‘Have you looked in there?’ He nodded towards the wall and the closet beyond.

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet, but he wasn’t stupid enough to have left anything, either.’

  ‘And of course this room will have been serviced several times since Herr … since our German friend was himself serviced here.’

  I might have taken the smutty joke as an attempt to cover his near revelation of the German’s name, but I knew it had been no slip-up. He was toying with me.

  ‘You could always show the photographs around, see if anyone recognizes … our German friend.’ I was rising to his bait, and it was stupid of me. It was only a small leap from the photos to my skill as an artist, and then he’d have worked it all out.

  He let out an embarrassed harrumph. ‘Not all that easy, I’m afraid. I have to say, I was a little annoyed with our Mr O’Connor. For all his claimed expertise in these things, he never got a clear picture of the gentleman-in-question’s face.’

  I’d noticed as much myself. For a moment I was tempted to show him the more speculative drawings I’d made, to ask his opinion on how well I’d captured the likeness. But it still wasn’t worth the risk.

  ‘Just didn’t have the artistic temperament, I suppose,’ Tremaine continued. ‘Unlike yourself.’

  So O’Connor had told him that much about me, at least. As he paused, I was convinced he’d worked it out and that in a moment he would reach forward to slip his hand into my pocket and draw out my handiwork. But, as it turned out, his mind had been on a quite different tack.

  ‘Ever thought of using your skills in the national interest?’

  ‘Skills?’

  ‘As a detective, operating as a servant of His Majesty’s government? The fact that you got here ahead of a professional such as myself must count for something.’

  ‘I prefer to work alone, thanks all the same.’

  ‘You used to work with O’Connor.’

  ‘I didn’t like his kind of work.’

  ‘But ours is quite different.’

  I raised my hand, indicating our surroundings. ‘It still comes down to taking dirty pictures in a hotel room, doesn’t it?’

  ‘For the greater good, unless … You’re not a sympathizer with Herr Hitler, are you? It really doesn’t matter. We could always find you something to do against the Bolsheviks instead. If we don’t go to war with one of them, it’ll be the other.’ He seemed quite jolly at the prospect.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

  ‘Do. Seriously, do. In the meantime, I don’t suppose it would have much effect if I asked you again to lay off on this case.’

  ‘That’s very astute.’

  ‘Can you at least keep me informed?’

  ‘There hardly seems much need. The only lead I’ve got has brought me here – and you were only minutes behind me.’

  ‘Even so.’ He handed me a card with his name and a telephone number printed on it. It gave his rank as commander. I pocketed it. He stood up, brushing his trousers to straighten them. ‘Shall we be off, then?’ He picked up the keys and made for the door, while I remained seated. He looked back at me. ‘I don’t think the manager would be very happy if I were to leave you here on your own.’

  There was no point in arguing. I’d still have liked to get a look inside the linen cupboard but that would require a different key – one which Tremaine could easily get from the hotel manager. By the time I devised a way to get in, any evidence would be well on its way to his colleagues in London.

  He locked the door behind us and we headed back downstairs together. In the lobby a debate had begun as to the location of a set of room keys. I could guess which ones. The room’s occupant was a tall, angry American who was beginning to raise questions as to whether it would have been better for him to stay at the Grand. Tremaine and I stood and watched for a few moments, both with a sense of amusement at the escalating row.

  ‘I think I’d better just go and smooth things over,’ said Tremaine at length, with a knowing smile.

  My eyes followed him as he sauntered across to the reception desk, squeezing past the American to ask one of the staff something that I couldn’t hear. I doubt anyone but me noticed the practised way that he slipped a hand – and the keys with it – into the man’s coat pocket, removing it within the blink of an eye. The skills of a pickpocket could be useful in his profession, and just as useful if applied in reverse.

  Tremaine walked back towards me, smirking to himself, but continued straight past me and out of the hotel. I was out in the street seconds later, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  *

  The following morning was that of O’Connor’s funeral. It was only about a mile to the Crematorium, so I walked. I tried to make sense of anything that I’d learned about my former colleague’s death, but another matter kept forcing its way into my mind: Tremaine’s offer. It was tempting. He was right that it would put my skills to good use, better use than in all but a handful of the cases I’d taken on in Brighton. And it would be regular work, regular money. He was wise to appeal to my patriotism. It was obvious – at least I hoped it was – that I was no Nazi sympathizer, and however much my politics might lean to the left in British terms, I wasn’t fool enough to be blind to the gulf between that and what Stalin was up to. Working for Tremaine – whoever we were against – would put me on the side of the angels.

  That was if his offer was serious. What he really wanted from me was to lay off investigating O’Connor’s death – to let him deal with the killer in his own way. Bringing me in to work for him might be the best compromise for all of us. At least I’d get to know what actually happened, to see that in the end this Kraut got what he deserved, even if it wasn’t at the end of a British rope. But there was no rush. I’d do what I’d suggested and think about it.

