“I took a minute when I was back at the office,” she said.
I picked up the note and unfolded it. An address in south London was written in smooth, flowing handwriting.
“Morden?” I said. “That’s not too far. OK. Let’s give it a try.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It might not lead to anything - he might not even come home tonight - but trying will make me feel a lot better.”
“It would be interesting to see what his place is like, too. It could give us an idea of how discrete this guy is, since his hands are apparently in the till.”
“It should.”
“How are we going to get there? Tube?”
“I have a confession. I didn’t turn the Land Rover back in, after all. It’s parked outside. I was hoping you’d say, yes.”
The drive to Sole’s house took forty-four minutes, allowing for a set of road works on the Balham High Road, a stop at Pret a Manger to pick up sandwiches, and another at a petrol station to refill the Land Rover’s tank.
“This guy must have excellent self control,” Melissa said, as she guided the Land Rover expertly into a narrow space diagonally opposite a modest semi, a quarter of a mile from Morden station. “Unless he’s got a couple of Rolls Royces in a lock-up round the corner.”
“Either that, or someone’s controlling him with something other than money,” I said.
“Could be either. We need to find out which. Let’s see if he’s in first, shall we?”
“I’ll go, if you like.”
“No. You better stay put. What if he is there? We don’t want him taking to his heels.”
“Why do you keep saying things like that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What happened with Tim Jones, the first time you met him, maybe. Or the kids in the hospital garden. Or the city boys, outside the Frog and Turtle.”
“I was very restrained, with all of those.”
“You’re like the iron fist in the velvet glove, aren’t you?”
I allowed myself a hint of a smile.
“Only sometimes, it seems like you forget to bring the glove.”
I watched Melissa saunter across the road and pick her way along the path through Sole’s narrow front garden, and had to agree she could make herself look pretty non-threatening. I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he opened the door and showed any of the smarminess he’s apparently employed on Amany, though.
Melissa rang the doorbell, then stepped back and started to subtly peek through the two downstairs windows. She waited a couple of minutes, then rang again. There must have been no answer, because she moved to her right and tried the gate that blocked the passage between Sole’s house and the next pair of semis. I could see that the handle wouldn’t turn. She glanced around behind her, then put her right foot up on the wall, pushed herself up, pivoted around, and disappeared feet first from view.
She was out of sight for just over three minutes, then the gate opened and she strolled back out, moving calmly as if she owned the place. Two minutes after that she was behind the wheel, next to me.
“It’s a very modest place,” she said. “There’s no sign of a sudden influx of ill-gotten cash.”
“Maybe they don’t live there anymore,” I said. “Maybe they’ve rented the place out.”
“It’s possible. We’ll just have to see when someone gets home. At least we know the place is occupied. There were dirty breakfast things still on the kitchen table.”
Over the next four hours and ten minutes we talked about many things. We started with the first records we’d bought. Then the first concerts we’d been to. The first person we’d kissed. Our favourite books. And movies. And paintings. And buildings. And countries. For two hundred and fifty minutes we sounded like normal members of society, with no place in our conversation for violence or deception or death. The only subject Melissa stayed resolutely away from was her family. And before I could change that, her phone rang.
“They say dead men tell no tales,” she said, looking several shades paler. “What do you think? And what about dead men’s houses? Or dead men’s dead mistresses?”
“Sole’s dead?” I said.
“Yes. He is. And so’s Amany Shakram. That was the desk sergeant at the police station round the corner from St Joseph’s. The guy knew I still have an eye on the place, so when two hospital employees turned up dead tonight, he had the nouse to call me.”
“Were they murdered?”
“Oh, yes. It sounds like they were very much murdered.”
“Where?”
“Woolwich. In a half-abandoned council estate about thirty-five minutes from here.”
“OK. So what would you rather do? Head to the murder scene? Or see what we can turn up inside the house?”
“It’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.”
“I agree. But if I had to pick one, I’d go for the murder scene. Recent violence is much more fertile ground than somewhere someone’s had years to hide and conceal everything. And judging by the outside, at least, this guy was pretty careful not to give anything away.”
“That works for me,” she said, reaching out and turning the key.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Melissa drove much more aggressively on our way out of Morden than she had done on our way in. The chunky SUV wasn’t exactly nimble, but what it lacked in precision she made up for with power as she zigzagged through Colliers Wood and Tooting and Streatham, before turning right onto the A205 and blazing west through Dulwich and Forest Hill and Catford. She slowed right down when she turned left, heading north again, and then my heart sank when I realised what was happening. We were nearly at our destination. Melissa was looking for somewhere to park. I just hoped she had plenty of taxi money with her, because one look out of the window was enough to tell you the Land Rover wasn’t likely to be there when we came back for it.
“What just happened?” I said, as Melissa pulled the Land Rover into a layby next to a burnt out bus shelter. “Did you drive so fast that we went back in time, and somehow ended up in Soviet era East Germany? What is this place?”
“Welcome to the Queen’s Grove Estate,” she said, opening her door. “Some say it’s the closest you can get to hell without being dead.”
“It looks like they’re right,” I said, following her out on to the pavement.
“Last year, two guys were stabbed to death here on a Friday night. Their bodies were left lying in one of the gardens - and I say gardens in the loosest sense of the word - for a whole weekend before anyone bothered to call the police.”
“Charming. And this is where Sole ended up? Amany, too?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m told.”
“Where, exactly? This place is huge.”
“I have the name of the block.”
“Well, good luck finding it,” I said, pointing to what used to be a map of the estate. It was still standing, attached to a pair of stout metal girders, but its surface was entirely obliterated with dozens of layers of paint.
“We should be able to find it,” she said. “Half the place has been demolished already.”
“Why only half?”
“You might not believe it, but a handful of the residents have refused to leave. They can’t knock down any more till they get them to move out.”