She pointed. ‘That’s Ingram. It’s a better likeness than the one you showed me before.’

  ‘What about that one?’ I pointed to the drawing I’d done of Metzger, based on my brief glimpse of him near Barons Court.

  She shook her head. ‘He looks a bit like Ingram, though, don’t you think?’

  I gave a brief laugh, which must have sounded bitter. ‘Yeah, a bit. And that one?’

  ‘Never seen him before.’

  She sounded entirely convincing and I’d no reason to doubt she was telling the truth. I gave it one more try. It had worked, however accidentally, with Mullender; maybe it would again. ‘The name Holsworth mean anything to you?’ She shook her head. ‘What about Tremaine?’ She considered for a moment longer this time, but ultimately her response was the same. If she did recognize either name, then she was hiding it better than Mullender had done.

  My next question was, ‘Did you tell Ingram that I was asking after him? That O’Connor was dead?’

  She stood up abruptly, turning her back to me. ‘Look, I’ve got a fellow coming soon. You don’t want to meet him, any more than he does you. And, anyway, I’ve got to get myself ready.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Please. Maybe another time – we’ll talk some more.’ She paused and gave half a smile. ‘Or not talk.’

  She went over to the door and held it open for me. There was nothing more I could do. As I stepped past her, I stopped to tip my hat, but at the same moment she stretched up on tiptoe and I felt her lips briefly touch mine. ‘Another time,’ she said softly. ‘Really.’

  I remained still for a moment, hoping the kiss would last just a little longer, but it didn’t. I left. There was more on my mind than the faint trace of her saliva on my lips. She’d behaved just as I’d expected – that one last action aside. Whether it was the drawings themselves that had done it, or the names … but something had made her panic, however gracefully. One moment she’d had hours to spend with me, the next there was a client due. It showed she knew something. If it was the sketches, I doubted it was the one of Metzger; there was no reason she should ever have seen him. I was pretty sure by now that Herr Ernst Metzger had very little to do with any of this.

  Back out on the road outside, I looked up at her window. I could just make out her figure through the nets, standing roughly where I had been as I looked in her phone book. Unsurprisingly, she was in no rush to get ready. I raised my hand and waved, and saw the vague movement of her waving back. She didn’t turn away, and so eventually I had to. I headed off down the hill.

  *

  I walked back into Brighton. I needed to think and I needed to eat. I made for the Sussex Grill, on Ship Street. It wasn’t bad there; you could get a good idea of the menu just by reading the name of the place. It could be expensive, but not if you knew what to order. I had sausages with mash, and a cup of tea. It came quickly but I lingered over it. I’d realised there was one very simple way I could find out about Ingram, but it felt like an admission of defeat. Another cup of tea stretched my lunch to over an hour, but then I had to get moving. It wasn’t a long journey. I cut through Black Lion Lane, a passageway between the buildings so narrow that two people couldn’t pass each other without turning sideways, and soon I was outside the Town Hall. I asked for Marchant and it took him only a couple of minutes to show up.

  We sat in the same room as before, in the bowels of Brighton nick. I decided it was better not to mention that he’d given me the name Metzger, not even to thank him. He’d wanted to keep his action secret, and I knew now that Metzger had nothing to do with the case anyway.

  ‘Making progress?’ he asked me.

  ‘Plenty.’ I was making plenty of something, but I wasn’t sure it was progress.

  ‘But now you need some m… some help.’ He caught himself before admitting he’d helped me already. ‘Why else come to me?’

  ‘I need to find someone.’

  ‘You know I can’t help you. This is Tremaine’s business.’

  ‘What, you mean because the chap in the photographs is a Nazi agent?’ That much was allowed. Tremaine had told us both about the supposed connection to the German Embassy.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And what if I told you that the man in the photos is a Geordie hoodlum by the name of Vince Ingram?’

