‘So, that old man, Arthur,’ she said. ‘Is it anything to do with him?’

  Mumtaz paused for just too long. ‘No.’

  ‘Because as soon as you started talking about his house, he changed,’ Danielle said. ‘That’s why I said it was my idea to go to the pub. The way he looked at you was, well it was strange. Not like the way he looks at me. He’s a funny old thing. When I first met him he invited me to his house, saying it was old and that. Don’t s’pose he’ll ask me again …’

  Full disclosure was impossible, and Lee had taught her from the start that involving civilians directly in a case was a strict no-no. But if Arthur Hobbs had somehow rumbled her then she couldn’t have anything to do with him again, not directly …

  Danielle said, ‘I dunno why he was so keen to have me round his place and not you. Unless he knows who you are of course … But he just met me on the street that first time. Pregnant, hanging about like some street kid … I mean if he’s so proud of his heritage, why didn’t he want to speak to you? You’re a much better bet than me.’

  An idea began to form in Mumtaz’s mind. But she didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t be able to until she’d spoken to Lee.

  ‘And anyway,’ Danielle said, ‘can’t be that up his arse about his privacy, not with all the blokes in and out his place.’

  What did men carry whilst walking through central London in the early hours of the morning? One school of thought would probably state that just about anything was the answer. In an infinite universe that had to be true. But in reality those things, as observed on CCTV footage by DS Melina Pinker, boiled down to newspapers, sports bags, umbrellas and beer glasses – full or empty. The few women in evidence carried hand- or shoulder bags and also the odd umbrella. However, no woman had walked through St Paul’s graveyard the night the baby’s body had been discovered. In fact only two men had actually been caught on camera traversing the space. In both cases the images were unclear and neither of the men in question were carrying anything.

  Pinker put her chin in her hands. The baby had been small. Just under three kilos. Could a small baby like that be effectively hidden inside a coat? Maybe if it had been already dead?

  Following one subject using footage from several different cameras wasn’t easy, but it did seem as if one of the men had spent longer inside the graveyard than the other. Melina asked the technician to bring up the first footage they had of man number one on the screen and then freeze the frame.

  ‘Can you enhance this so we can see his face?’ she asked.

  The technician shrugged. ‘Dunno until I try,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to give me a bit of time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Couple of hours?’

  ‘Make it an hour and I’ll buy you a bag of doughnuts from Tesco’s,’ Melina said.

  Lee was parked up outside Gary Connor’s massive house. Tucked away, or rather not so much tucked as Christ knew how far from the Abridge Road, technically Gary’s palace was in Chigwell. Modern, clean-lined, set in several acres of manicured lawn, Walnut House was a testament to what could be done with steel and glass to ensure that both of those materials looked really unpleasant.

  Of course, there were massive electric gates in front of the massive driveway up to the house. The gates and the front of the property bristled with CCTV cameras. But by Gary’s own admission, the back way onto his estate was an open book. Accessed via an old unmade track, the far reaches of Gary’s empire were covered by a wood.

  Gary had told him, ‘I never knew where I could site cameras in all that.’

  Had it occurred to him to get some advice? He’d just shrugged and moved on to the next thing when Lee had asked.

  Lee was about to drive off and explore where he’d be positioning himself for the obbo the following day when Mumtaz called. She told him what she’d done, about this girl Danielle, and he’d had to stop himself losing his shit. As calmly as he could he said, ‘We don’t tell anyone what we’re doing and I mean no one.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s not dim,’ Mumtaz said. ‘And she covered for me with the man who owns the house with the blue door.’

  ‘If he made you too, then you’re not having a good day,’ Lee said.

  This whole thing had been fucked from the word go.

  ‘Listen!’ she said. ‘I agree. Not good. But I think we can salvage something out of this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Danielle is pregnant, at home and bored,’ she said. ‘She wanders around the local area, nursing swollen ankles, looking at things. She’s very observant. She told me she’s seen men going into and out of that house.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the old man, Arthur Hobbs, told me he is very jealous of his privacy.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t like women,’ Lee said.