  I passed under the viaduct and arrived at the gates of the Extra-Mural Cemetery, built like a medieval keep with a tall round turret on one side. There remained a long trek up the hill to the chapel. A few dozen yards ahead of me, a woman was heading that way too. I could only see her back, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t O’Connor’s wife. There was always the chance that the girl in the photos would show up. I’d no idea how well she knew O’Connor, and if she understood why he’d died, then she’d be a fool to let her face be seen. But it was a possibility and this could be her, though for now there was no way to tell. The only thing I might recognize from behind would be her hair, and that was currently hidden by a hat.

  I heard a car behind me and stepped a little further to the side of the road; there was no pavement. I turned to look as it drove past. It wasn’t a hearse, just a black saloon. I caught a glimpse of a woman sitting in the back, and this was a face I recognized: Vera O’Connor. There was a man with her, an old man, perhaps her father, or perhaps even O’Connor’s.

  The car drove smoothly on. As it passed the woman in front of me, I hoped she might turn her head towards it and give me a chance to see her profile, but she paid no attention. Her gaze never left the ground in front of her. I was walking faster than she was, but I didn’t think I’d quite catch up before we reached our destination. I didn’t want to either; it was one of those situations where to overtake someone would seem like showing off. And there was no need; I’d see her face soon enough.

  I reached the chapel a touch out of breath. Behind it the Downs continued to rise ever upwards, and here I could already feel it was a little colder than down in the town. Somewhere up there was the racecourse, hidden behind the elms. It was a busy day for the crematorium. A small crowd stood in silence close to the chapel door. On the other side of the building stood a similar crowd that had just emerged from the previous ceremony, and was preparing to leave. It would take them a few minutes to get things rearranged inside.

  Vera O’Connor stood looking up at the chapel’s tower. Her car had now gone. The man with her must have been in his seventies, and looked more like her than he did her late husband. The woman I’d been following still had her back to me but I recognized some of the other faces. One of them was a bookie I’d encountered a few times. Remick, that was his name: Percy Remick. The two men standing beside him looked familiar and presumably shared his profession, but I couldn’t name them.

  ‘Hullo, Charlie.’

  I turned. It was Lottie, her distinctive red hair shrouded today in a black net. Her voice was as soft as ever. Her body seemed tiny. I couldn’t recall ever seeing her standing up before.

  ‘You got him yet?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘I might have something to help you.’ Just like in the pub, she didn’t turn to look at me as she spoke, but here there was no mirror to help her.

  Before she could say more, the door to the chapel opened and we began to file in. At the same moment another car pulled up – a police car. I wasn’t surprised to see Marchant climb out and say a few brief words to the driver. He saw me and tipped his hat. I did the same.

  ‘Later.’ Lottie’s voice had become even quieter than before, but she now moved away from me and into the chapel with surprising speed. She had good reasons for not wanting to associate with the police. I hung back a little, as did the inspector, so that we were the last to enter.

  It wasn’t a big chapel, but even so the smattering of mourners occupying the pews was insufficient to make it seem full. If O’Connor had been in his dotage it would have been a good turnout – a sign either that he was particularly popular, or that his friends were long-lived. But O’Connor had been only forty-four. His wife sat at the front, next to her father. They’d had no children, but I remembered O’Connor mentioning a brother who was in the army somewhere in the colonies. There would have been no time for him to return, even if he’d wanted to. O’Connor had spoken of him neither frequently nor with affection. The others were scattered around as if trying to make the place look fuller than it was. The woman I’d seen was sitting at the back, hoping to remain unnoticed. I could still only see her from behind.

  Marchant and I walked up the aisle and found ourselves a seat at about the halfway point. As I shuffled along the wooden bench, I turned to get a better look at the mystery woman. I recognized her in an instant. It was not the girl from the photos, which was a disappointment. In truth I couldn’t think how I knew her at all, but I was sure I’d seen the face before – though not recently. I’d have time to think about it. A sidesman closed the door and the service began.

  We sang ‘Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise’ and ‘When I Survey the Wondrous Cross’. In-between, the vicar read a passage from John. It was about the resurrection of Lazarus, though it stopped short of the actual miracle, ending simply with an assurance of the general resurrection of us all. Perhaps mentioning that Lazarus himself was a special case would have seemed too pointed. The vicar also said a few words about O’Connor, but I doubted the two men had ever met. I wasn’t really concentrating, too busy trying to remember who that woman was. I glanced back towards her more than once. She was in her mid-thirties, still pretty, but with the sort of good looks that fade with age. The process was already beginning and she wore too much make-up in compensation. Today it was a particular mistake because she couldn’t hold back the tears. Their tracks cut through her face powder like rain on a dusty pavement. I wondered if Vera, his widow, was taking it so badly.

  At last the coffin rolled away to be hidden by the curtains, and we trooped out through a different door, just like the group before us had done. Most of us stood about uncomfortably, wondering what we were supposed to do next. Marchant went over to offer his condolences to the widow, but I kept my eyes on the chapel door. The unknown woman had still not exited. As soon as the inspector was out of the way, Lottie came back over to join me. She was dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Her sorrow seemed genuine if not profound.

  ‘Nice service,’ I said, for want of anything better. There are times when platitudes are all that can be uttered.