  Marchant raised an eyebrow so high that I wondered if it might be one of his Masonic signals. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked. His voice hinted of repressed excitement at this newfound freedom to investigate the case.

  ‘I might have been lied to. One thing I’m sure of – it’s no German.’

  ‘And this Vince Ingram,’ – he wrote the name down on a pad as he spoke – ‘is he local?’

  ‘Like I say, he’s a Geordie, but I think he’s been down here a while. Nobody would bother hiring muscle that didn’t know the turf.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘You saw the photos.’

  ‘Not for a while.’

  I sighed. I hadn’t intended to lay down all my cards just yet. In future he’d be wary, not letting anything pass under my nose for even a second, for fear I’d memorize it and reproduce it. But I needed to find Ingram, and this disclosure would surely help. I handed over my sketch.

  Marchant chuckled. ‘Your work I take it? Very clever. Anything else?’

  ‘He drives a dark Austin; black or blue I’d guess. I don’t know the model or number.’

  Marchant scribbled those last details down, then tore the sheet off the pad. He took it, along with my drawing, over to the door and out of the room, reappearing moments later. ‘If he’s got form down here, we’ll soon find him.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You think he did it? Killed O’Connor?’

  ‘To be honest, no. But I think he was working with O’Connor, so he might know something.’ Even as I spoke, I knew I was regurgitating my theories of a few hours before. It was O’Connor who had been the victim of some preposterous hoax, convincing him that he was photographing a couple who wanted to keep their actions secret. Ingram was undeniably one of the perpetrators of that hoax. If he was collaborating with anyone, it was with Rachael, not O’Connor. But it didn’t change the basic fact that he must know something.

  ‘You work out anything more about the missing files? Yours or O’Connor’s?’

  ‘The Peeping Tom on Grove Street? Can’t see how that fits in at all. You never told me what they took from O’Connor’s office.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’ He flipped through his notes. ‘Right, well according to what you told us about his referencing system, there were actually two files missing. One was marked “Metropole” and the other was marked ... hang on, can’t read my own writing. Looks like … “Painters”?’

  ‘“Punters,”’ I said confidently.

  ‘“Punters”, that’s it. How did you know?’

  ‘O’Connor was doing some work up at the racetrack. Seems it involved Ingram.’ I took care not to mention Tremaine.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me next what was actually in the file.’ He laughed, but it had an expectant ring to it.

  ‘A list of names. People who were making big losses. People he might be able to shake down.’

  ‘And we both know what happened at the Metropole.’

  ‘That file probably contained the negatives. Maybe some extra prints.’

  ‘More pictures of this Ingram character. I’m becoming keener to speak to him by the minute.’

  The door reopened and Sergeant Purvis walked in, holding a sheaf of papers fastened with a staple. ‘We got him, Governor.’ He handed the bundle to the inspector, but then was kind enough to summarize for us both. ‘Been in Brighton about five years. Four arrests for various kinds of assault. Got off when the witnesses failed to show up. One arrest for obscenity.’

  ‘Obscenity?’

  ‘Caught with a suitcase full of dirty postcards. They were seized and burned. He got a fine.’

  ‘Was he in any of them?’ asked Marchant.

  Purvis looked bemused. ‘I don’t think it says, Governor.’ He leaned over to look.

  ‘I take it there’s an address?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Absolutely. On Grenville Place.’

  I was already on my feet. ‘Right, I’m off.’

  ‘I think we’ll all go, shall we?’ said Marchant, somewhat more calmly. ‘I, for one, would very much like to meet this Mr Ingram. And, besides, it’ll be quicker if we take a car.’

  *

  It was only half a mile, but travelling in the black Wolseley gave our journey a sense of urgency. I half hoped that they’d start ringing the bell, but evidently that was not justified by the circumstances. Marchant plainly had the bit between his teeth. Having sat inactive for a week under Tremaine’s prohibition, he was pleased to get to work at last.

