waxy back. ‘It’s rather an inexact method of execution, isn’t it? I mean, ensuring that your target is standing exactly where you want him.’
‘I thought that,’ Bryant admitted. ‘The biggest problem it poses for me is the matter of premeditation. As far as we can tell, he had nothing stolen. Longbright’s conducting a search of his house, and has found his wallet. This isn’t the sort of crime you plan in advance. Which means it had to be committed by someone waiting to cause him injury.’
‘Rough neighbourhood, is it?’
‘Not really. The street doesn’t get much foot traffic. With the exception of the residents, hardly anyone uses it.’
‘Then I would suggest they’re your first port of call,’ said Finch, wiping his hands and stepping back to admire his handiwork.
The following morning, Balaklava Street was anaemic with mist as May knocked on the Aysons’ door.
The front room had been aggressively polished, and was clearly reserved for guests; it was an old-fashioned notion but appropriate to the street, and to the Aysons, a third-generation Caribbean family who honoured the attitudes of their grandparents. Kayla Ayson prepared breakfast while her children dextrously thrashed each other in a lurid Nintendo race, ignoring calls to the table. With Randall’s entrance, the atmosphere subtly shifted; the children became more subdued, and Kayla found something to occupy her attention in the kitchen. May appreciated that Randall Ayson took a dim view of the detective visiting his house, but he was required to check out witness statements as quickly as possible, and Heather Allen was adamant about having seen him on the edge of the waste ground.
‘You think they’re connected, don’t you?’ asked Randall. ‘Copeland and the Singh woman.’
‘We have no reason to think that, Mr Randall.’
‘She was of Indian extraction. Tamsin Wilton told us she’d been receiving offensive notes. You should be looking for a racist, not wasting your time picking on the black man.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, Mr Randall, you have an Egyptian lady across the road from you, a large Ethiopian family next door, a same-sex couple on your other side and several South African medical students in the end house. This is an ordinary London street, and I don’t appreciate you playing the race card. My visit has nothing to do with your ethnicity. I’m here because a neighbour identified you last night at the crime scene.’
The room was enveloped in a tomb-like silence. May could feel the temperature drop. Bryant’s bluntness is starting to rub off on me, he warned himself.
‘What do you mean, identified me?’
‘They say you had an argument, or at least a conversation, with the deceased.’
‘That’s a lie. I don’t have to listen to this. It’s that damned estate agent over the road, isn’t it? He has no right to tell people—’
‘Think about this rationally, Mr Randall, and you’ll help me to disprove the possibility. First, forget about who saw you, it doesn’t matter. When you take into account the distance and the weather conditions, it’s obvious to me that they’ve made a false assumption. All you have to do is provide me with details of your whereabouts to have the statement discounted.’
When Ayson glanced at his wife, May knew he was in trouble. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I was here.’ Another flick of the eyes, as if Ayson was seeking tacit support from his wife. ‘But I did talk to him.’
‘While he was working in the rain?’
‘Well, yes. I was coming home from work and saw him digging, but we didn’t argue. I just asked him why he was working in such lousy weather.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That the men in the builders’ yard were paying him extra to finish quickly.’
The Bondini brothers wore matching blue boiler suits, and looked like Italian acrobats. May half expected one to back-flip on to the other’s shoulders with a cry of ‘Hop-La!’ They came out of the shop wiping their hands on rags in unconscious mimicry of one another.
‘Builders’ supplies, right?’ May shouted above a cacophony of hammering.
‘Yeah, and manufacturers.’
‘What do you make here?’
Bondini One thrust his hand inside his boiler suit and pulled out a finely marbled fountain pen. ‘Traditional craftsmanship, mate. Look at the cap. See the metal ring around the base? We make those.’
‘Wrought-iron teapot stands,’ bellowed Bondini Two.
‘Stained-glass frames. Window boxes. Bathroom pipes. Garden furniture. Lots of stuff. Come inside.’
The machine shop was lethally active. Young apprentices—three or four, it was hard to tell exactly how many because they moved with such agility—hurled themselves in and out of doors,