‘What makes you so sure of that?’
‘Appleyard recalls seeing a tattoo on the man’s right arm. A red heart with the name Angie scrolled across it.’
‘A nice piece of detective work, young man. The odds aren’t great, but I’ll get back to you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Pass on my regards to Bruce. Tell him he has no hope on Saturday.’
‘No hope of what, sir?’
‘Arsenal beating Spurs.’
‘So presumably you support Tottenham Hotspur?’
‘I see the Yard is still only recruiting the brightest and the best. So who do you support?’
‘Fulham, sir. And I should point out that you haven’t beaten us recently.’
‘And I should point out, constable, that that might just be because we haven’t played you for several years, and we’re unlikely to do so while you languish in the second division.’ The phone began to purr.
William spent the rest of the afternoon writing up his report on the meeting with Appleyard and his telephone conversation with SO Rose at Pentonville. He decided to leave out the expletives and the Arsenal references, before he dropped a sanitized version on DCI Lamont’s desk just after 5.30.
William planned on slipping away just before six, so he wouldn’t be late for Tim Knox’s postponed lecture at the Fitzmolean, and supper afterwards with Beth.
He was just about to leave when the phone rang. Jackie picked it up.
‘It’s for you, Bill,’ she said, transferring the call to William’s desk. He smiled, expecting to hear SO Rose’s cheerful voice on the other end of the line.
‘Detective Constable Warwick?’ said a voice he could barely make out.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Martin. I work at John Sandoe Books in Chelsea, and you visited our shop last week. Your man is back, but this time he’s looking at a Dickens first edition.’
William raised a hand in the air, a sign that every other available officer should pick up their extension and listen to the conversation.
‘Remind me of your address?’
‘Blacklands Terrace, off the King’s Road.’
‘Keep him talking,’ said William. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘There’s a squad car waiting for you outside,’ said Lamont as he put down his phone. ‘Get moving.’
William ran out of the office, bounded down the stairs two at a time and shot out of the front door to find a waiting car, its engine running and passenger door open. The driver took off, siren blaring, lights flashing, before William had even closed the door.
‘Danny Ives,’ the driver said, thrusting out his left hand, the other hand remaining firmly on the wheel as he accelerated away. He clearly didn’t need to be told where to go.
‘William Warwick,’ said William, who accepted that if a fellow officer didn’t declare his rank he was probably a constable. Though in truth, most of the Met’s drivers considered themselves to be in a class of their own, and that the capital was nothing more than a Formula One racetrack, with the added challenge of pedestrians.
Ives nipped into Victoria Street, dodging in and out of the early evening traffic as he made his way towards Parliament Square. He ran a red light as he passed the Houses of Parliament. Although William had been on a couple of blue light runs in the past, he still felt like a schoolboy fulfilling his wildest dream as cars, vans, lorries and buses all moved aside to allow them through. As they approached the traffic lights at Chelsea Bridge, Ives slowed down and ignored the no-right-turn sign, cutting down his journey by several minutes. He accelerated along Chelsea Bridge Road towards Sloane Street, always particularly busy during the rush hour. He reached the traffic lights in Sloane Square just as they turned red and slipped into the bus lane without stopping. As they swung left past Peter Jones and continued on down the King’s Road, Ives turned off the siren but kept his lights flashing.
‘Wouldn’t want to let him know we’re on our way, would we?’ he said. ‘A mistake they often make in films.’
He turned into Blacklands Terrace, where William spotted a young man standing outside the bookshop, waving his arms. He leapt out of the car and ran across to join him.
‘You just missed the man. I couldn’t stall him any longer. That’s him, in the beige raincoat, heading towards Sloane Square.’