‘That’s not true!’ howled Waldron.

‘Then why won’t you give me his name?’

‘It wasn’t a man, Sergeant — it was a woman.’

‘In that case, give me her name.’

‘I can’t. I got to protect her, haven’t I? It’s what I promised, see? Nobody else knows about her and me. Nobody else is going to know.’

‘And you were with this woman for an hour or two, is that it?’

‘Could be longer — I don’t have a watch.’

‘What did you do afterwards?’

‘I went back to the pub — ask, Stan. He’s the landlord.’

‘I’m more interested in the time when you have nobody who can account for your movements.’

Waldron cackled. ‘Oh, she accounted for my movements, I can tell you that!’

As his cackle became a full-throated laugh, he opened his mouth to expose three blackened teeth in the middle of a gaping void. Even from a few yards away, Keedy could smell his foul breath. After his years as a detective, he could usually sense if someone was lying to him but Waldron was difficult to fathom. The woman friend might or might not exist. Looking at the gravedigger, Keedy thought it unlikely because of the man’s repulsive appearance, but then, he reminded himself, he’d seen even more hideous faces excite the love and devotion of a woman. Waldron might have hidden charms. His claim had a coarse plausibility.

‘You’re not helping yourself, sir,’ said Keedy.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If what you say is true, there’s someone who can clear your name. Until she does that, you’re bound to be viewed as a suspect.’

‘I didn’t kill Ablatt,’ protested the other. ‘I didn’t even know he was dead.’

‘But you’re obviously glad that he is.’

Waldron sniggered. ‘Best news I’ve heard in years!’

‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?’

‘I can think of lots of people. I’m one of them.’

Keedy lifted his pencil. ‘Can you give me some names?’

‘You’re the detective — find them.’

‘Stop being so obstructive.’

‘Ablatt was a conchie,’ said Waldron, derisively. ‘He was the lowest of the low in my book. Lots of people think the same. The little sod deserved to die. None of us would have actually murdered him, maybe, but we’d all like to shake the hand of the man who did.’

Keedy had had enough of his prevarication. ‘Put your spade away, sir,’ he ordered. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘I don’t finish work until this afternoon.’

‘You’re leaving right now.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Would you rather that I arrested you first? I’ll be happy to do so.’

‘Look,’ said Waldron, seeing that Keedy was in earnest and trying to sound more reasonable. ‘I swear to God that I had nothing to do with any murder. I was in the Weavers most of the night.’

‘Mr Ablatt’s body was found less than forty yards away.’

‘That doesn’t mean that I put it there.’

Keedy fixed him with a stare. ‘You had the chance to do so during the hour or two you were away from the pub.’

‘I told you — I was with someone.’

‘Yet she doesn’t appear to have a name and address.’

‘We got an arrangement, see?’

‘Yes, you dredge her out of your imagination whenever you want an alibi.’

‘She’s real,’ insisted Waldron. ‘She’s flesh and blood. I should know.’

‘Then tell me who she is,’ pressed Keedy. ‘And explain why you’re so anxious to conceal her name. Is it because she’s a married woman?’

‘No, she’s a widow.’

‘Then there’s no reason to hide the relationship, is there?’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Waldron, sourly.

‘Why is that, sir?’

Keedy reinforced the question by taking a step nearer to him and looking deep into his eyes. Waldron quailed inwardly. He usually got the better of policemen who tried to question him. Even after he’d been arrested for being involved in a pub brawl, he’d often managed to worm his way out of trouble. There was no escape this time. To get the details he was after, Keedy was prepared to drag him off to the nearest police station and subject him to an interrogation. If he survived that, he’d have to face awkward questions from his boss who’d want to know why he was a suspect in the investigation. Waldron weighed up the situation and capitulated.

‘You win,’ he admitted, head slumping to his chest.

‘Why can’t you tell me the woman’s name?’

‘It’s because of Stan at the Weavers.’

‘Do you mean the landlord?’

‘Yes, Sergeant, and he’s got a real temper on him. The woman …’ He had to force the words out. ‘The woman … is his mother. If Stan ever found out, you’d have another bleeding murder on your hands.’

Alice Marmion had never regretted the decision to join the Women’s Emergency Corps and to move out of the family home. She was doing work that gave her great satisfaction and she enjoyed the challenge of having to fend for herself. Inevitably, there were drawbacks. While she was happy with the two small rooms she rented in a rambling Victorian house, they came with a landlady who imposed strict rules on her four tenants — all of them young and female — the main one being that no gentlemen were allowed into their respective rooms. Male visitors could only be entertained during specified hours in the drawing room, where they had to sit in one of the uncomfortable single chairs, the settee and the chaise longue having been carefully removed because they might encourage intimacy between couples seated together. It was also inconvenient to share the only bathroom with all the other people in the house, but Alice had circumvented that problem by getting up earlier than anyone else and being the first through the door.

Notwithstanding the house rules, she liked living there and woke up every morning with a sense of control that she’d never felt at home. It was empowering. Never lacking in confidence, Alice now had a greater self-belief and an increased readiness to take on responsibility. It had earned her respect in the WEC. Her friend, Vera Dowling, had marvelled at the changes in her.

‘It’s amazing, Alice,’ she said. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to.’

‘I never thought I’d drive a lorry, I must admit.’

‘You took to it like a duck to water — whereas I was hopeless.’

‘That’s not true, Vera.’

‘As soon as I get behind the driving wheel, I lose my nerve.’

‘It’s only a question of practice.’

‘I tried and tried again but I still made a mess of it. That’s why they’ll never let me take charge of any vehicle. I start to panic.’

Alice tried to reassure her but it was in vain. The two of them were sitting in the lorry, waiting for the delayed train from Folkestone. On her way to the railway station, Alice had picked up her friend from her digs. Much as she liked Vera, she’d baulked at the idea of actually sharing accommodation with her. It would impose too many constraints. Vera Dowling was a short, shapeless young woman in khaki uniform with a plain, uninteresting face that accentuated Alice’s loveliness. Diligent and trustworthy, Vera had thrown herself into her new job with more commitment than skill and, as a result, tended to be given only a supportive role. Unlike Alice, she was not relishing her freedom. Living in digs, she missed the comforts of home and the joy of her mother’s cooking. And she’d always had difficulty in making new friends, forcing her to rely even more on the few she already had. As her closest friend, Alice sometimes found that irksome.

‘Are you glad you joined the WEC?’ she asked.

‘You know I am, Alice. As soon as you did, I followed suit.’

‘Then why does your mother think that you might give it up?’

‘I’d never do that,’ said Vera, ‘not while you’re still in it, anyway.’

‘She told Mummy that you were finding it a bit of a trial.’

‘Well, that’s true — but it doesn’t mean that I’m going to pack it in. I just grit my teeth and get on with it. Giving up would be such a selfish thing to do when people depend on me.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘What are a few aches and pains compared to being driven out of your own home and chased out of your own country? Refugees come first, Alice,’ she said. ‘They need us.’