He and Keedy had agreed that they wouldn’t show the photograph to the father. Since it was hidden, it was clearly not meant for his eyes. Besides, he had enough to cope with as it was. He was still mourning the violent murder of his son. It would be cruel to introduce proof that his own flesh and blood had kept something from him. The important thing was to identify the woman and that would be fairly straightforward. The name of the photographer was franked into the corner of the photo. They would be able to find out who she was, when the photo was taken and, possibly, where she lived. She would need to be approached with discretion. Marmion didn’t want to cause a violent domestic upset with her husband but the woman obviously meant a great deal to Ablatt. She could be an important witness.

When he heard the door open, he quickly put the photo away in his pocket. Keedy emerged with an ashen Gerald Ablatt by his side. The detectives had both been touched to see that the father had taken the trouble to put on his best suit to visit the corpse of his son. The experience had patently had a profound effect on him. His eyes were glazed, his mouth agape and his movements uncertain. Keedy had to help him along with a hand under his elbow. They walked past Marmion in silence, went down the corridor and turned a corner. A minute later, Keedy came back to the inspector.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Marmion. ‘He wanted the nearest lavatory.’

‘When he saw the body, he very nearly threw up.’

‘Was it that bad?’

‘Somebody didn’t like Cyril Ablatt. They not only smashed in his skull, they battered his body as well.’

‘What about Mr Ablatt?’

‘He almost keeled over when the shroud was drawn back.’

‘Was he able to identify the body as that of his son?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Keedy. ‘There was a birthmark on his shoulder and a long scar on his arm that he’d picked up as a boy. Besides, I think he knew in his heart that it had to be his son. We didn’t even have to show him the deceased’s effects.’

‘Poor man!’ sighed Marmion. ‘He’ll need support.’

‘His only close relative is a sister. She lives not far away.’

‘Then we’ll call on her after we’ve taken him home. We can visit the scene of the crime afterwards.’

‘What about the press?’

‘The superintendent is going to issue a statement and say that we’ve been assigned to the case. That means they’ll be dogging our heels from now on.’

‘A dead conchie won’t arouse much compassion, I fear.’

‘He’s a murder victim, Joe — nothing else matters.’

‘It does to the press.’

‘Then we may have to educate them.’

They chatted on for several minutes, reviewing the information they’d so far gathered and discussing the form that the investigation would take. Eventually, they saw Cyril Ablatt coming slowly along the corridor towards them with his eyes on the floor. When he reached the detectives, he gazed up at them.

‘I’m very sorry about that,’ he murmured.

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Marmion told him with a consoling hand on his arm. ‘It’s a perfectly natural reaction. Your son’s effects belong to you now. When we’ve collected them, we’ll give you a lift home. Then we’ll make contact with your sister. At a time like this, you’ll need family around you.’

Ablatt looked surprised. ‘But I have to open the shop.’

‘Nobody will expect you to do that, sir.’

‘I hate to let customers down.’

‘People will understand,’ said Keedy. ‘In the circumstances, they’ll respect your right to mourn in private.’

‘There are so many things to do — funeral arrangements and that.’

‘The body won’t be released until after the post-mortem.’

Ablatt shuddered. ‘They’re going to cut him open?’ he said, aghast. ‘Hasn’t Cyril suffered enough already?’

‘It’s normal procedure in cases like this, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘A postmortem might yield some valuable clues — what the murder weapon was likely to be, for instance. We’ll let you know as soon as your son’s body is ready for collection. And there’s something else we’d advise.’

‘What’s that, Inspector?’

‘Don’t talk to the press. Newspapers have no right to hound you but that won’t stop them trying to do so. If they pester you, we can always put a constable outside your house to keep them at bay.’

‘It’s not the newspapers that worry me,’ said Ablatt, grimly. ‘It’s them.’

‘Who do you mean, sir?’

‘I’m talking about the people who painted those things on our wall. When they hear what’s happened, they’ll be back again.’ His face crumpled. ‘What kind of cruel things will they say about Cyril this time?’

Of the three friends, Fred Hambridge was the one who relied most heavily on the young librarian. Price had a more independent mind and Leach’s main emotional commitment was to Ruby Cosgrove. It was Hambridge who hung on every word that Cyril Ablatt uttered. He was in awe of his friend’s superior education and assurance. In their discussions of religion, Ablatt had even made the carpenter look afresh at his Quaker upbringing. Because he wanted to attend the second session of the NCF, Hambridge got to the workshop an hour earlier than usual to compensate for the time he intended to take off in the afternoon. There was plenty to do. He was making a sash window for a customer in Stepney and had a variety of other tasks awaiting his attention. Unlike Price and Leach, he actually enjoyed his job. He’d always been good with his hands and soon learnt the mysteries of working with different woods.

In return for the books that Ablatt had loaned him, Hambridge had made the bookcase that stood in his friend’s bedroom. It had been a Christmas present. The carpenter was a slow reader but a quick worker. In the time it took him to read a book from cover to cover, he’d finished, varnished and delivered the gift to a grateful Ablatt. As he worked away at the sash window, he sifted through his memories of the meeting of the NCF. Chief among them was the sense of awe he’d felt when he saw his friend speak with such fire and cogency in front of a room of strangers. Ablatt seemed to grow in stature and importance. The effect on the audience was startling. He had every handkerchief there fluttering madly by way of an ovation. Ablatt’s testimony was at once personal and universal, something that came from his inner convictions yet embodying an ideal that all of them shared.

Time sped past in the cluttered workshop. Hambridge was still bent over the bench when his employer finally arrived. Charlie Redfern was a flabby man in his forties with a beard that never managed to come to fruition and, invariably, with a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. He had a cheerful disposition and a ready supply of jokes. For once, however, he looked serious.

‘Hello, Fred.’

‘Good morning, Charlie.’

‘You’ve already started,’ said Redfern, noting the window. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘About an hour or so,’ said Hambridge. ‘And there’s a reason. Will it be all right if I leave earlier this afternoon?’

The request was ignored. ‘Which way did you come here?’

‘I came the usual way.’

‘Then you’ll have missed it. There’s a crowd up near Drysdale Street. I stopped to see what all the fuss was about — and guess what?’

‘Tell me.’

‘There’s been a murder. Policemen were guarding the place where it happened. The rumour is that someone was beaten to death there.’

Hambridge gulped. ‘Did they say who’d been killed?’

‘It was a young chap.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Sometime last night, I suppose. That’s all I know.’

Hambridge’s mind was an inferno of doubt and apprehension. On the previous evening, the route to the carpenter’s house would have taken Ablatt close to Drysdale Street. Was that the reason he’d failed to arrive? Hambridge was rocked. The thought that his friend and mentor had been killed was horrifying. He couldn’t imagine how he and his friends could manage without their leader. There was no proof that the murder victim was Cyril Ablatt but, in his fevered brain, the possibility that it might be swiftly grew into a likelihood before settling into a certainty. He had to know the truth. Reaching for his coat and hat, he put them on as fast as he could.