A faintly ramshackle flavor had permeated the street, a gentle middle-class dottiness that expressed itself in the random collections of potted plants on one balcony, a bicycle on another and, on a third, limp, wet and possibly soon-to-be-frozen washing forgotten in the sleet.
The house that Waldegrave shared with his wife was one of the very few that had not been converted into flats. As he stared up at it, Strike wondered how much a top editor earned and remembered Nina’s statement that Waldegrave’s wife “came from money.” The Waldegraves’ first-floor balcony (he had to cross the street to see it clearly) sported two sodden deck chairs printed with the covers of old Penguin paperbacks, flanking a tiny iron table of the kind found in Parisian bistros.
He lit another cigarette and recrossed the road to peer down at the basement flat where Waldegrave’s daughter lived, considering as he did so whether Quine might have discussed the contents of
There were black bin bags heaped around the front door of the basement flat. It looked as though Joanna Waldegrave had been having a comprehensive clear-out. Strike turned his back and contemplated the fifty windows, at a conservative estimate, that overlooked the Waldegrave family’s two front doors. Waldegrave would have had to have been very lucky not to be seen coming and going out of this heavily overlooked house.
But the trouble was, Strike reflected gloomily, that even if Jerry Waldegrave had been spotted sneaking into his house at two in the morning with a suspicious, bulging bag under his arm, a jury might take some persuading that Owen Quine had not been alive and well at the time. There was too much doubt about the time of death. The murderer had now had as long as nineteen days in which to dispose of evidence, a long and useful period.
Where could Owen Quine’s guts have gone? What, Strike asked himself, did you do with pounds and pounds of freshly severed human intestine and stomach? Bury them? Dump them in a river? Throw them in a communal bin? They would surely not burn well…
The front door of the Waldegraves’ house opened and a woman with black hair and heavy frown lines walked down the three front steps. She was wearing a short scarlet coat and looked angry.
“I’ve been watching you out of the window,” she called to Strike as she approached and he recognized Waldegrave’s wife, Fenella. “What do you think you’re doing? Why are you so interested in my house?”
“I’m waiting for the agent,” Strike lied at once, showing no sign of embarrassment. “This is the basement flat for rent, right?”
“Oh,” she said, taken aback. “No—that’s three down,” she said, pointing.
He could tell that she teetered on the verge of an apology but decided not to bother. Instead she clattered past him on patent stilettos ill suited to the snowy conditions towards a Volvo parked a short way away. Her black hair revealed gray roots and their brief proximity had brought with it a whiff of bad breath stained with alcohol. Mindful that she could see him in her rearview mirror, he hobbled in the direction she had indicated, waited until she had pulled away—very narrowly missing the Citroën in front of her—then walked carefully to the end of the road and down a side street, where he was able to peer over a wall into a long row of small private back gardens.
There was nothing of note in the Waldegraves’ except an old shed. The lawn was scuffed and scrubby and a set of rustic furniture sat sadly at its far end with a look of having been abandoned long ago. Staring at the untidy plot, Strike reflected gloomily on the possibility of lock-ups, allotments and garages he might not know about.
With an inward groan at the thought of the long, cold, wet walk ahead, he debated his options. He was nearest to Kensington Olympia, but it only opened the District line he needed at weekends. As an overground station, Hammersmith would be easier to navigate than Barons Court, so he decided on the longer journey.
He had just passed into Blythe Road, wincing with every step on his right leg, when his mobile rang: Anstis.
“What are you playing at, Bob?”
“Meaning?” asked Strike, limping along, a stabbing in his knee.
“You’ve been hanging around the crime scene.”
“Went back for a look. Public right of way. Nothing actionable.”
“You were trying to interview a neighbor—”
“He wasn’t supposed to open his front door,” said Strike. “I didn’t say a word about Quine.”
“Look, Strike—”
The detective noticed the reversion to his actual name without regret. He had never been fond of the nickname Anstis had given him.
“I told you, you’ve got to keep out of our way.”