  ‘He likes Danielle,’ she said. ‘He invited her in when he first met her.’

  Lee didn’t say anything. He really wasn’t that concerned about what he privately in his head called The Case of the Kid with the Nosebleed.

  Eventually Mumtaz said, ‘I’ve told Danielle I can tell her nothing. She accepts that. If I haven’t queered the pitch for her, then she can get in – and she will.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to tell her about the kid,’ Lee said. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘No and I won’t,’ Mumtaz said. ‘But if we wire her up …’

  ‘A pregnant woman? Have you lost your fucking mind?’

  ‘Lee, she’s a working-class, Dagenham girl.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Meaning she’s no one’s fool,’ Mumtaz said. ‘And anyway, if you’re right about this business then there’s nothing to be afraid of, is there?’

  ‘Mumtaz, a baby was killed less than two hundred yards from Carter Court.’

  She thought about this for a moment and then said, ‘You think there’s a connection?’

  ‘I think it’s always a good thing to keep an open mind,’ Lee said. ‘Your dad’s teenage mates may well want to keep all this under wraps but depending on what we find, that may not be possible. This Danielle know that a baby’s been found dead?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mumtaz said.

  ‘Then find out,’ Lee said. ‘If she doesn’t know for some reason then maybe you should tell her.’

  He ended the call. Then he sat for a moment thinking. After that he made a call – but not to Mumtaz.

  SEVEN

  Without preamble, Habib Farooqi’s mother burst into his bedroom and shouted, ‘How long have you been on that bloody phone?’

  It had been a while. Loz was getting himself into a right state over the kid at St Paul’s, Kym’s dad and everything else.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Habib told his mum.

  Loz on the other end said, ‘Ring me back.’

  Habib ended the call. His mother said, ‘I know you like to talk to Lawrence but you see each other all the time. Why do you have to be on the phone too? Eh?’

  ‘Oh, he’s just …’

  ‘Put the phone away and do your homework!’ She made to go and then said, ‘And give me the bloody phone!’

  ‘Oh …’

  She ripped it out of his hands and then left.

  Habib had heard nothing from Mrs Hakim. Maybe she’d decided that there was nothing to investigate. He had her number but was afraid to call it. Much as he’d reassured Loz that everything was alright, Habib knew that it wasn’t. The state that boy had been in, they should have just called the police. If Mrs Hakim hadn’t got back to him then either she’d dropped the whole thing or she’d not discovered anything. The kid could be dead by this time!

  The police had found a dead baby in St Paul’s Churchyard. Could that boy have been involved in that? Maybe that blood on him had come from the dead baby? Maybe he’d killed it? But then he’d asked for help …

  Habib and Loz had bonded over worry. Years ago back at primary school, they’d both been frightened of Mrs Malyon and they’d both been horrified when they’d been put in her class. She shouted and if she didn’t like you then she shouted even more. A lot of the kids laughed about it, but not Habib and Loz. Neither of them liked getting up to read to the class and that was one of Mrs Malyon’s favourite things. Habib always felt his heart go really fast whenever he had to do it, and then he began to feel sick. Loz just used to wet his pants. The two of them fretted for days about reading in class. But having company did make it better. Not that reading in class was as serious as this. This was making Habib unable to sleep. Loz was a mess. And now Habib’s mum had his phone so even if Mrs Hakim did call, he’d miss it.

  You had to walk through a short tunnel between two old buildings to get to Carter Court and then, once inside, it was very difficult to conceal yourself. The only thing it wasn’t possible to do was hide the fact that you were visiting. Or was it?

  Danielle had been watching the entrance for over an hour and she’d only seen two men. They’d gone straight to the pub which, by the sound of it, was full. Arthur was at home. It wasn’t much to tell Marian, if she decided to, but then she’d said that anything Danielle observed would be useful. But to whom and why? Danielle was conflicted about Marian. She crossed her arms over her chest. Henry would be home soon. He’d rung her earlier to say that he was bringing a partner in a rival firm and his wife to the flat for ‘supper’. What was supper? Back home it had meant a bit of white sliced and jam before bed.

