‘We’ll need someone to identify the body,’ said Marmion, softly.

Ablatt stiffened. ‘I’ll go,’ he volunteered. ‘He’s my son. It’s my duty.’

‘There’s no rush, sir. We’ll wait until you’re good and ready. Meanwhile, there’s something you might do for us. You’ll appreciate that we know very little about your son. Anything you can tell us would be valuable. Which library does he work at, for instance? We’ll need to speak to his employers. And what about his friends — did he go to that meeting alone or was he with someone else?’

‘Oh, all four of them went, Inspector — Gordon, Fred, Mansel and Cyril.’

‘Could you give me those names again, please?’ asked Keedy, taking out a notebook and pencil. ‘We’ll need the addresses as well.’

‘They all live in Shoreditch.’ As Ablatt reeled off the names, Keedy wrote them down. ‘Gordon Leach, Fred Hambridge and Mansel Price. Gordon works at the bakery two streets away. Fred is even closer.’

He provided the addresses and explained that the three of them often came to the house. Ablatt had no young lady in his life. Encouraged by the detectives, he then talked about his son with a kind of doomed affection, shuttling between pride in his achievements and despair at his murder. They let him ramble on, garnering an immense amount of information as he did so. The corpse in the police morgue began to take on life and definition. When the recitation finally came to an end, Marmion asked the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since he entered the house.

‘Did your son have any enemies, Mr Ablatt?’

The older man blinked. ‘No, he didn’t,’ he answered, resentfully. ‘Not the way you mean, Inspector. People didn’t like it because he refused to join up and some of them called him names. Then there are those things painted on the side wall. They hurt us at the time but we got used to them. But there were never any real enemies. Nobody hated Cyril enough to kill him.’ The question had unnerved him somehow and he was trembling. ‘I know you want me to come with you but I’ll need to get dressed and I’d like a little time to myself first, if that’s all right.’

‘Take as much time as you like, sir,’ said Marmion, sympathetically. ‘And thank you for being so helpful. Oh, there is one more thing. We’ll need a recent photograph of your son.’

‘I’ll find one.’

‘Thank you. Could the sergeant and I take a look at your son’s room, please?’

Ablatt was defensive. ‘Why do you want to do that?’

‘We’re still trying to build up a picture of him.’

‘But I’ve told you all you need to know.’

‘His room might be able to add a few salient details.’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘You told us that he spent a lot of time in it.’

Ablatt gazed upwards. ‘He used to read up there — and practise his speeches.’

‘You didn’t mention any speeches, sir.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘What sort of speeches were they?’

‘The kind he was going to make at the meeting yesterday. Cyril had studied public speaking, you see. It’s what gave him his confidence. He could talk the hind leg off a donkey.’ He looked suspiciously from one to the other. ‘All that you’ll find up there is a pile of books.’

‘Their titles might tell us something about him,’ said Marmion. Well?’

It took Gerald Ablatt a long time to reach his decision. Part of him wanted to protect his son’s privacy while another part of him was eager to do anything that would help the police. In the end, realism won the battle against family sentiment. Ablatt pointed upstairs.

‘It’s the room at the back,’ he said.

Without another word, he went slowly upstairs, grief visibly weighing him down. In the short time they’d been with him, he seemed to have aged ten years.

‘I felt so rotten having to tell him the news,’ confessed Marmion. ‘It was like sticking a knife into him.’

‘He bore up very well — better than most people do.’

‘Did you believe everything he told us about his son?’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘He’d have no reason to lie, would he?’

‘Let’s go and find out.’

Having given the father time to get to his bedroom, they ascended the stairs. As they did so, they could hear the sound of sobbing coming from behind the first door they reached. They walked along the landing to the room at the rear. Marmion led the way in and put on the light. There was barely enough space for the two of them to get inside. Crammed into the room was a single bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe and a bookcase filled to overflowing. Books also stood on the window sill, the top of the wardrobe and the floor. Many of them were dog-eared and had tattered covers. On the bedside table was a large Bible.

Marmion’s eye went to the framed photograph on the wall. It showed Cyril Ablatt and what he assumed was his mother, both smiling at the camera. He knew that it must have been taken at least three years ago when Mrs Ablatt was still alive.

‘Nice-looking lad,’ he said. ‘I wish I’d looked like that at his age. It would have made me more popular among the ladies.’

‘Yet his father said he didn’t have one,’ recalled Keedy. ‘What does that make him — a mother’s boy?’

‘I don’t know. How would you describe someone who spends most of his time alone in his bedroom?’

‘I’d say he was a silly fool. He’s missing all the fun.’

‘This was fun to him, Joe. He loved his books.’

‘All work and no play …’

‘Why did he stay up here when he could have been reading downstairs? It would have been far more comfortable to sit in an armchair. There has to be a reason why he preferred being up here.’

‘Tell me what it is.’

‘He was secretive,’ said Marmion. ‘That’s what this bedroom says to me. There are things in here that he didn’t want anyone else to know.’

‘What sort of things?’

They conducted a quick search, opening the wardrobe to check its contents, examining the items on the little mantelpiece and even looking under the bed. Keedy reached out a long arm to retrieve a scrapbook. He flicked it open and saw newspaper cuttings pasted neatly inside it. Most related to the war and to those who campaigned to bring it to an immediate end. Ablatt had also kept photographs of people he admired. One of them showed an old, bearded man in the garb of a Russian peasant.

‘Who the devil is this?’ wondered Keedy.

‘I think it’s Tolstoy. He’s the man who wrote War and Peace.’

‘Even I have heard of that. It doesn’t make sense, Harv. Why cut out a photo of someone who writes a book about war? Cyril Ablatt was against it.’

‘So was Tolstoy,’ said Marmion. ‘In later life, he had a kind of spiritual crisis and developed his own version of Christianity.’

Keedy was impressed. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Ablatt wasn’t the only one who enjoyed reading — not that I get much time for it nowadays. What I do remember is that Tolstoy drew a lot of inspiration from the Sermon on the Mount. He believed in renouncing violence, wealth and sexual pleasure.’

‘I agree with him about violence. Our job would be a hell of a lot easier if everyone turned his back on that. But I’m not so sure about wealth. And as for sexual pleasure …’

They shared a muted laugh. Marmion then took a closer look at the volumes in the bookcase. There were a few novels and some poetry anthologies but most were related to Christian teaching. There were also two books on public speaking and some political pamphlets. Keedy took down a book from the top of the wardrobe.

‘The Water Babies,’ he noted.

‘It’s by Charles Kingsley. He was a clergyman.’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘We read bits of it to Alice when she was younger. She loved stories. You’d never get her to sleep unless you read something to her.’

Keedy bit back the comment he was about to make and replaced the book on the wardrobe. The room had light-green wallpaper with a floral pattern. He noticed how faded it had become and felt sad that a young man in his twenties had chosen to spend so much of his leisure time locked up in the depressing little room. Keedy’s mental scrapbook had much more colourful and exciting illustrations in it than anything found under the bed. In his opinion, Cyril Ablatt had missed so much.