‘Why were you so difficult to find, Mr Burridge?’

‘You didn’t look hard enough.’

‘Nobody seemed to know where you’d gone to.’

‘I don’t advertise my whereabouts.’

‘It seemed odd that you should vanish around the time that Mr Stein’s shop was attacked and when he himself was murdered.’

‘You’re a policeman. You have a suspicious mind.’

‘You don’t find it odd, then?’

‘No,’ said Burridge. ‘I had leave owing to me. I took it.’

‘Why did you choose that particular week?’

‘Ask my wife — it were her idea.’

Marmion’s latest ball was met with a straight bat. It was frustrating. Having come ostensibly to help the inquiry, Burridge was doing the opposite. All he was interested in was establishing his innocence. He showed no sadness over the death of his former employer and no regret over the fact that the premises where he had worked for so many years had been burnt down. Burridge seemed to have cut himself off comprehensively from the past.

‘I gather that you and Mr Cohen did not get on,’ said Marmion.

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Not in so many words, sir. It was something I sensed.’

‘David Cohen were a good manager.’

‘But you’d never describe him as a bosom pal, would you?’

‘We had different opinions sometimes.’

‘Did that lead to arguments?’

Burridge smiled. ‘What do you think?’

‘Did you ever argue about money?’

‘No.’

‘Did you complain about the way that the business was run?’

‘I did the job I were paid for, Inspector.’

‘How did you get on with the rest of the staff?’

‘Ask them.’

‘I’m asking you, Mr Burridge.’

The Yorkshireman shrugged. ‘We got on well enough.’

Marmion doubted that. Burridge was the sort of man who would enjoy throwing his weight around when dealing with junior colleagues. In certain circumstances, his physical presence and gruff manner could be rather menacing. Marmion could see why the suave and reserved David Cohen had hinted at difficulties with Burridge. In both character and attitude, the two men would never be natural bedfellows. Marmion stepped up his attack.

‘Did you like Jacob Stein?’ he asked.

‘He were my employer.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘I respected him.’

‘But you didn’t actually like him.’

‘Do you like your boss, Inspector?’

‘That’s beside the point.’

‘Mr Stein gave me work. I were grateful for that.’

‘But not grateful enough, I suspect,’ said Marmion. ‘How much did you see of his brother, Herbert Stone?’

Burridge scowled. ‘Too much.’

‘Did he come to the shop often?’

‘Too often.’

‘Why was that? He had his own business to run.’

‘Mr Stone liked to keep his finger in every pie.’

‘Are you saying that he had a financial interest in the business?’

‘Mr Cohen is the man to ask that.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Marmion, ‘he isn’t. He was surprisingly reticent on the subject. He wouldn’t even tell me how harmonious or otherwise the relationship between Mr Stein and his brother had been.’ Burridge stifled a grin. ‘I was hoping that your famed honesty would allow you to enlighten me on the subject.’

‘Happen.’

‘My guess is that Mr Stone used to browbeat his brother and interfere in the running of the business.’

‘I can see that you’ve met him.’

‘He’s an assertive gentleman.’

‘That’s a kind way of putting it, Inspector,’ said Burridge. ‘I’d have called him a bloody nuisance.’

‘Did he have some involvement in the business?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘And did that entitle him to make decisions relating to it?’

‘Mr Stone thought so.’

‘Was his brother afraid of him?’

‘Everyone were afraid of him — except me.’ Burridge took out his watch and glanced at it before returning it to his waistcoat pocket. ‘How much longer do you need me here, Inspector?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got work to do. Instead of questioning me, you should be looking at people who might be glad that Mr Stein is dead.’

‘Such as?’

‘Start with his brother.’

Marmion was amazed. ‘You surely can’t be accusing Herbert Stone of being party to the murder.’

‘You heard my advice. Take it or leave it.’

‘You must have some reason for naming him.’

‘I’ve got lots of reasons.’

‘What are they?’

‘Find out,’ said Burridge, getting to his feet. ‘Look into the way that the business was structured.’ He fingered his moustache. ‘Will that be all, Inspector?’

Marmion was on his feet. ‘Not quite, sir,’ he said. ‘Why was Howard Fine sacked?’

‘He should never have been taken on in the first place.’

‘Was he such a poor tailor?’

‘Howard never fitted in.’

On that enigmatic note, Burridge gave a nod and departed.

Unlike most of the people Keedy interviewed, Howard Fine was eager to cooperate. He was a tall, slim, dark-haired man in his twenties, wearing an immaculate suit that the sergeant coveted the moment he set eyes on it. They were in a small featureless room that had no natural light coming in. Seated directly under the lampshade, Fine was bathed in an unreal glow. His handsome clean-shaven face was split by a nervous grin and his hands gesticulated whenever he spoke.

‘How long were you with Mr Stein?’ asked Keedy.

‘Five or six weeks in all, Sergeant.’

‘Did you like it there?’

‘Of course,’ said Fine. ‘It was the sort of job that every tailor dreams of. Jacob Stein has a big reputation in the trade. I couldn’t believe my luck when I was taken on by him.’

‘How did that come about, sir?’

‘There was a vacancy and I applied for it. That’s to say, I was tipped off about the vacancy by my uncle who was kind enough to put in a good word for me with Mr Stein. Not that it was as simple as that,’ Fine went on, anxious to dispel any notion of nepotism. ‘I had to show examples of my work and compete with two others on the shortlist. Eventually, I landed the job.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Yes and no. I enjoyed the work itself but I never felt that I was fully accepted. I don’t know why, Sergeant. I’m affable by nature and do my best to get along with everyone. Somehow it never worked.’

‘Could you be a little more specific, Mr Fine?’

‘Well,’ said the other, ‘it came down to two people, I suppose. I hardly saw Mr Stein himself but I had to deal with Mr Cohen and Mr Burridge every day. Mr Cohen — he’s the manager — resented me for some reason. He was always criticising my work.’

‘What about Mr Burridge?’

‘He was much more of a problem. I hate arguments, you see, and run a mile if someone confronts me. Mr Burridge was always doing that. He didn’t just resent me — he hated me and I still don’t know why. I mean, I tried my best. What more could they ask?’

‘So,’ said Keedy, wishing that the man would twitch less, ‘there was obviously tension at work.’

‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t, sir.’

‘I was bullied by Mr Burridge and sniped at by Mr Cohen. To tell you the truth, it began to get on my nerves. At least I don’t have that problem in my new post.’

‘And where might that be, Mr Fine?’

‘I work for a bespoke tailor in Brighton,’ said Fine, beaming. ‘It’s not as grand as being in the West End but I’m much happier and I’m able to live at home with my parents. All in all, it’s worked out for the best. Let’s face it,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘if I’d stayed with Mr Stein, my job would no longer exist. What a tragedy that would have been. Not that it compares with what happened to Mr Stein, of course,’ he said, hastily. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I’m that self-centred. I was shaken rigid when I heard about the murder. It preyed on my mind for days. I do hope you catch the man who killed him.’

Fine launched himself into a paean of praise about Jacob Stein, saying what an honour it had been to work for him, albeit for only a short time. Keedy let him ramble on for minutes then halted him with a forthright question.