadn’t grown up with him, they had remained frozen in that infant time and Alec wished fervently that he had been able to maintain that cherished fiction, not been faced with a Rupert who attracted violence. A Rupert who brought danger to those he cared for and who acknowledged that fact in writing in the little leather-bound book.

Naomi had been right, he thought. Rupert had known that he was going to die. The question was, had he gone to meet Kinnear to give him what he wanted – that seemed unlikely seeing as how Kinnear was still looking for it – or did he go to challenge Kinnear in some way, to tell him he wasn’t about to give in?

DI Phil Malcolm had arranged to meet on neutral ground. Alec was not, in this case, an investigating officer; there was no professional courtesy to be extended. This was a casual meeting slotted in and arranged as a favour to DS Fine. Alec was grateful for the time.

‘You not drinking?’ Malcolm asked as Alec came back to their table with a pint and an orange juice.

‘Can’t. On painkillers,’ Alec told him. It seemed the easiest thing to say. Explaining that he’d most likely fall asleep mid afternoon if he drank at lunchtime seemed inappropriate and unmanly and there was something about Malcolm – the near shaven head, perhaps, or the scarred knuckles – that invited Alec to make excuses.

‘I heard about your run-in with Sam Kinnear,’ Malcolm said. ‘You got off light.’

‘So I’ve been told.’

He waited until Malcolm had drained half his glass, wondered if he should set him up with another before they went on. Malcolm placed the half empty vessel back on the table, centring it with elaborate care on the cardboard mat.

‘Right bastard, Kinnear,’ he said. He sounded satisfied, Alec thought. ‘You got the faxes?’

‘Thanks, yes. Reg Fine gave me copies. The list of known associates you sent. Who would your money be on?’

Malcolm wiped the condensation from his glass with a fat, paw-like hand. Boxer’s hands, Alec thought. Heavyweight.

‘If you’re asking, then I’d take a guess at two,’ Malcolm said. ‘The first choice would be Colin Berridge, fat man, same age as Kinnear, inside with him for armed robbery on this last stretch, but the association goes back to when Kinnear first fetched up here in the seventies. The two of them worked the door at some less than salubrious establishments, did the odd job on the side. It went to Kinnear’s head. Listen to him and you’d get the impression he was enforcer for half the hard men in the East End. True, he had dealings, but he was strictly a back-up man. If you needed the likes of Kinnear you were already in deep shit. My dad had a friend who was ex-SAS, reckoned you took the bag off his head and pointed him in the right direction, then got out of his way. Only trouble was getting the bag back on again. Kinnear was the same way. Once you’d switched him on he was like that bunny in the battery advert. Kept on going when others had packed up and gone home.’

Alec thought of his own acquaintances in Special Forces and could not in any way equate them with this description. True, he would rather they were on his side if it came to a fight, but they didn’t go looking for one. Kinnear, Alec thought, would not have got past the psych test, but he got the point Malcolm was making and he could not argue with the reality of his own experiences with the man.

He dragged his attention back to the matter in hand. ‘And your other choice?’

Malcolm drained the rest of his pint and stood up. Alec gathered that his time was almost up. ‘Derek Reid,’ he said. ‘Youngish bloke, early thirties. Bright enough by all accounts, but could never hold a job down. I checked up; got out of jail about a month after Kinnear. They were cell mates for three months. If I was a betting man I’d be putting my money on him.’

‘What was he in for?’

‘Like I said, he’s a bright boy, just lacking in common sense. Where Kinnear is strictly strong arm, Reid uses what he’s got up here.’ Malcolm tapped the side of his head. ‘Got some scam going selling shares in phoney companies. He’d use legit businesses as a front, usually without the owner’s knowledge or consent.’

‘How did that work then?’

Malcolm shrugged. ‘I’ll see what I can get for you, send it via our friend Fine.’

‘Thanks.’

Malcolm nodded and left. Alec watched him go as he played with his untouched orange juice.

So, a possible link? The use of legitimate businesses? Alec discounted the first of Malcolm’s options. Naomi had been sure that the second man had been of lighter build and, with his record, he felt that Reid was a better fit. So had they tried to involve Rupert? Had they in fact drawn him in to whatever game they were playing?

Alec downed his juice, using it to swill down more painkillers. The combination left a powdery, metallic taste in his throat. He was tempted to call it a day and go back home to Naomi. He felt in his pocket and found his phone, intending to call, but then he put it away again. Hearing her voice would be enough to break down what little resolve he still had, and now he was here there were things to do and he may as well get on and do them.

Retrieving his car from behind a small factory unit backing on to the canal, and thanking the gods of motorists that he had not been clamped, he headed for Colindale.

Twenty

Marcus had responded to Naomi’s call with such alacrity that by ten o’clock she was in his car and heading for the first person on their list. He was curious about Alec’s absence.

‘He never intended to stay more than a few days,’ Naomi reminded Marcus, somewhat reluctant to go into details about Alec’s trip, particularly as she didn’t have a great deal of information herself anyway. ‘There were things he had to go back and see to.’

Marcus seemed satisfied for the present. He was, Naomi thought, in good spirits today, describing the scenery and speculating as to the relevance of those of Rupert’s sources they were going to meet.

‘It may have nothing at all to do with this man Kinnear,’ Naomi reminded him, ‘and remember, Marcus, our story is that we’re simply interested in completing Rupert’s book for him.’

‘Oh yes, quite so. We’re here, our first address.’

Mr and Mrs Parry, Naomi recalled from Rupert’s notes, had contacted the oral history unit at the local university regarding a story told by Mrs Parry’s uncle. Marcus had phoned ahead that morning and recited their cover story and found himself with an immediate invitation.

Naomi’s heart sank. She could guess what this was going to be like. They might be getting in easily enough but she wondered how long it would take to escape.

Two hours fifteen minutes was the answer. By this time Naomi knew every last detail of Uncle Wally’s treasure rumoured to be buried in the orchard … or was it the garden …?

Tea, cake, enthusiastic fussing of Napoleon once permission had been granted. Condolences that that nice man had died so suddenly, listened for hours, he did.

Naomi, rather sourly, wondered if he’d had any choice.

‘Well, that went well,’ Marcus said after they’d finally made their escape.

‘You think?’

‘Well, yes.’ He sounded rather put out.

Naomi sighed. ‘Sorry Marcus, I’m thinking like a police officer. Ask the relevant questions and get out on to the next job. I suppose there was never really time for the social niceties.’ Thank goodness, she added silently.

‘No, I suppose not.’ He brightened. ‘It’s the vicar next. The Reverend Fullerton. Rupert consulted him regarding the parish records.’

Naomi groaned inwardly. She had hoped to have worked through their half of the list by mid afternoon. At this rate, two hours plus per consultation, it was going to take till the end of the month.