  It was a rundown area, just a block south of Western Road, not far from the pub where I’d found Remick the previous night. I doubted he had any idea how close he was to his attacker’s home. A couple of streets nearby were already in the process of being demolished to make way for some new shopping arcade. From the look of it, Grenville Place would follow soon.

  Ingram’s flat was above a tailor’s shop. The black Austin 10/4 outside was undoubtedly the one I’d seen driving away from Furze Croft two nights before. The flat was accessible via a door opening on to the pavement between two shop fronts: the tailor and a greengrocer’s. Marchant hammered on it with the flat of his hand, but didn’t wait very long for a response. He stepped back out into the roadway and looked up at the window. He raised his hands to his mouth and took a deep breath, as if about to give a shout. Then his arms fell to his sides and a single word escaped his lips; a whisper rather than a yell. ‘Shit!’ I took a step back and looked up towards the window, shielding my eyes against the reflected sunlight, but I couldn’t see anything. Marchant strode over to the door of the tailor’s shop, but the owner had already emerged.

  ‘What’s going on?’ The voice was clipped and shrill, like an old woman’s, but there was a strength to it, too, particularly considering the four of us who stood around him, each at least a foot taller.

  ‘Do you have a key to upstairs?’ Marchant asked him.

  ‘Of course I do, but why should I give it to you?’

  Our driver’s police uniform should have revealed who we were, but the man can’t have registered it. Marchant briskly produced his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Marchant of the Brighton Borough Police. Now give me the key.’ The tailor reached into his trouser pocket and brought out a whole bunch attached to his belt by a chain. He searched through them until he found the right one, then offered it to the inspector. Marchant grabbed it and headed back to the door, unhindered by the tailor who was forced by the taut chain to keep pace with him. Soon he had the door open and was bounding up the stairs beyond. I was right behind him, with Purvis and the driver in tow. The tailor showed little inclination to follow.

  ‘What did you see?’ I shouted up at Marchant, as we climbed, but he didn’t respond. Soon we were on a small landing, with room only for me and the inspector. The other two queued behind us on the stairs. There was only one door. Marchant tried it but it was locked.

  ‘I’ll get the other key,’ said Purvis, as he turned and went back down. We couldn’t see what was happening, but heard the jangling of keys once again.

  ‘Sod this,’ grumbled Marchant. He put his hands up to my chest and firmly pushed me as far away from him as possible, then he barrelled along the short landing and charged the door with his shoulder. I saw almost an inch of light appear between the door and the frame as it bent open, but it didn’t break. A second attempt was more successful. The sound of splintering wood filled my ears, and Marchant fell through the gap he had created, only just managing to regain his balance and stay upright. I followed him into the room and sensed the police driver right behind me. I heard Purvis running up the stairs.

  We were in a room at the front, with a bay window looking out on to the street, right above the shop. I don’t know how Marchant had managed to see it from down there. Perhaps he’d witnessed such things often enough in the past, so that just a slight silhouette told him all he needed to know. The body was hanging by a short length of rope, which itself was tied to the cable for the light; an unshaded bulb was angled inappropriately to one side, as though to mimic the attitude of the head suspended below it. It was an odd thing to do in the circumstances, but I took a moment to be surprised how the light fitting could support such a weight.

  For a moment the corpse remained anonymous, facing out towards the street and so with its back to us. But as we watched the tension in the rope caused it to twist, turning slowly round, as though it had heard us enter and was looking to see who had burst in so rudely and unannounced. This was Ingram’s flat and my guess was it must be Ingram’s body, but soon we would see his face and we would know for sure.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ It was spoken as a whisper, and I don’t know which one of us said it. It could have been me. It certainly expressed my feelings.

  The body was facing us now, and already beginning to turn away again, but still we could not tell who it was, because we could not see a face at all. Once more I was gazing into the snout-like nose and dead, round, glassy eyes of a gas mask.

