Barridge looked as if he might cry. ‘I wasn’t the only one there. I—’

  ‘Don’t answer me back, son. I’m telling you, you screwed up. She was alive in that sewage pipe for almost two hours.’

  Barridge swivelled slightly, looking for support from others in the room. Detective Superintendent Walker was standing just behind him. In his panic, he appealed to the AMIP superintendent.

  ‘Is it Dunn, sir? I mean, Sergeant Donaldson says—’ But Walker appeared not to hear. He was checking some names on a memo, then looked up to see if the constables in question were present. He pointed to Brown and Phelps and then Barridge.

  ‘You two, and you, are on house-to-house inquiries.’

  There was an audible groan from Brown. Walker shot a look at him that would have stalled the Wall Street crash. He held up an index finger.

  ‘I want you to check every washing line on that estate. Every washing line. We’re looking for a match to the one found around Julie’s neck. It’s there on the board, check it out. We want to know about any washing lines or similar plastic-coated rope that may have gone missing.’

  He looked hard at PC Barridge. ‘Don’t screw up this time – it’s the murder weapon we’re talking about, got it?’

  Barridge’s mouth fell open – so the Super had heard Donaldson’s tirade.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he muttered to Phelps. ‘I wasn’t the only one there. Bloody hell!’

  Walker took North by the arm and guided her to one side.

  ‘Dunn’s still sleeping it off – Christ, it must have been some binge. Where’d he get the money? Anyway, it gives us more time to find something on him for Julie. You seen the newsagent? Can we charge him for those videos?’

  North shook her head. ‘’Fraid not, guv. They’re all ex-rentals.’

  ‘Dunn bought them?’

  ‘No, Dunn did a few paper rounds and he took the videos instead of cash.’

  ‘Shit! There must be something!’

  Walker fished out a Marlboro, broke off the filter tip and stuck the ragged end in his mouth.

  ‘Guv, you know how we got those videos, don’t you?’

  Walker made a face, removed the cigarette and picked a flake of tobacco from his tongue. ‘Yeah, yeah. Pretext was checking for damage.’ Walker reversed the cigarette and lit it.

  ‘Well, there were a number of toys – kids’ toys – there as well. One of them was a doll.’

  Walker’s eyes sparked. ‘Doll? Haven’t we followed it up with the family? Haven’t we checked if it was the victim’s?’

  Satchell got up from his desk and joined them. He knew the boss, recognised the signs. Walker was working his way up through the lower storeys of a towering rage.

  ‘Do you realise,’ Walker went on, ‘we’ve got Dunn in the cells and he’s our best suspect and unless I get more – and I’ve got bugger all right now – I’m going to have to let the sorry bastard OUT?’

  ‘Guv,’ said Satchell, ‘I’ve got a suggestion.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, Dave. Shoot.’

  ‘Put him in a parade. See if old Mrs Marsh can pick him out.’

  Walker snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘Christ’s sake, Dave, I’m already working on that! But you know how long it’ll take to find lookalikes. If we don’t find something in the next couple of hours he’s going to walk as soon as he wakes.’

  He paused and sucked hard on his Marlboro.

  ‘OK, I know what I want. I want a search warrant for Dunn’s place. Pat?’

  ‘It’s a Sunday, guv.’

  Walker found an ashtray and ground out the cigarette.

  ‘Then let’s deliver the local magistrate’s Sunday bloody Telegraph for him, shall we?’

  *

  The warrant had been a pushover. The JP opened the door hurriedly, dressed for golf, and stood impatiently while Walker explained his business.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ve heard of this distressing death,’ said the magistrate. ‘And you are who, precisely?’

  Walker produced his warrant card. ‘Officer in charge of the inquiry – Detective Superintendent Michael Walker.’

  ‘And this man whose home you want to search – is he a suspect?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘In custody?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but may be released shortly. In which case we are anxious to give his pad a spin – or rather, his flat a search, sir – before he can get home to do what he likes with the evidence.’

  ‘You have the papers there?’ The old man looked at his watch. ‘I’m due to tee off at eight forty-five and you don’t miss the chance of a slot at Sunningdale.’