  To be fair Henry had said he’d cook, which meant it’d probably be some organic thing with lots of seeds. That was OK. But it was the conversation that she dreaded. This man’s wife was also a solicitor and so there’d be law talk, which she was used to. But then they’d probably discuss politics at some point, which was where it could all go a bit wrong. Henry and people like him were always so sure of themselves and she always felt that if she disagreed in any way, they’d laugh at her. Not literally but they’d exchange those looks she so dreaded, as if they pitied her. Then, sometimes, Henry would get the ’ump once the guests had gone and she’d have to say that she was sorry, that she’d spoken out of turn.

  But then in a weird sort of way, she’d had a good day and so she wasn’t as wound up as usual. Maybe the ‘supper’ would go OK? Maybe now she could just keep quiet and let them do the talking without feeling as if her rage would consume her.

  ‘I’m sorry mate, I know you mean well, but I think this is getting out of hand.’

  Jordan felt slapped. He’d known that Scott Brown was down to earth when he’d been seconded to CID – and he knew that had only happened because Wilko had suggested it. Had Wilko himself told Brown what he’d just told him, the DI would have at least given it consideration, even if he did think it was bullshit. Wilko was one of those people you didn’t actually say no to.

  That accepted, Jordan knew he had to fight his own corner. He said, ‘It’s not just tinfoil-hat conspiracy stuff, guv. There are actual documents that relate to these tunnels.’

  He’d found some documentary evidence, via City of London archives, that at one time, a tunnel had existed between St Paul’s Cathedral and the old St Paul’s Choir School, across Ludgate Hill. Not only that, but other tunnels existed in that area too – principally between providers of some goods and services to the church. All had, it was said, been blown out of existence during the London Blitz. Most of the buildings round about had been razed to the ground. But what if some of the tunnels were still in existence, and what if one or more of them provided unseen access to the cathedral?

  ‘Yeah, but Constable, I’ve already interviewed the priests about how one gets in and out of the cathedral and no tunnels was even hinted at,’ Brown said.

  ‘Maybe they don’t know they’re there?’ Jordan said.

  Brown shrugged. ‘DS Pinker’s having a go at getting CCTV footage enhanced. Let’s see if we can identify any faces from that.’

  He patted Jordan patronisingly on the shoulder. Berk.

  He’d patronised Father George too. But then Jordan had found him a bit too strange as well. Wilko knew some odd types. He’d met some PIs from Newham with Wilko at St Paul’s Churchyard. Apparently randomly wandering the city, but Jordan had to wonder what they were really doing. The woman had been beautiful. It had been a while since he’d met a woman who had really excited him, but she did. He wondered what his Nana Willi would make of her, and came to the conclusion that she would probably be horrified. His family didn’t ‘do’ Islam.

  DS Pinker arrived carrying a large box of doughnuts and said to Brown, ‘Come and look at this, guv. Think we might have got a face.’

  Nobody really knew what the old king had looked like. And while he hoped that what he had created did bear some sort of resemblance to him, Arthur Hobbs was grudgingly aware that this carving didn’t. He’d imagined wild hair, a bit like dreadlocks, which was probably fairly accurate. But whether he’d had handsome features was more open to question. Back then, before dentistry, a man in middle age would likely be entirely toothless for one thing. Hunting and fighting may have produced scars, maybe even the loss of an eye or ear.

  But it was all speculative. No one could really know at this distance in time. What the mask had to do was inspire fear more than anything else, because he had to have been fearsome. A warrior king, he bore about as much resemblance to modern monarchs as a wild boar does to a domestic pig. And like a boar he would have been a thoroughbred. Born wild, free and pure, he would have anointed himself, as they did back then. No namby-pamby priest smearing a bit of oil on the head back then!