  CHAPTER 19

  I rushed forwards and grabbed his legs, pushing them upwards in an attempt to take the weight off his neck, but even by the feel of him I could tell he was already dead. Marchant pulled a table over and climbed on to it, taking out a pocket knife to work at the cord. Purvis came over to help me, while the driver hovered beneath Marchant ready to catch him if he fell. When finally the rope snapped, we felt the full weight, demonstrating just how little of it we’d been supporting. We laid him out on the threadbare carpet. Marchant lifted up the head and began fumbling behind it. I thought he was trying to undo the straps of the gas mask, but he clearly had a better sense of priorities than I did. Moments later he had the rope loose and pulled it away. Only then did he begin work on removing the mask. It took him just seconds. He rested the head gently back on the carpet and put his fingers to its neck to feel for a pulse. He tried again on the other side, then leaned over and listened at the chest, but finally he got to his feet, grimly shaking his head.

  ‘That him?’ he asked. ‘That Ingram?’

  I nodded, but then realized he wasn’t looking at me. Purvis went through his papers and found the sketch I’d drawn. He showed it to the inspector, who looked at it, then at the corpse and then back again. ‘No question,’ he said at last.

  ‘It could be Metzger,’ I suggested, forgetting that I wasn’t supposed even to know that name. In life the two men were similar but distinguishable, but in the discoloured stillness of death – and with such scant familiarity with either of them – we might have been fooled.

  Marchant scowled at me. ‘What would a representative of the glorious Third Reich be doing in a rat hole like this?’

  I didn’t respond but reserved judgement on the issue. I’d been jumping to conclusions about the identities of the two men enough already.

  Marchant turned to the driver. ‘Get back to the station,’ he snapped. ‘Tell them what’s happened. Tell them to get a team up here.’ The officer hurried out of the room. ‘Let’s take a look around,’ the inspector continued. He looked at me and I thought he was about to tell me to clear out but, in the end, he settled for, ‘Don’t touch anything. Prints, remember?’ He produced a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and put them on, then turned and walked across the room. It would have sounded authoritative, but for Purvis’s keen eyes.

  ‘What’s that on your foot, Governor?’

  ‘What?’ Marchant looked down. A scrap of white paper was stuck to the sole of his shoe. He bent his leg behind him and plucked it off. He looked at it. Even from where I was standing, I could make out handwriting on it. ‘Shit!’ muttered the inspector.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Suicide note, by the looks of it.’

  ‘It must have been on the table,’ said Purvis. ‘Not your fault, Gov. You had to do something.’

  I was more concerned with what Ingram had written. ‘What does it say?’

  Marchant held it out for me. It wasn’t a full sheet of paper – just a slip big enough only to fit the words scrawled on it.

  Sorry things had to end like this, but after O’Connor I just can’t see any other way out for me.

  Vince.

  Marchant gave me a moment to take it in. ‘Speaks for itself, don’t you think?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘“After O’Connor.” He’s confessing that he killed O’Connor. And he’d have been hanged for that, so he did it himself, instead.’

  ‘Who’s he writing to?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘“Sorry.” Who’s he apologizing to? It’s very personal sounding. “Vince,” not “Vince Ingram,’ or “Vincent Ingram.” If you were leaving a note for some stranger to find, would you sign it like that?’

  ‘There’s no guidebook for writing suicide notes. And, believe me, I’ve seen dozens. People don’t think straight. Anyway, who says he expected a stranger to find him. He didn’t know we were coming. Perhaps he had a sweetheart who had a key. Or maybe he thought the bloke downstairs would find him.’

  I tried another tack, glancing up towards the ceiling. ‘How did he get himself up there?’

  Marchant was ahead of me on that. He pointed to a wooden chair, lying overturned in the corner. ‘Climbed up on that.’

  ‘Long way away.’

  ‘A man kicks out when he’s dangling,’ explained Purvis morbidly. It was probably true. Even if this wasn’t suicide, then whoever had set it up would have left the chair where it chanced to fall.