She gave me one of her rare smiles. It didn’t suit her. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  I went upstairs. The door was pulled shut, but the frame was still broken. I pushed it open and went straight to my living room to look around. The place had been straightened up. The standard lamp was upright again, with its shade back in place. Newspaper had been taped over the broken window. The bloodstain on the wall was gone, but the hole in the plaster was bigger now where they’d dug out the bullet. The chair had been put back in place by someone who didn’t quite know where it was supposed be. I went and looked down the side of it. The stain in the carpet remained, though it looked as though someone – Mrs Croft presumably – had tried to scrub it out. It was a hopeless task.

  I went back out to my office. This was where the real clues would be, or at least the ones I could make sense of. It didn’t look like anything had been moved since I’d last seen it the night before. The filing cabinets still had their drawers pulled wide open. Papers remained scattered on the desk.

  O’Connor had taught me a lot in the years we worked together. His own path into the world of the private detective had been different from mine. He’d originally worked on the railways as an engineer. I remember when he’d first told me about it. He’d been at pains to point out that he didn’t mean ‘engineer’ in the American sense. He didn’t drive the locomotives; he maintained them – repaired them. It was – at least in his mind – a far more illustrious job. He’d left the Southern Railway under something of a cloud, but always approached his work with a scientific, mathematical attitude. I still used the filing system he’d devised.

  One of its key benefits was in just such a situation as this – it could tell you what was missing. I looked first at the open files on the desk. It seemed self-evident that O’Connor had been studying them. They all began with ‘G’: ‘George Street (Brighton)’, ‘Geoffreys’ and ‘Goldstone’. Each file had a number on the back – acting as a unique identifier. I went through them all – not just the three that had been left out, but everything in the cabinets – ticking each one off against the entry in the master list kept separately in a drawer in my desk. It took me about half an hour but by the end it was easy to see that there was just a single file missing: ‘Grove Street’. Evidently O’Connor had grabbed all the ‘G’s and then taken the one he wanted.

  And yet he couldn’t have. He couldn’t have taken anything, because he had never left. It would have been difficult to conceal a file on his body. On the other hand, the police might have taken it before I arrived, but I could see no reason why Marchant wouldn’t have then asked me about it. And there was more than that: it was O’Connor’s own system that had told me what was missing. He knew that I used it. If he’d wanted to steal something – and hide the fact that it was gone – he’d have altered or destroyed the master list, or at least extracted individual items, not the entire file. It was obvious who had taken it: whoever had killed him.

  I tried to recall what the Grove Street case had been about. It was from a couple of years before – a Peeping Tom. Someone had been prowling through the back gardens on one side of the street, but there’d been no attempt at burglary, so the police weren’t interested. I’d kept an eye on the place for a few nights, and the problem had stopped – and, as far as I knew, never recurred. I got paid for my time. That was about as exciting as most cases got for me. I couldn’t see how anything about O’Connor’s death could be related to Grove Street. Might it have been him, prowling around behind the houses with his camera, collecting evidence of some sort? But again that assumed he had taken the file. It may well have been him that was looking for it – and him that found it. But he certainly didn’t take it. He took nothing because he never had the chance to leave. It was now in the hands of whoever had killed him. There had to be a reason why that second man hadn’t just run for it after pulling the trigger – why he’d made sure to grab the file.

  But, try as I might, I couldn’t see what a German diplomat, an envoy of Herr Hitler to His Majesty King George VI, would be doing hanging around in the back gardens of a nondescript terrace in Brighton, getting his thrills by peering through the windows at middle-aged women preparing for bed.

  *

  I decided that I liked Tremaine. I didn’t trust him but I liked him – he made good conversation and that was more than many could achieve. And it was only natural for me to distrust him; he was a spy. Deceit was his profession. He’d have been offended if I thought otherwise.

  The particular matter over which I didn’t trust him was his assertion that he’d had no idea O’Connor planned to break into my rooms. That seemed just a little too generous of him; too much of a distraction from the real task for which he’d hired O’Connor: getting hold of something he could use against the unnamed German. ‘Peeved’ was the word he’d used to describe his reaction to the news that O’Connor wouldn’t be coming to London in person. He’d said he couldn’t force O’Connor to run the errand himself, but it didn’t sound like he’d even tried. I knew O’Connor and, in circumstances like that, he’d have caved at the slightest pressure. Tremaine would only have allowed it if what O’Connor was doing was likely to be of benefit to him – and that meant it must be something to do with the blackmail. It hardly mattered whether O’Connor had actually explained to Tremaine where he was going to look for dirt on the German, but that must have been why he was in my rooms. Somewhere in the Grove Street file there was information relating to the German. After that, the rest seemed obvious. Somehow the German had got wind of things, killed O’Connor and taken the file himself. And then destroyed it, most likely.

  There was always another possibility. When you shoot a man in the face, you can usually be pretty certain of exactly who he is. But not in this case; O’Connor had been wearing a mask. Whatever my speculations about why anyone should want to kill O’Connor, they rested on the foundation that someone did want to kill him. If his death was merely the result of mistaken identity, then all bets were off.