  ‘Vera chose the hymns. I’m not sure Al would really have cared.’

  I wasn’t paying much attention. The woman had just emerged from the chapel and displayed no intention of lingering. She was already heading down the hill, back the way she had come. She might have had nothing to do with O’Connor’s death, but her presence here was a mystery and that was the closest thing I had to a lead. I didn’t want to let her go. I grabbed Lottie’s handkerchief from her hand and walked briskly after the unknown woman.

  ‘Excuse me!’ I called. ‘Miss!’ She must surely have heard me and realized I was talking to her, but she kept on walking. ‘Excuse me!’ I persisted, and finally she turned. I held up the handkerchief. ‘I think you dropped this.’ There must have been better ways to start a conversation, but I’d not had time to think of one.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. She held up her hand and I saw that she was clutching a handkerchief of her own. Her eyes were still wet with tears. She added nothing more and turned away, but it was already enough; I wasn’t going to mistake that voice a second time. It was she that I’d spoken to on the phone both times I’d dialled the number O’Connor gave me. And now I remembered where I’d seen her before. It had been four or five years ago, when O’Connor had introduced us briefly, lying about who she was. But it had been easy enough to work out the truth: she was his mistress – had been back then and still was right up until his death. Her name, I could now recall, was Sylvia Clay. I even knew her address, or what it had been back then. With luck she’d still be living there. I walked back to Lottie and gave her back the handkerchief.

  ‘I won’t ask,’ she said.

  ‘Best not,’ I replied. ‘You said you’ve got something for me?’

  She ignored the question. ‘Some of us are going for a drink down at the Bear. Vera won’t say anything – not to you – but she’d like you to be there.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Makes up the numbers. And then I can tell you what I’ve found out.’

  The black car had pulled up again and O’Connor’s wife and her father were climbing back in. It drove off down the hill. Lottie walked determinedly after it, though there was no chance of keeping up. Most of the others did likewise. Soon it was only me and the inspector.

  ‘Coming for a drink?’ I asked him.

  ‘Best not. People don’t like to be reminded that their loved one’s death was far from peaceful.’

  ‘So why come at all?’

  He looked at me as if he didn’t understand the question. ‘How’s the investigation going,’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you?’

  ‘Then I would have to answer “What investigation?” You know I’ve got to leave this to the boys from London.’

  ‘Same applies to me,’ I said.

  ‘Stinks, doesn’t it?’ he spoke with more passion than I would have expected. He must have seen enough crime in Brighton over the years to inure him to most things, but not to being told he wasn’t allowed to do his job.

  ‘I’ll walk down with you,’ I suggested.

  ‘The car’s going to be back for me soon.’

  ‘I’ll see you, then.’

  I headed off on down the hill. It was easier than the journey up and once I’d emerged through the cemetery gate, the Bear was just a few yards away along Lewes Road. I doubted I’d have gone in if it wasn’t for what Lottie had said. It was an attack on two fronts; an appeal to my better nature and also to my curiosity. The curiosity would have won out on its own, and I had little awareness of possessing a better nature. Why should I go in there just to show sympathy for Vera O’Connor – sympathy that had an evens chance of being thrown back in my face? But Lottie had something to tell me.

  O’Connor’s wife was sitting alone at a table close to the door. I took a look around quickly and spotted her father up at the bar. Then I looked back at her, aware that I had nothing to say. I tried to produce a comforting smile but didn’t want to appear too happy. It seemed to do the trick.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said softly.

  ‘It was the least I could do.’

  After that, neither of us could see any need for further conversation, but she could find no convenient way to dismiss me, and I could not bring myself to simply walk away. We were saved by her father, who came back to the table with a drink in each hand. He sat down and put one of them in front of her. She thanked him, glancing towards him as she did. I took the opportunity to slink away.

  Lottie was sitting at the bar, just as she had been in the Royal Standard. As I reached her she was just paying for her drink.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I insisted. She offered no protest. I ordered a Harveys for myself. Again there was a mirror behind the bar in which she studied me. It was less garish than the last one, but still I avoided staring into it. The dread of an impending migraine was becoming stronger, and I didn’t want to do anything to bring it on sooner than necessary. I gazed down into my beer.

  ‘I found her,’ Lottie announced.

  ‘The girl in the drawing?’

  She may have nodded but I didn’t see. ‘She’s new in town; from London.’

  ‘Down for the summer?’ I suggested.

  ‘Maybe. Her name’s Rachael. Rachael Westby. She’s living in Hove, in Furze Croft, flat 202.’

  ‘That new block? On Furze Hill?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Classy. Who can afford to set her up in a place like that?’

  ‘No one. No one round here. Supposedly she’s still got a mack up in London, though he’s asked Spindly to look after her while she’s here.’

  ‘Spindly?’

  ‘Spindly Cochran.’

  ‘Shit!’ I scarcely knew Cochran but he had a reputation for being extremely protective of his girls.

  ‘Spindly’s all right. It was him that told me. And he’s too scared of this fellow in London to get chummy with her – unless she asks for help.’

  ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t, then.’