  ‘Of course, sir. It’s all prepared. Just needs signing.’

  ‘Come in, then.’

  Driving back with the papers in his pocket, Walker laughed in relief.

  ‘Thank Christ for bloody Sunningdale. Speeded things up a bit.’

  They arrived at the Dunn flat at eight-forty where Reg Cranham, the exhibits officer, was waiting for them. Before they could go in Barridge arrived on the run.

  ‘Excuse me, sir!’

  Walker waited for Barridge to catch his breath. ‘What is it, Barridge? Those washing lines?’

  ‘Yes, sir. One tenant said most of the residents use the local launderette. But there’s a recently built housing estate across the road. Got gardens so they’re more likely to use proper washing lines. Want me to . . .?’

  Barridge gestured with his thumb in the direction of the new houses.

  ‘No. Just report it in, lad. Sergeant Satchell will allocate some of my guys to cover the new houses.’

  Walker knew that most of the balconies on the tower blocks would have washing lines. Whether these were ever used or not was beside the point – they had to be checked. Young rookies like Barridge were always looking for ways of cutting corners.

  Inside the flat enough daylight filtered through the window boards to reveal the full squalor of Michael Dunn’s damp and broken-springed home life. North showed Walker the one-armed doll which lay pink and sprawling on the settee. He bent down and looked carefully at it.

  ‘My kid’s got one of these.’

  ‘It looks like a Barbie,’ said North, ‘but actually it’s a cheap market-stall rip-off. Only costs about a quid, while a real Barbie costs—’

  ‘Twelve ninety-nine,’ said Walker grimly, picturing his daughter’s glowing face on her sixth birthday as she tore off the gift wrap. ‘And that’s before you’ve bought the wardrobe. Reg!’

  Cranham came in from the kitchen with a pained expression on his face. ‘Breakfast, anyone? I found a couple of sausages in the fridge – best before three months ago. Can’t see no washing line anywhere.’

  Walker pointed at the fake Barbie. ‘Bag the doll. Seal, sign and log it and then test it for prints. Now, what’s the kitchen like?’

  ‘It smells, guv.’

  In the kitchen there were lumps of food adhering to the walls. The sink overflowed with unwashed plates and the floor was caked and tacky underfoot. What interested Walker the most was a small pile of wastepaper in one corner – empty crisp bags and ice cream wrappers. One brand of ice cream in particular caught his eye: Gnutcrunch. He crouched down.

  ‘Forensic said her stomach contents had maybe ice cream and nuts – yes? Well, look at these.’

  In the other room Cranham had been on the radio. He came back into the kitchen.

  ‘Michael Dunn’s awake, sir, but he’s asked for something to eat. They can spin things out for a while longer.’

  Walker straightened. ‘Good. But I wish he’d had the decency to sleep through to lunch.’

  He pointed to the wrappers. ‘I want these listed and bagged.’ He turned to North and pointed to the bagged Barbie. ‘We’ll take the doll to the victim’s family.’ He noticed her startled look. ‘You got a problem with that?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said North and instantly Walker was talking to Cranham again.

  ‘I want full documentation on barcodes and I want to know where he got them. Lolly sticks are vital. We’ll comb the whole flat for more of them if we have time, but I want these two tested anyway.’

  It would take a couple of minutes for Cranham to complete the bagging. Walker dialled a number on his mobile. ‘Dave? I want you to go and talk to the newsagent – can you do it now? Check what he said about Peter James. Then find out what brands of ice cream he sells. I’m partial to one called Gnutcrunch – yes, with a G – and also if he sold any of the horrible stuff to Michael Dunn. See you later.’

  He snapped the phone off. ‘Come on, let’s see if we can find any more lolly sticks.’

  *

  Mr Shah the newsagent was checking a toppling pile of newspapers to see that each included a colour supplement.

  ‘I mean, I got to be right within five or ten minutes,’ he was saying to Satchell. ‘It’s my busy time, lunchtime. Pete – Peter James – came in twice. Once to ask about a plumber and then, fifteen or twenty minutes later, he came back again.’

  Satchell was looking into the chest freezer, noting down the names of the ice cream brands.

