‘Is it to do with this murder?’ asked the postman, breathlessly.

‘It could be.’

‘Then I’ll help all I can.’

‘We’re trying to find the owner of this ladder,’ said Keedy.

‘It probably belongs to Bill Prosser. He’s a window cleaner. You’ve already come past his house. Did you try there?’

‘We’ve knocked on every door in the street. The window cleaner had an alibi for last night. He’s not our man.’

‘Then it must belong to someone else,’ said the postman, thinking. ‘There aren’t many people with a ladder that size. In fact, the only other one I can think of round here is Robbie Gill.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘It’s the next street on the left, Sergeant — number thirteen.’

Keedy’s hopes rose. ‘That could be unlucky for Mr Gill.’

Thanking the postman, he and the two policemen walked to the address given. Since there was no knocker, Keedy used his knuckles to rap on the door. After a delay of a few seconds, he heard someone coming. When the door was unlocked and opened, a stringy man in his forties came into view. There was bruising around his eye and his unshaven cheek was grazed.

‘Mr Gill?’

‘That’s me,’ said the man, gruffly.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy and I’ve come to return your ladder.’

Gill resorted to bluff. ‘Oh, you found it, did you? Thank you very much, Sergeant. It was stolen yesterday. I’m so glad to get it back.’

‘Why is that, sir? Did you intend to paint slogans on other walls?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do,’ said Keedy. ‘Apart from anything else, you assaulted a police officer last night and I take exception to that. You’re under arrest, Mr Gill.’ He parked the ladder up against the front wall of the house. ‘I’ll leave this here. You won’t need it where you’re going.’

Well fed and eager to take up the reins of the investigation once more, Marmion arrived at Scotland Yard and went straight the superintendent’s office. Chatfield was poring over the map of Shoreditch.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘Ah, you’re here at last, are you?’ observed the other, making it sound as if the inspector was late rather than an hour earlier than his designated starting time. ‘It’s going to be another long day. We should have the post-mortem results soon and, with luck, we might get a response to our appeal for witnesses.’

‘It hasn’t happened so far.’

‘That was because the details in the Evening News were very sketchy. It’s different with this morning’s editions. The papers will carry a photograph of the victim and description of the route he would have taken home from that meeting. It will also tell them much more about Cyril Ablatt. And another thing,’ he said, folding the map up. ‘The killer will read the reports. He’ll start to panic.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that, Superintendent. I think he’s a cold-hearted swine who might enjoy the publicity he’s aroused.’

‘That’s arrant nonsense.’

‘Is it?’ retorted Marmion. ‘He deliberately left the body where it could be found. Doesn’t that tell you something about him? Many killers go out of their way to conceal their handiwork in order to delay discovery. Why dump the corpse in a lane when he could have hidden it in the woods or buried it somewhere?’ He remembered Horrie Waldron. ‘He might have buried it in a cemetery, perhaps. Who would think of looking for it there?’

‘You’re being fanciful, Inspector.’

‘I don’t think so, sir. When he put the victim there, the killer was making a statement. He wanted us to know.’

‘What I want to know is how we catch the devil.’

‘We stick to procedure, sir. We gather evidence, sift it, follow every lead and maintain relentless pursuit. If we get help from witnesses, all well and good, but we shouldn’t rely on anyone coming forward. My men went from house to house in the area yesterday and they didn’t pick up a snippet of useful information. Shoreditch was asleep when the corpse was moved. Nobody saw or heard a thing.’

‘I remain more sanguine.’

‘Then I hope your optimism is justified. Coverage will be extensive. We gave them plenty to bite on at the press conference.’

‘Yes,’ said Chatfield, offering a rare compliment. ‘I thought you handled them very well.’ He added a caveat. ‘Though there was no need to be quite so friendly towards them.’

‘We need the press on our side, sir. We should never antagonise them.’

Chatfield bridled. ‘Are you suggesting that that’s what I did?’

‘Of course not — you’ve had far too much experience.’

‘I certainly have.’

He inflated his chest and pulled himself upright. Marmion waited while the superintendent struck a pose, lost in thought about what he considered to be the triumphs in his career, the latest of which was his promotion to a higher rank. He seemed to have forgotten that anyone else was there. When he finally noticed Marmion, he snapped his fingers.

‘I’ve been remiss,’ he confessed. ‘Do forgive me. Not long before you came, there was a telephone call for you.’

‘Did anyone leave a message?’

‘It was Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Then he probably yawned down the line at you,’ said Marmion.

‘On the contrary, Inspector — he sounded almost chirpy. As a result of an incident during the night, he’s made an arrest. It’s a man who was caught trying to paint something on a wall.’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘Somebody had to, Sergeant.’

‘Did you know Cyril Ablatt?’

‘I knew of him — that was enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My wife uses the library. She saw him there lots of times and heard him arguing with people about why he didn’t join the army.’

‘How did you know where he lived?’

‘I followed him one evening.’

‘And is that all you did, Mr Gill?’

‘You know it isn’t. I let everyone know what sort of person he was.’

‘Forget your antics with the paintbrush,’ said Keedy. ‘I’m wondering if you followed him when he came back from a meeting in Bishopsgate. I’m wondering if you decided that calling him names on a brick wall wasn’t enough so you killed him out of hatred for his beliefs.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘I never touched him. I swear it.’

‘What were you doing on the evening before last?’

‘I was at home with my wife and my son. You can ask them.’

‘I’ll make a point of doing that.’

‘I never went anywhere near Ablatt,’ said Gill, squirming.

‘Did you go out at any stage during the evening?’

‘Only for an hour — I went out for a drink.’

‘Which pub would that be?’

‘The Weavers.’

‘That’s very close to where the body was found.’

‘So?’

‘Are you sure that you didn’t go into the pub to get some Dutch courage to commit murder?’ asked Keedy. ‘You don’t look like the sort of person who’d have the nerve to do it otherwise.’

Gill was desperate. ‘All I did was to have a pint of beer,’ he said, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘Talk to Stan Crowther, the landlord at the Weavers. He’ll tell you how long I was there. I had a drink, played a game of darts with Horrie Waldron, then left. I was back home by nine. My wife will confirm that.’

Keedy could see that he was telling the truth. Robbie Gill was not the killer. Since the body was dumped in the lane much later than nine o’clock, he could not have put it there. On the other hand, the fact that he knew the gravedigger raised the possibility that he might somehow have been party to the murder. Gill could not be removed entirely from the list of suspects.

They were in a cold, featureless room at Shoreditch police station. Gill sat on the opposite side of the table from Keedy. When he greeted the sergeant at his front door, he was almost pugnacious, but the arrest had sobered him. A plumber by trade, Gill had the shifty look of someone who never expected to be caught. He saw what he was doing as a public duty, exposing a conscientious objector who had the gall to try to justify his position. Every time he heard about Ablatt pontificating at the library, he felt a simmering disgust and felt impelled to strike at him somehow.