The danger was that the superintendent might learn that he was being deceived and that would have disastrous results. Official reprimand and demotion were the least that Marmion could expect. A vengeful man like Chatfield would undoubtedly find other means of blighting his career at Scotland Yard. It was a risk that had to be taken. When he gave his word to someone, Marmion strove to keep it. Caroline Skene had been assured of his discretion. He was not going to betray her.

‘Right,’ said Chatfield, leaning forward and pointing to the map on his desk. ‘Based on what we gathered from two of his friends, I’ve marked the route that Ablatt would have taken from Bishopsgate to the house in Shoreditch where they agreed to meet. Somewhere along that route, he was intercepted and killed.’ He looked up. ‘How and where did it happen?’

‘If only we knew, sir,’ said Marmion, bending over the map with interest. ‘There seem to be a number of dots here.’

‘I’ve marked the principal locations.’ Chatfield used his finger to point them out. ‘This is the Ablatt house and this is where Hambridge lives. Over here is the library and — since Waldron is implicated — I’ve also marked the cemetery.’

Marmion indicated another dot. ‘What’s this one, sir?’

‘It’s the pub close to the scene of the crime — the Weavers Arms.’

The Weavers Arms was the haunt of Horrie Waldron, still the only real suspect in the case. When he’d finished his shopping, Keedy decided to pay it a visit. In a large paper bag was the torch he’d just bought along with the razor, shaving brush and shaving soap he needed. The Haveron sisters had given him such a cordial welcome that he felt they deserved more, first thing on the following morning, than the sight of a bleary-eyed detective with dark whiskers. While he was out, Keedy had also availed himself of a snack. A glass of beer was now very tempting. He entered the bar to find that it was relatively empty so early in the evening. Standing behind the counter, the landlord gave him a grin of welcome.

‘What can I get you, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’ll have a pint of your best, please.’

‘It’s on its way.’

Reaching for a tankard, Stan Crowther filled it slowly with practised use of the pump. One mystery was solved for Keedy. When he’d heard Waldron express fear of the landlord, he couldn’t understand why such a sturdy man as the gravedigger would be afraid of anyone. The explanation was standing in front of him. Crowther was a beefy man with immense forearms and hands like shovels. But it was his face that gave the game away. Any trace of his mother had been pummelled away in a boxing ring. Crowther had a broken nose, a cauliflower ear and eyebrows that looked to be permanently swollen and misshapen. Hanging on the wall behind the landlord was a framed poster advertising a series of fights. Top of the bill was a heavyweight contest between Stan Crowther and Eli Montgomery.

‘In case you’re wondering,’ said Crowther, putting the full pint in front of him. ‘I knocked him out in the fourth round. Old Eli was a good fighter but he had a glass jaw.’ He chuckled. ‘He went down like a sack of spuds.’

After paying for the beer, Keedy sipped it and gave a nod of approval. There was no need to introduce himself. In the same way that he’d guessed the landlord’s former occupation, Crowther had worked out that he must be a detective.

‘I was expecting a visit from you sooner or later,’ he said.

‘Then you’ll know why I’m here.’

‘It’s a bad business, this murder. I mean, we have the odd fight in here and I got nothing against that, provided they don’t break the furniture. But murder is out of order — especially when it’s almost on our doorstep.’ He scratched his cauliflower ear. ‘What’s the name, sir?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Have you got any suspects yet?’

‘These are early days, Mr Crowther.’

‘Everyone calls me Stan — except Eli Montgomery, of course. He calls me a black-hearted bastard. Eli always was a bad loser.’

‘One man has come to our notice, Stan,’ admitted Keedy. ‘He’s not exactly a suspect but we believe that he and the victim had quarrelled. The man’s name is Horrie Waldron.’

Crowther grinned. ‘Horrie quarrels with everybody.’

‘He’d have more sense than to quarrel with you, I fancy.’

‘Even he is not stupid enough to do that, Sergeant.’

‘I spoke to him earlier at the cemetery. He tells me that he was in here all evening apart from an hour or two when he popped out.’

‘Then he’s told the truth for once.’

‘You’ll vouch for that, Stan?’

‘I will,’ said Crowther. ‘Horrie was in here the moment we opened. For some reason, he was carrying his spade. God knows why. Anyway, he has a pint, looks at the clock and goes out. We didn’t see him until a couple of hours later.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘For once in his life, he looked fairly clean even though he had his working clothes on. He must have sneaked off and had a bath somewhere.’

‘What about the spade?’

‘Oh, he took that with him but came back without it. The spade is like a fifth limb,’ said Crowther. ‘I’ve seen him using it at work. He’s amazing. You should see what Horrie can do with it.’

Keedy thought of the corpse on the slab at the police morgue.

Harvey Marmion understood the importance of being prepared. Before he and the superintendent went off to face the press conference, therefore, they agreed on just how much information about the crime they would release. Because of his reluctance to give them all the available facts, Claude Chatfield had always had a somewhat spiky relationship with reporters. He tended to hoard evidence and, to their utter frustration, hand it out in dribs and drabs. Marmion was more accommodating. He accepted that the press had certain rights and was alive to their needs. Over the years, he’d developed the technique of appearing to tell them everything they wanted to know while cleverly suppressing certain crucial facts. It was the reason why he’d been chosen by the commissioner to head the investigation. Whereas Chatfield was almost hostile to the press, Marmion had built up a rapport with them over the years.

They all knew his story. Marmion’s father had been a policeman. Largely because the job entailed shift work and low pay, it never appealed to his son. Marmion instead joined the civil service as a clerk. Fate intervened to change his mind. In the course of his duties, his father was murdered and the killer fled abroad. Maddened by the inability of the Metropolitan Police Force to catch the man, Marmion had taken action himself, launching a fund dedicated to the search for his father’s killer. When he had enough cash, he’d crossed the Channel by ferry and begun his own private investigation. With no experience of detection and with all the language difficulties to handicap him, he nevertheless picked up a trail that had eluded British police. Showing the tenacity that was to become his hallmark, Marmion pursued, caught and arrested the killer by force. By selling the story of how he did it, he earned enough from a national newspaper to repay everyone who’d contributed so generously to the fund.

His escapade had a significant result. It turned him into a policeman. After the heady excitement of the chase, he could never return to the tedium of the civil service. Marmion started like his father, walking the beat in uniform in all weathers. By dint of hard work, he earned successive promotions and eventually became a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. There were many people who believed that he should hold a higher rank. One of them was among the clutch of reporters at the press conference. When the police statement containing the basic facts of the case had been read out, it fell to him to put the first question.

‘Given your remarkable record of success, Inspector Marmion,’ he asked, ‘can you explain why you were not appointed to the rank of superintendent recently?’