Telford Way to Victoria Embankment? My van is kitted out with what is necessary to prepare the meals within it. A cooker, a work space, a small refrigerator. This is all that I need. Of course, I could serve them sandwiches, which would not require the effort of cooking, but they need hot food, those poor souls in the street, not cold bread and cheese. And I am grateful that I can provide it."
"How long have you operated this mobile kitchen?" Lynley asked the man.
"Since I began taking my pension from British Telecom. That would be nearly nine years now. You must ask the nuns. They will confirm this."
Lynley believed him. Not only because the nuns would probably confirm it along with everyone else who saw Muwaffaq Masoud along the embankment on a regular basis but also because there was an air of honesty about the man that commanded one's trust. Righteous was the word Lynley thought would describe him best.
Nonetheless, he said, "My colleague and I would like to look at your van. Outside and inside. Will you approve of that?"
"Of course. If you will wait...? Let me dress and I shall take you to it." He quickly mounted the stairs, leaving Lynley and Nkata to glance at each other in silent evaluation of what he'd had to say.
"What's your assessment?" Lynley asked.
"Telling the truth or a sociopath. But look at this, guv." Nkata turned his small leather notebook round on his knee so that it faced Lynley, and Lynley glanced at what he'd written:
waf
bile
chen
873-61
while beneath it he'd added:
Muwaffaq's
Mobile
Kitchen
8579-5479
Nkata said, "That's what I can't suss out. What'd he do, then? Serve those meals behind the Savoy, hang about in Central London for whatever, then cruise over to St. George's Gardens in the middle of the night afterwards, where he gets caught on the video we saw? Why?"
"Assignation?"
"With who? Drug dealer? That bloke does drugs like I do drugs. Prostitute then? His wife's dead, so he's wanting some, okay, but why would he take a tart to St. George's Gardens?"
"Terrorist?" Lynley offered. It seemed like a complete nonstarter, but he knew that nothing could be discounted.
"Gunrunner?" Nkata said. "Bomb maker?"
"Someone with contraband to hand over?"
"Not the killer, but meeting the killer," Nkata said. "Handing over something. A weapon?"
"Or taking something from him?"
Nkata shook his head. "Handing over something. Or someone, guv. Handing over the kid."
"Kimmo Thorne?"
"That works." Nkata glanced at the stairs, then back to Lynley. "He goes to the embankment, but how far're we talking from Leicester Square? From Hungerford Footbridge if that's how Kimmo and his mate got over the river? This bloke could know Kimmo from f'rever past, and he's biding his time to decide what to do with him."
Lynley considered this. He couldn't conceive of it. Unless, as Nkata himself had pointed out, the Asian man was a sociopath.
"Please then follow me," Masoud said as he descended the stairs. He'd put on not the traditional shalwar qamis of his countrymen, but rather baggy jeans and a flannel shirt over which he was zipping a leather flying jacket. He had trainers on his feet. He was suddenly much more of their country than of his own. The transformation did give one pause to consider him differently, Lynley realised.
The van was parked inside one of a string of garages that stood together at the end of Telford Way. There was no way to inspect the vehicle easily without moving it from the structure, and Masoud did this without being asked. He rolled the van back to give Nkata and Lynley access. It was red, like the van that had been seen by their witness from her flat above Handel Street, just outside St. George's Gardens. It was also a Ford Transit.
Masoud turned off the engine and jumped out, opening the sliding panel door to show them the inside of the vehicle. It was kitted out exactly as he'd said: a cooker had been fixed along one side. There were also cupboards, a work surface, and a small fridge. One could use the vehicle for camping, as there was room to sleep in the middle if necessary. One could also use it as a mobile murder site. There was little doubt of that.
But it hadn't been used in such a manner. Lynley knew that much before Masoud leapt out and opened the Ford for them to look over. The van was of recent vintage, and on its side "Muwaffaq's Mobile Kitchen" and the relevant phone number glistened pristinely.
Nkata spoke,