  But I wasn’t going to mention any of that at my next port of call. I was in Hove now, walking along Eaton Villas. O’Connor had moved house since I’d been working with him, so the place was new to me, but I had the address. It struck me that I should feel bad at never having visited someone who used to be so close to me, but I felt nothing. It was a nice area; O’Connor had obviously done well for himself with his divorce cases. I went up to the front door and pulled the bell. A face appeared from behind the net curtains at the bay window. The expression was sour; the hair was pinned up and close to the skull, dark but not naturally so. I remembered her name now: Vera. I still knew better than to use it. I could tell by her scowl that she’d recognized me too. A moment later she opened the door.

  ‘Mrs O’Connor …’ I had no chance to say more, but I noticed briefly the tears in her eyes as she turned away and headed along the hall. I could only presume she meant me to follow. I closed the door behind me. She went back into the living room and sat down on the settee. A ginger cat jumped up on to her lap and she began to stroke it. She didn’t offer me a chair, so I remained standing close to the door.

  ‘They told me they’d let you go,’ she said reproachfully.

  ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘He was in your flat.’

  ‘He broke in.’ I knew I’d get more out of her if I appeared contrite, but I had to defend myself.

  ‘I’m sure he had his reasons.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘Leave it to the police. No sense both of you getting killed.’ It was the first hint that she had any sympathy for me at all.

  ‘I’m not sure the police are going to make much effort.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘They’ve been told to lay off – by someone high up in government.’

  She said nothing. This was evidently not news to her.

  ‘He told you, didn’t he?’ I said.

  ‘He mentioned something. He couldn’t tell me very much, of course, and I didn’t want to know. But he said it might mean a whole new line of work for him – might earn him enough money to mean we could move out of this place and find somewhere better.’

  I looked around the room and found it hard to conceive what was so bad about ‘this place’. It was almost as big as Mrs Croft’s whole house, and there were only the two of them living here. Only one now.

  ‘Did he mention a man named Tremaine to you?’ I asked.

  ‘We agreed from the start: work and home stay separate.’ The cat was trying to get away now, but she held it firmly by the back of its neck as she continued to stroke it. ‘I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell. Even when he had to go away, I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Away?’

  ‘He stayed at a lot of hotels; that’s all I know.’

  ‘He took his camera?’

  She nodded. She must have guessed something; that was why she was so loath to talk. But she probably thought that, for a divorce, it was enough just to get a shot of the unfaithful couple having dinner together. Sometimes it was, but Mrs O’Connor would never guess just how intimate her husband’s pictures could be. I wasn’t going to disabuse her.

  ‘Did he ever mention anyone German?’

  ‘He was always going on about the Germans. Said what we needed here was our own version of Hitler. Said —’

  ‘Someone he knew personally, I mean.’

  She shook her head.

  I wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘And after I telephoned yesterday, where did —?

  ‘Now, that’s what the police said.’ Her voice wavered between confusion and anger. ‘But you didn’t call. No one called. He wasn’t even here. He went out at midday and …’ She sniffed back tears. ‘… and I never saw him again.’

  It seemed so unnecessary a lie. I’d spoken to her, and then she’d put O’Connor on. That was to say, I’d spoken to someone – I couldn’t swear it was her voice, but who else could it be? I could see little benefit in pressing the point, or in asking her anything more.

  ‘Does he still have the office on Blatchington Road?’ I asked. That was where we’d worked together as partners. It showed how well he was doing if he could afford to keep the place up as well as this house. For me office and home were separated by only a wooden door.

  ‘You mean “did he”.’

  I took it as a yes. ‘I don’t suppose I could borrow a key, just to look around.’

  The cat finally escaped her grasp and leapt across the furniture before scuttling quickly past me and out through the door. It was the final straw for her. She threw one hand outwards across the table beside her, knocking over a thin glass vase that contained a single peony. It fell to the floor and didn’t break, but spilled water on the carpet. I took a step forward so as to help clear up the mess, but she’d have none of it.

  ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ She was angry rather than tearful. ‘Just go. Get out of my house.’

  I didn’t argue. Instead I turned and left, walking quickly back along the hall to the front door. But there was one more thing for me to discover here, almost by chance. Between the foot of the stairs and the front door stood a table with a telephone on it – in just the same position as where I lived. I glanced down at it. In the centre of the dial a see-through plastic disk covered a circle of card. On that was written the telephone number in neat pencil. I still had the page of notepaper that O’Connor had given me when he asked me to call. I took it out of my pocket and compared the two numbers. They were not the same.

  CHAPTER 7

  Blatchington Road was just a block closer to the seafront than Eaton Villas, so I didn’t have far to walk. I had no idea what I intended to do when I got there. I had no key and I’d be a fool to break in. Even with my alibi, I was still a suspect in O’Connor’s murder. How would it look if I was arrested for burgling his offices? And though Tremaine had been polite enough in warning me off, I was sure he had colleagues who could be very much more persuasive if the need arose.

