‘I wasn’t that bewildered, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I knew that I should have spoken up. But it was something that I wanted to keep to myself, a memory that I’ll always treasure. It was the newspaper that made me see sense.’

‘How did the newspaper do that?’

‘It gave details of the murder and showed a diagram of the route that Cyril would have taken on his way home that evening. But that wasn’t the way he went at all,’ she said, raising her head. ‘He didn’t go from Bishopsgate to Shoreditch. He came to see me first. Cyril was so excited about what had happened at the meeting that he simply had to tell me about it. I’ve never seen him so happy.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘Can you see what I’m trying to tell you?’

‘I’m afraid that I can,’ said Marmion, letting his annoyance show. ‘The murder took place somewhere between Lambeth and Shoreditch. We’ve been looking in the wrong place.’

There were times when Claude Chatfield showed exactly why he’d been promoted to the rank of superintendent. He was a whirlwind of activity, scanning the newspapers, sending his minions here and there, collating all the information he received, reporting to the commissioner, Sir Edward Henry, and organising another press conference. The murder of Cyril Ablatt was only one of the cases for which he was responsible and his grasp of detail in every one of them was impressive. When he and Marmion faced the press again, he even remembered to smile, though his hatchet face was so unused to expressing bonhomie that it came across as a sinister leer. Having filtered the post-mortem report, he gave them enough information to fill a column without descending into ghoulishness. Chatfield also made much of the arrest of Robbie Gill and praised Detective Sergeant Joseph Keedy for tracking the man down. The reporters were familiar with Keedy’s name because he’d ably assisted Marmion in the past in some very complex cases.

‘I now hand you over to the inspector,’ said Chatfield, sitting back.

Marmion took over. ‘Thank you, sir.’

He had little to add to what they’d already been told with the exception of the information garnered from Caroline Skene. As a result of what he claimed was an anonymous tip-off, he told them that the police would now widen their search to include Lambeth. The route taken home by Ablatt from Bishopsgate therefore had to be amended.

‘How do you know he was in Lambeth, Inspector?’ asked someone.

‘He was spotted there by a friend.’

‘Can you give us the name of that friend?’

‘I wish I could,’ said Marmion, face motionless. ‘But the information is very specific and I’ve no reason to doubt it.’

‘Why didn’t this so-called friend reveal who he is?’

‘I should imagine that he didn’t want to get embroiled in the investigation. As you know, that’s all too common. People who have valuable evidence sometimes prefer to pass it on anonymously to avoid any repercussions. In cases of murder, particularly, they fear for their safety.’

‘Villains will do anything to scare witnesses,’ confirmed the superintendent, ‘and I don’t need to tell you about jury tampering.’

Marmion invited questions and they were fired at him with the rapidity of bullets from a Gatling gun. He answered them all and set the pencils scribbling into notebooks. Chatfield felt obliged to interject from time to time but it was Marmion they all wanted to grill. He was calm under fire. Though he’d been distressed at the slant some of them had put on their articles, he offered no censure. Nothing he could say would make them view a conscientious objector more dispassionately. When the press conference was over and everyone dispersed, he walked along a corridor with the superintendent beside him.

Chatfield was irked. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this tip-off you received regarding Lambeth?’

‘I only got the message as I was about to leave my office, sir.’

‘You might have mentioned it to me.’

‘I was saving it as a surprise.’

‘I don’t like surprises of that nature, Inspector.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You said you were sure that the information was genuine.’

‘I am, sir. My informant used to be a colleague of Ablatt’s. If he’d worked alongside him at the library, I think he’d recognise him anywhere.’

Marmion was determined to keep Caroline Skene’s name out of the investigation so he’d altered her gender and given her a job at Shoreditch library. Chatfield was suspicious.

‘I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,’ he said.

‘You know all there is to know, sir.’

‘I wonder.’

‘I have a high regard for your role in this inquiry so I pass on any information we can glean.’

‘Make sure I’m briefed about everything.’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘What are you doing next?’

‘There’s a mountain of correspondence on my desk,’ said Marmion. ‘It’s been prompted by the press coverage. Much of it is useless — if not downright misleading — but there might be a gold nugget in there somewhere. I didn’t have time to go through it all before we met the press.’

‘Let me know what you find.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Incidentally, what’s happened to Sergeant Keedy? When I saw him earlier, he looked as if he was ready to pass out.’

‘He finally listened to my advice and went home. The sergeant had been on continuous duty for well over twenty-four hours.’

‘That will mean a claim for overtime,’ said Chatfield, fussily. ‘I’ll have to find a way around that. We don’t have an unlimited budget.’

‘You always did keep a tight hand on the purse strings.’

‘It may be the reason I was promoted over you, Inspector.’

Marmion smiled benignly. ‘I’m sure that it was, sir.’

When Alice finished work that evening, there was no offer from Hannah Billington of a lift home in her car. She and Vera Dowling had to resort to public transport. The bus journey back to their respective digs turned, predictably, into a discussion about their day in the Women’s Emergency Corps.

‘I don’t know how you did it,’ said Vera.

‘I had to do it, Vera. We needed that lorry.’

‘You worked on that engine for ages.’

‘I took a leaf out of my father’s book,’ said Alice. ‘When he’s involved in a case, he always talks about eliminating the alternatives. That’s what I did. I ruled out almost everything that it could be, then I was left with what it really was.’

‘No wonder you’re Mrs Billington’s favourite.’

‘Oh, I’m not. There are plenty of women much more competent than me. I’m still learning, Vera. That’s the beauty of this work. You discover skills that you never realised you had.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said her friend, morosely. ‘I have no skills at all.’

‘That’s simply not true. You worked as hard as I did when we delivered that bedding. And, considering that you understood very little of their language, you handled those children very well.’

‘My teaching experience came in useful there.’

‘Exactly — you have got skills. You just don’t realise it.’

Vera squeezed her arm. ‘Thank you, Alice,’ she said. ‘You always know how to cheer me up. I’d much rather ride back on a bus with you than have a lift in Mrs Billington’s car. When I sat in that, I felt I was trespassing.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

When the bus reached the next stop, Vera got off. Alice had two more stops to go. It was only now that she was on her own that she became aware of a man sitting at the back of the bus. She could see his reflection in the window. Short, sharp-featured and in his forties, he was staring intently at the back of her head. At first, she tried to ignore him but she remained keenly aware of his attention. Every time she glanced at the reflection, she saw the gleaming eyes and the quiet smirk. Alice was glad when the bus eventually reached her stop but, to her alarm, the man also rose from his seat. Alighting from the vehicle, she set off at a brisk pace. The sound of footsteps told her that she was being followed.