‘I was hoping to catch you,’ said Hambridge, panting for breath.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘You haven’t heard, then?’

‘Heard what?’

‘It was my boss who told me about it. Charlie was coming past Drysdale Street when he saw this crowd. That’s how he knew.’

‘You’re not making much sense, Fred,’ said Leach. ‘Why don’t you get your breath back and tell me what’s actually happened?’

‘There’s been a murder.’

Leach started. ‘A murder — where?’

‘I’ve just told you. It was near Drysdale Street.’

‘Who was the victim?’

Even as he asked the question, Leach thought of a possible answer and it made his blood congeal. He shook his head in a frenzy of denial.

‘No, no,’ he protested. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I didn’t at first,’ said Hambridge.

‘It can’t have been Cyril.’

‘It was a young man, according to Charlie. That much is certain.’

‘But he had no idea what his name was.’

‘None at all,’ admitted the other, ‘but we have to face facts, Gordon. He was killed last night after dark. And it was near a place that Cyril would have walked past on his way to my house. It all fits. It explains why he never turned up.’

Leach’s head was spinning. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t believe it.’

‘I went to the police station but they wouldn’t give me any details. They told me to wait until the newspapers come out this evening. There may be a name in that. When I told them that I was a friend of Cyril, they didn’t want to know and told me to stop being a nuisance.’

‘There must be some way to find out the truth.’

‘We can go to his house and ask his father.’

Leach brought a hand to his throat. ‘Oh, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s why Mr Ablatt wasn’t there when Mansel called earlier this morning. He told me that he’d gone to find out if Cyril got back late last night.’

‘He didn’t get back,’ said Hambridge, woefully, ‘because he simply couldn’t. Someone had battered him to death. What are we going to do, Gordon?’

‘We try to find out the truth.’

‘We both know the truth. Cyril Ablatt is dead. Why argue about it? I was asking a different question. What the hell are we going to do now that we don’t have him here to guide us? What would Cyril want us to do?’

Leach didn’t even hear him. His mind was running on another track altogether. If their friend really was the murder victim, there would be implications. Ablatt had given a brilliant speech at the meeting of the NCF. Had he been killed by way of punishment? Was someone determined to silence conscientious objectors? Leach was overcome by a sense of panic.

‘Cyril may just be the first one,’ he cried. ‘Which one of us is next?’

The lane connected two streets in Shoreditch. It was narrow, twisting and unlit at night. When the detectives arrived there by car, policemen were on duty at either end of the little thoroughfare, stopping anyone from using it and trying to move on people who just came to stand and stare. Marmion identified himself to one of the policemen and asked to be taken to the exact spot where the body was found. He and Keedy were escorted to a point near the middle of the lane. The policeman indicated a rickety garden gate set into a recess.

‘It was right here, Inspector,’ he said.

‘Who found him?’ asked Keedy.

‘I’m told it was a courting couple, sir. You’ve got to feel sorry for them. They sneak down here for a kiss and a cuddle and they trip over a dead body.’

‘That must have cooled their ardour.’

‘It was well after midnight — must have been pitch-dark.’

‘How did they know it was a corpse?’

‘They didn’t, sir,’ replied the policeman. ‘In fact, they thought it might have been a drunk who passed out as he tottered home from the Weavers Arms.’

‘That’s the pub on the corner, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Afraid it might be more serious, they reported it.’

‘I’m glad they had the sense to do that.’

‘So am I, sir. By all accounts, it was a hideous sight. It’s just as well they moved the body away before the public got to see it.’

Marmion was only half-listening. Crouching down, he examined the ground with great care. When he eventually stood up, he stroked his chin meditatively.

‘This is not the scene of the crime,’ he concluded. ‘If it were, there’d be lots of bloodstains and there are hardly any. I think that the victim was killed elsewhere then dumped here. I also think that we’re after a local man.’

Keedy was puzzled. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Only someone who knew the area would be aware of this lane. It’s a good place to get rid of a dead body — but only after the pub closes and people stop using it to get home. The victim was brought here when there was nobody about.’

‘The killer might have needed an accomplice.’

‘Why?’

‘A dead body is easier to carry if there are two of you.’

‘It’s possible that someone else was involved, if only as a lookout. The killer was obviously a cautious man. He’d take no chances. Thank you, Constable,’ he said to the policeman. ‘You can get back on duty now. Keep everyone out of the lane for the time being — especially any press photographers.’ As the policeman went off to take up his position, Marmion turned to Keedy. ‘What’s your immediate reaction?’

‘It’s someone that Ablatt knows.’

‘That was my view.’

‘All that we’ve heard about him so far points to the fact that he’s a bright lad. In that photo we saw in his bedroom, he looked young and strong. He wouldn’t be easily overpowered unless he was taken unawares.’

‘Exactly,’ said Marmion. ‘If he was approached by an acquaintance, he’d be off guard. The trouble is that he’d have a hell of a lot of acquaintances. Since he worked in a library, he must know any number of people.’

‘One of them might be the phantom artist.’

‘Who?’

‘I’m thinking of the man who painted those things on the side of Ablatt’s house. The father had no idea who he was but it must be a neighbour with a malicious streak in him. We need to find out who he is.’

‘Or who she is,’ corrected Marmion. ‘A woman can handle a paintbrush as well as a man. I know that Alice can. When I papered her room last year, she insisted on painting the door and the window frame. As soon as we’d done that, of course,’ he said, face puckered with regret, ‘our daughter decided to move out of the house. We could have saved ourselves all that trouble.’

Keedy was sceptical. ‘You surely don’t think we’re looking for a female killer, do you?’

‘We need to consider every option. There’s no evidence to suggest that the artist and the killer are one and the same person but it’s a possibility we have to bear in mind. As for the murder itself,’ Marmion continued, ‘it’s highly unlikely that a woman committed it because of the brutality involved and the physical strength needed. On the other hand, there could be a female accomplice, someone who incited the crime in the first place. The fairer sex has become a lot more aggressive since the war started. Don’t forget that it’s women who hand out white feathers.’

‘Accusing someone of cowardice is a long way from plotting their death.’

‘I accept that.’

‘And what sort of man lets a woman talk him into committing a murder?’

‘The kind who are naturally inclined that way,’ said Marmion, levelly. ‘We’ve met quite a few of them in this job. They just need that final push.’

‘No,’ said Keedy, ‘I disagree with you there, Harv. I don’t believe a woman is involved in any way.’

‘What about the lady in that photograph we found?’

‘I was forgetting her.’

‘She could be indirectly culpable. If her husband discovered her friendship with Cyril Ablatt, he might have been enraged enough to kill him.’

‘We need to track the woman down.’

‘That’s what I intend to do — after we’ve interviewed the victim’s three friends. I’ll start with Gordon Leach. The family bakery is not far from the Ablatt house. I’ll find it. You can tackle Fred Hambridge. You’ve got his address. If you go there first, they might be able to tell you where he works.’