‘All the time,’ replied Leach, ‘but he could always talk himself out of the situation. He even turned the tables on Horrie Waldron.’

‘And who might he be?’ enquired Marmion.

‘He’s an old codger me and Cyril knew in the George and Vulture when we used to meet for a drink there. It’s in Pitfield Street. Cyril had to pass it on his way home from the library. Anyway,’ Leach went on, ‘we sometimes saw Horrie in there, sitting drunk in a corner. You could share a joke with him until the war broke out. He turned nasty then. Every time we went in there, he’d have a dig at us for not joining up. It got so bad that we stopped going there altogether.’

‘What’s this about turning the tables on him?’

‘Horrie turned up at the library just before Christmas. He’d obviously been drinking. He tried to cause a scene by telling Cyril he was a coward but he got more than he bargained for. Cyril took him on in argument and made him look stupid. Everyone was laughing at Horrie. According to Cyril,’ said Leach, revelling in his friend’s triumph, ‘he slunk out of there with his tail between his legs.’

‘He must have felt humiliated.’

‘He was, Inspector — good and proper.’

‘And would you say that this Horrie Waldron was a vindictive man?’

‘Oh, yes, and he has a foul mouth on him.’

‘I wonder why Mr Ablatt didn’t mention the incident,’ said Marmion. ‘When I asked him if his son had any enemies, he denied it.’

‘Cyril didn’t tell his father everything that happened. In fact, I’m probably the only person who knows about Horrie being turned into a laughing stock at the library. Fred and Mansel have no idea who Horrie Waldron is.’ Leach scowled. ‘They’re lucky. He can be a menace.’

‘You described him as an old codger.’

‘That’s what he looks like, Inspector, but he’s probably not that old. He just never takes care of himself. Also, he smells. I bumped into him once when I was out with Ruby and she thought he was a tramp.’

‘Is Ruby your girlfriend?’

Leach’s back straightened. ‘She’s my fiancee.’

‘Congratulations! Have you set a date?’

‘It’s in July,’ said Leach. ‘Going back to Horrie, I heard that the landlord at the George and Vulture got fed up with him and threw him out. Last time I saw Horrie, he was going into the Weavers Arms.’

It was not far from where the body of Cyril Ablatt had been found. Marmion made a mental note of the fact. In his opinion, Leach was an interesting character, weak in many respects yet strong enough to hold to his principles in the face of daily hostility. Marmion had seen the way that people could bait conscientious objectors, making their lives a misery by taunting, abusing or sending them poison pen letters. More than one pacifist had been driven to suicide to escape the constant antagonism. Leach seemed unlikely to follow. For all his nervousness, there was a hard inner core that allowed him to withstand the jeers and the innuendo. And since a date for his wedding had been set, he didn’t wish to be somewhere in France or Belgium in the summer. Marmion’s own son, Paul, was very close in age to Leach and had volunteered readily with his father’s approval. Though he didn’t condone the stance that the young baker was taking, Marmion nevertheless admired him for his courage in doing so.

He thought about the reported viciousness of the attack on Cyril Ablatt and the problem of getting the body to the location where it was later found.

‘Tell me about Waldron,’ he said. ‘Is he a strong man?’

‘He’s very strong, Inspector.’

‘Does he have a job or has he retired?’

‘Horrie will never retire. He’ll go on until he drops.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He’s a gravedigger.’

Some high-ranking officers at Scotland Yard gave those below them a degree of freedom during the conduct of an investigation. Superintendent Claude Chatfield was not one of them. On the contrary, he insisted on being informed of progress at every stage. As he gave his superior an account of the action taken so far, Marmion provided enough detail to show how thorough he and Keedy had been while deliberately failing to mention the photograph discovered in the victim’s Bible. He knew full well that he was courting Chatfield’s fury but felt that discretion was paramount. If the lady in the photograph was, even tangentially, connected to the murder, Marmion could reveal the fact of her existence at a later date. If, however, she had no link whatsoever with the crime, he believed that it would be wrong to drag a secret friendship into the light of day, thereby causing pain and recrimination. It was better to let her retreat into anonymity. Chatfield watched him with the intensity of a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. When the inspector finished his report, the other man flashed his claws.

‘You’re holding something back,’ he challenged.

Marmion shrugged. ‘Why should I do that, sir?’

‘I sense that something is missing.’

‘There’s a great deal that’s missing, sir. Once you let me get on with my work, I’ll be able to fill in some of the blank spaces.’

‘You’ve described the interview you had with Gordon Leach. What about the other close friends of the deceased?’

‘Sergeant Keedy has yet to return, sir. When he does, I hope that he’ll have gleaned something useful from the two young men concerned — Hambridge and Price. They seem to have been part of a close-knit group.’

Chatfield was disdainful. ‘Four cowards banded together for safety.’

‘That’s not the impression I get, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘I’m not interested in your impressions, Inspector. I want facts. I want firm evidence. The press are already hounding me.’

‘I’m sure that you handled them with your usual tact.’

‘I told them as little as possible,’ said Chatfield with a thin smile, ‘but I did ask them to make an appeal on my behalf for any witnesses to come forward. In the course of his journey from that meeting back to Shoreditch, lots of people must have seen Ablatt.’ He picked up the photograph supplied by the victim’s father. ‘I’ll release this to the press. The sight of him may jog someone’s memory.’

‘Will that be all, sir?’ asked Marmion, rising hopefully from his chair.

‘No, it is not.’

‘I think we’ve covered more or less everything.’

‘Sit down again.’ Marmion obeyed him. ‘What is your next step?’

‘To be honest, sir, I was planning to grab a cup of tea and a bite to eat in the canteen. I had no breakfast this morning. After that — or possibly during it — I’ll liaise with Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Let me know what he found out.’

‘You’ll have a full report before we leave.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to Shoreditch,’ replied Marmion. ‘Manpower is severely limited, I know, but I’ll deploy the few detectives at my disposal to make house-to-house enquiries in the area where the body was found. I’ll then visit the library to speak to some of Cyril Ablatt’s colleagues.’

‘What about Sergeant Keedy?’

‘I’m going to suggest that he works the night shift, sir. When word gets out that Ablatt has been murdered, the person who daubed the wall of his house might be tempted to add to his handiwork. I’d like to apprehend him and find out just how deep his hatred goes. It will mean persuading a neighbour to allow the sergeant to spend the night under their roof so that he can keep the Ablatt house under surveillance.’

Chatfield sniffed. ‘That means a claim for overtime.’

‘It can be offset against the hours Sergeant Keedy will need to catch up on lost sleep. Our self-appointed artist works by night. No vigil is required in daylight.’

‘So you’ll be without the services of your right-hand man tomorrow.’

‘Only for a short time,’ said Marmion. ‘The sergeant is very resilient. He manages on far less sleep than the rest of us.’