  About halfway along the road, on the other side, I spotted a phone box. I crossed quickly, dodging between the few motor cars that were out for a jaunt on a Sunday afternoon. I put in two pennies and dialled the number on the sheet of paper that O’Connor had given me. It rang three times, then a woman answered.

  ‘Al?’ she said. ‘Al? Is that you?’

  Now that I heard it again, this clearly wasn’t Mrs O’Connor’s voice. That was no surprise; as good as I was at remembering a face, I was lousy with voices. It was only when I saw the telephone number that I understood Vera O’Connor was not the woman I’d spoken to on Saturday evening. Even now I couldn’t be sure that this was the woman – but it was certainly the same number. I pressed button A and the coin dropped through.

  ‘Hullo?’ I said. Her question had taken me by surprise. I couldn’t think what to say. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was expecting someone else.’

  ‘Alan, you mean?’ I said. ‘Alan O’Connor?’

  ‘Yes!’ There was a slight thrill in her voice, certainly in comparison with her tone moments before. ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Can you tell me who you are?’ I persisted.

  ‘Please. I’ve been worried sick. He never came home last night.’

  I didn’t have the heart to string her along. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news: Alan’s dead.’

  It was hardly the best way for her to have found out, but what else could I do? Silence followed for a few seconds, then the click of her putting down the receiver. I put in more money and dialled again, but this time there was no answer, not even after twenty rings. I left the phone box and carried on down the road. A kid of about eight emerged from nowhere and ran into the box. I turned to see him rattling button B in the hope that I’d left some change in the machine, but I’d already got my pennies back. I squeezed the coins between my fingers, feeling a pathetic sense of victory, and crossed back over the road.

  O’Connor rented a part of a three-storey terraced building on the north side of the street. Steps led up to the front door, but that was a little too grandiose even for him. His office – our office, as it had once been – was situated in the basement. The steps went down from the pavement just beside where others ascended to the front door. They led to a tiny courtyard, only half a storey below street level, and so still high enough to look out and see the feet of passers-by, if there’d been any around on that quiet Sunday. I recalled how bad the drainage was here, and how the yard could flood with water up to your ankles on a rainy day.

  The door was right underneath the steps. The place had been built as a house rather than for offices, and this would have been the servants’ entrance. I tried the door, but it was locked. I went over to the window overlooking the yard and cupped my hands against it, to peer through. There was movement inside. I heard the sound of the door opening and turned to see who was there. It was Marchant.

  ‘Returning to the scene of the crime?’ he said.

  ‘The crime took place at my house, remember. I don’t have any choice but to go back there.’

  ‘So you’ve never been here before?’

  ‘You know I have. I used to work here. But not recently. Why, what’s happened?’

  He beckoned me with his finger and stepped inside again. It was the same gesture he’d used back at the nick. I followed, just as I had then.

  It was a familiar scene – familiar in two ways. The first was simply that the office hadn’t changed very much since I’d worked there with O’Connor. The layout remained the same: O’Connor’s desk by the window, mine in the corner. He’d never found himself a new partner, as far as I was aware. I wondered why he hadn’t got rid of my desk. I felt no nostalgia for the old days here, and again surprised myself with my lack of sentiment over his death.

  The second cause of familiarity was the state in which the office had been left – much the same as mine had been. Filing cabinets stood with their drawers open. Papers were strewn across both desks. The place had obviously been searched, and by the same person as had searched my own office; the person who killed O’Connor.

  ‘He must have come here straight after the murder,’ I said.

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But it was called in last night at just after nine. That’s before O’Connor was killed.’

  ‘Took you a while to get here.’

  He bridled but kept his composure. ‘We’re in Hove now, laddie. Not our patch.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  I wasn’t sure why I was trying so hard to irritate him, nor why he bothered to restrain himself, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he nodded towards another man who was bending over O’Connor’s desk, going through some papers. ‘Thankfully, my colleague, DI Chambers, has squared things so that I can take a look.’

  The last sentence jarred with me, and I immediately understood why. The word ‘squared’ was used to make a point. At least half the officers in both the Brighton and Hove police forces were Freemasons. Over the years I’d got used to picking out the words and phrases they employed to demonstrate the fact. Of course, it could have been an entirely innocent turn of phrase – but it hadn’t been so long since I’d bumped into Marchant coming out of the Lodge on Queen’s Road.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re here at all,’ I said. ‘Didn’t Tremaine warn you off?’

  ‘I could say the same for you.’

  ‘I’m not a servant of the Crown. I don’t have to do what I’m told.’

  Marchant rubbed his chin. ‘Technically,’ he explained, ‘I’m not investigating the murder. I’m investigating a burglary.’ He paused, then looked me straight in the eye. ‘I’ve got to do something.’

  ‘So what have you found?’

  ‘He broke in through the rear, just like at your place. A neighbour in a house backing on to this one noticed the smashed window, but he was long gone by then, so it could have been even earlier.’