was so fast that the detectives nearly missed them. They had passed through a door cut into the wooden frame covering an alley no wider than a man’s arm.
May reached it first, but the door had already been closed. He put his ear to the wood and listened, then deftly picked the Yale lock. The alley beyond was filled with beer crates and empty catering drums of ghee. The brick walls were green with mossy weeds. ‘Look,’ Bryant pointed, ‘river damp. You can smell it. Brackish. Old mud.’
Greenwood and his accomplice must have passed to the end of the alley; the only other door had boxes and coils of wire stacked in front of it. The corridor opened into a small dingy square with the Edwardian stone arch of a former stable, now overgrown and litter-filled, the signs of lost utility and urban misuse. Ahead was the rear of a Romanesque building, solidly built, small windows, probably a warehouse. A wide wooden door and two narrow, filthy wire-glass panes were set in the wall, but here May’s lock-picking skills defeated him, and he was unable to gain entrance. The windows were each divided into twelve small panels. Breaking them would be too noisy and time-consuming. May looked back and saw that his partner was having trouble clambering between some rusted lengths of iron. He led Bryant away.
‘Come on, Arthur, they’ve gone for now. Let’s see if we can identify our mystery man.’
‘How?’ asked Bryant, extricating his overcoat from a length of wire fencing. ‘I’m getting holes in my good astrakhan.’
‘I fired off a good half-dozen shots on my phone with a reasonably decent zoom,’ May explained. ‘They’ve already gone to my computer. I’ll tell Bimsley to download them and start enhancing the images.’
‘Dear God, it’s technology gone mad.’
‘Not if it helps us save a colleague from ruining his career,’ May replied, linking his arm with Bryant’s. ‘Let’s go back.’
Heather Allen shed a few dutiful tears and quickly composed herself, agreeing to let Kallie bury the tiny cat in her garden. She couldn’t have it buried in her own, because George had laid decking.
‘I don’t understand. Who would do such a grotesque thing to a harmless animal?’ She stood hugging her arms in a passable imitation of pet bereavement, watching as Kallie took the shovel and cleared a space in what once had been a flower-bed.
Kallie wanted to believe that Heather had been fond of the cat. Her schoolfriend had produced a credible monologue on the subject, explaining how she had rescued it from a feral existence living off scraps in Camden Parkway, how it had taken her months to gain the feline’s trust, and how she had taken it with her to the useless PR job she had managed to hold for nearly a year, nestled inside her cardigan, where it could feel the beating of her heart. But the story rang false. As far as Kallie knew, Heather had never worn anything as homely as a cardigan.
As she finished digging the hole it started to rain, a light-leeching mizzle that darkened the surrounding terrace walls and bowed the branches of neighbours’ trees. By the time she had filled the grave, they were both soaked. She could hardly have left the cat in a bin-liner until the weather improved, and could not imagine Heather with a shovel in her manicured hands. Heather loved the idea of organizing others, but hadn’t a practical bone in her body. She explained that the last time she had lost her mobile, her entire life had come to a standstill.
Kallie had just pulled the last of the bindweed from the area surrounding the little grave when she saw the creature lying beside the drain. It was jointed and cream-coloured, and looked like a large deformed lobster. ‘Jesus, what the hell is this?’ She jumped back, nearly tripping in the tangle of weed.
Heather leaned over for a look, then gave a squeal of horror. ‘It’s covered in blood. What is it?’
‘Wait, I saw some gardening gloves.’ Kallie returned with them and reached down, lifting the thing by its segmented tail. ‘I think it’s some kind of crayfish, but it looks too big.’ They stared uneasily at the creature, half expecting it to come back to life.
‘It’s typical that George should be away when there’s a problem,’ Heather angrily announced. ‘He’s never around when he’s needed. I have to do everything by myself, and now this.’
‘Heather, there’s nothing for you to do.’ Kallie tried to be gentle