  Arthur was just about to close his eyes and try to imagine how it might have been, when he remembered that the boy needed to be fed. He got up slowly from his chair and shuffled into the kitchen. The fridge didn’t offer a great deal of variety, but poking around at the back he found some corned beef and a tomato. That’d have to do. He could make a sandwich for the boy, he’d like that.

  They met, as they often did, in the gloom that was the interior of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street. There were several reasons why they met there. Firstly, Wilko liked the beer and the fact that the Cheese had wooden floors sprinkled with sawdust. Secondly, they both enjoyed an open fire and a plain wooden table; and finally, because there was something inherently disreputable about the place. Whether that was to do with the fact that until the 1980s most of Fleet Street’s most famous hacks had patronised the pub – and got arse’oled – or because the upper storeys had been used as a brothel in the eighteenth century, neither of them knew or cared. The policeman and the priest came to the Cheese because they felt comfortable there and because of the ghosts.

  Back in mediaeval times there had been a monastery on the site. Various vaulted chambers remained below street level and, while Wilko sometimes felt like drinking downstairs with a host of barely visible thirteenth-century divines, this evening he and Father George were upstairs. This was largely because they were expecting a guest.

  ‘I dunno what he wants any more’n you do,’ Wilko said as he hefted his pint and then took a long, deep swig of beer. ‘He’s always been a bit out the ordinary, as you know.’

  Father George, already three glasses of port down, said, ‘I heard a whisper that he’s been having an affair with the woman who works for him.’

  ‘Really?’ Wilko shrugged. ‘That’s a Muslim lady. Covered her head when I saw her. Didn’t think that’d be his sort, but who knows?’

  ‘So when did he get in contact?’

  ‘This afternoon,’ Wilko said. ‘Out on some obbo at the time. Funny, precarious sort of living, being a PI. Serving notices on people, looking at women asking the milkman in for a bit of how’s your father and taking pictures. Like The Job – you have to put up with a load of bad behaviour …’

  ‘Wilko …’

  He looked over his shoulder and saw that Lee Arnold had arrived.

  They all peered at the image on the screen. DS Pinker said, ‘This is as good as they can get it. You can sort of see a face.’

  To Jordan it wasn’t much more than a smudge, but then he wasn’t accustomed to looking at such things.

  ‘IC1,’ DI Brown said.

  ‘Or 2,’ Pinker added. ‘Dark hair. I may be wrong, but …’

  ‘Not carrying anything.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But he’s clutching the front of his coat.’

  ‘It was cold.’

  ‘Yeah. But remember the child was newborn, guv,’ Pinker said. ‘Just under three kilos. Small by modern standards. And if it was already dead then he could’ve laid it flat against his body.’

  This was how you had to be able to think in CID, Jordan thought as he felt his skin crawl. You had to be able to model the thought processes of murderers and rapists. You had to put yourself inside a disordered or desperate head.

  To a certain extent that was true of life in uniform too, but in CID it was all so much more. In order to be successful, you had to employ speculation and then, in some cases, run with that speculation to reach a range of conclusions, none of which might be correct.

  ‘Do you get age from this image?’ Brown asked Pinker.

  ‘Technician reckons thirties to fifties, guv.’

  Brown raised his eyes. ‘About as useful as …’

  ‘Guv, he’s saying the bloke’s from early to late middle age.’

  ‘Alright.’ He waved a dismissive hand at her. This was obviously not as useful as Brown had hoped. He said, ‘Get an artist in. Sometimes they can make out things we can’t.’

  Then he left the office with, ‘Going down the boozer.’

  Alone with Melina Pinker, Jordan said, ‘This artist …’

  ‘We use several,’ she said. ‘Geezer who lives over Trinity Buoy Wharf is about the best, I think.’

  Trinity Buoy Wharf was a well-known artistic colony over on Bow Creek. Jordan had once wandered over there with some of his mates as a teenager. If he remembered correctly, some of the artists over there lived in old shipping containers. Why anyone would want to do such a thing was beyond him, but then he thought that was probably because they were posh.