  ‘Did Michael Dunn come into the shop Thursday at all?’

  ‘No – well, to be honest, I’ve barred him.’

  ‘But he did the odd paper round for you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, but not for a long time. He couldn’t be trusted. Last time I found half the bloody newspapers stuffed into litter bins. I never let him do it any more after that.’

  ‘And you paid Dunn in kind?’

  ‘Yeah – with ice creams and crisps. That’s all he wanted.’

  ‘And videos?’

  ‘Yes, and the videos.’

  Outside the shop, Satchell switched on his cell phone. ‘Guv? Newsagent’s got Cornetto, Snickers, Gnutcrunch, Galaxy Dove, Twister, Wall’s Chunky Choc Ice . . . Crisps? Golden Wonder, loads of flavours – yes, prawn cocktail. And, guv, listen, Dunn used to be paid for this so-called paper round in ice cream and crisps sometimes, as well as the videos.’

  *

  Satchell’s findings had been interesting enough to put a spring in Walker’s step as he and North strode towards the entrance to the tower block.

  ‘When we get up there we’ll make sure Julie didn’t have any ice cream for breakfast. I told Dave to check with the labs, see if they’ve got any results in yet on the lolly sticks.’

  ‘Bit soon, isn’t it?’

  Walker smiled thinly. ‘I know. Just pawing the starting gates a little. I’m pinning my hopes on that little dolly right now.’

  Anita herself came to the door. She was as pale as paper and the skin around her eyes had taken on the shiny, opalescent colours of grief and insomnia. Her pregnant stomach seemed more obvious too, affecting the way she turned and moved her body.

  Walker said, ‘Hello, Mrs Harris. I’m Detective Superintendent Walker, I’m the—’

  ‘Yes, I know who you are,’ said Anita. She didn’t even try to smile. ‘I saw you on the box. Come through, won’t you?’

  Peter James was in the lounge, pacing around like a trapped rodent. ‘All right?’ he muttered.

  Anita placed Walker and North on the settee and sat down self-consciously between them, as if she preferred not to look either of them in the face. The atmosphere in the place was coldly calm.

  Walker started by sketching in the progress of the inquiry. He didn’t mention Dunn by name – just talked about ‘a man we are interested in’.

  ‘How do you mean, interested?’ said Peter James.

  ‘I mean, he may be able to help us. He may have given your daughter something to eat. Could you just remind us what she had to eat on Thursday morning?’

  Anita bowed her head and shut her eyes, trying to remember as accurately as possible.

  ‘She had cereal, orange juice. That’s it. She never ate much at breakfast.’

  ‘You don’t know if she had any ice cream or any nuts?’

  ‘No. Not here, she didn’t.’

  Walker turned and nodded at Cranham who was standing with his hands behind his back beside the door. The exhibits officer came forward and carefully placed the transparent evidence bag on the low table in front of Anita.

  ‘Mrs Harris,’ said Walker, ‘I wonder if you could tell me – have you seen this doll before?’

  Anita stared at the pink plastic flesh and tangle of yellow hair, the straight, elongated legs, the pert breasts and the hideous empty arm socket. Her eyebrows drew fractionally closer together. She was about to speak when Peter’s voice, excited, broke in.

  ‘Yes, that’s her doll.’

  He was leaning over, pointing. He was animated for the first time. ‘It’s Julie’s, Anita. She always had it with her. Tell him, Anita. That’s Julie’s doll.’

  Anita opened her mouth and at once her lips began to quiver. Slowly she covered her face with her hands. She nodded her head as her frame shook with sobs.

  North looked at Walker’s face as he skipped down the stairs a couple of minutes later. It wore a look that said, broadly, ‘Got him.’ It wasn’t exactly happiness but, by the length of the Old Kent Road, it was the nearest she’d seen him get to happiness.

  ‘Come on, you guys!’ he called out, a flight of stairs in the lead. ‘Don’t hang about or that custody sergeant will be getting it into his head to let Michael Dunn go. And we can’t have that, can we?’

  *

  Walker arrested Michael Dunn in the hallway of the custody suite just as Sergeant Johns was signing him out. Dunn had looked at him in hungover bemusement. His reaction to the words ‘on suspicion of the murder of Julie Ann Harris’ was bovine.

  ‘Who? I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘You do not have to say anything,’ chanted the detective superintendent, ‘but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.’

  ‘I don’t get it. I been here all night.’

  ‘Anything you do or say may be given in evidence.’

  Dunn held his arms away from his side, the hands palm upwards. He shrugged until his shoulders almost touched his ears.

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you know.’

  The accent was liltingly Welsh. The breath that delivered it smelled overpoweringly of breakfast and nicotine.

  *

  Barridge had felt in an extraordinary mood all morning, a kind of reverse high. It wasn’t happiness, but a wave of inspired misery that he was riding helplessly. Once he saw Walker and Inspector North leaving the search area, he’d asked to be attached to the squad at the newly built houses and had been assigned to cover Ashcroft Close. Some intuition told him this was where the washing line had come from, so this was where he wanted to be.

  For some time now, an inner voice had been talking to Barridge, telling him he had a privileged place on this investigation, a place almost of destiny. If he thought about it properly – if he’d been capable at this stage of detached thought – he might have agreed it was his own voice talking, that he was, in fact, just talking to himself. But, in his present state he thought of it as a voice of inspiration, telling him he had been chosen for this.

  Who found the body? murmured the voice. Who found the anorak? Who first talked to Enid Marsh, the eyewitness? It was you, Colin. Ask yourself why. Never mind what the Skipper’s been saying, this is fate. This is meant.

  These new houses were small – for young couples, singles. Each was identical and each had an identical rectangle of garden bounded by lattice fencing.

  He knocked on the door of number four. According to the electoral roll, it was the address of a Miss A Taylor. Miss Taylor herself opened. She was a bony woman with bashful eyes, eyes that were always being dragged downwards to look at the ground, as if over-whelmed by gravity.

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ said Barridge gently, ‘we’re inquiring into the murder that occurred over on the Howarth Estate.’

  Miss Taylor’s eyes glanced at the constable’s face and then dropped to consider his boots.

  ‘Oh yes, that poor little girl. How awful that was! I saw about it on the news. I can’t believe it happened right here. How can I help?’

  ‘We’re just asking around to find out if any thefts have been taking place around here – thefts from gardens.’

  Ann Taylor opened her front door wide and ushered Barridge in. ‘Come through! I’ll show you.’

  As they walked through the house, Barridge noticed Miss Taylor’s limp. Not bad enough to need a stick, but pronounced nonetheless.

  ‘I wouldn’t have come to live here if I’d known,’ she said. ‘I mean, the level of crime is really bad.’ Then she laughed, cupping her hand to her mouth and shifting her eyes from side to side. ‘But, of course, you’re a policeman. You know that!’

  The garden was neatly, if unimaginatively, kept: border shrubs lining the perimeter, an oblong of grass in the centre, a creosoted garden shed with a felted roof standing on duty in a far corner.

  ‘But anyway, you can’t leave anything out at night. They come from the estate. I’ve had plants taken and a white urn from round the front. We’ve got Neighbourhood Watch, but it’s not helped.’

  Barridge noticed a washing pole, notched at the top. He looked from side to side. There were posts to which a washing line would normally be attached. But there was no clothes line.

  ‘Where’s your washing line, Miss Taylor?’ he asked.

  CHAPTER 9

  SUNDAY 8 SEPTEMBER. 10.30 A.M.

  PAT NORTH found Detective Superintendent Walker sitting at his desk in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened and the telephone receiver tucked between his shoulder and ear. He was tearing the filter off another Marlboro as he spoke into the mouthpiece.

  ‘. . . just wondering if you’d got anything on those ice cream wrappers . . . Yes, I know . . . it’s just that I’m about to interview—’ Walker held the receiver away from his ear and looked at North with a thin, ironic smile on his face. ‘Mallory!’ he mouthed.

  From the door she could hear most of the earful Walker was getting from his chief forensic scientist.

  ‘You’ll have it as soon as I have it, Walker! The way you buggers reckon you’ll get anything faster by pestering me is a bloody irritant . . .’