'No,' I said. 'Somehow, I don't think it will.'
After we'd parted company I grabbed a sandwich at a cafe just off the Marylebone Road. They didn't do anything with sushi in it so I ordered smoked salmon, thinking it was probably the next best thing. The sandwich tasted like cardboard, but I wasn't sure whether that was as a result of the poor-quality bread or my own numbed tastebuds. I ate about three quarters of it, washing it down with a bottle of overpriced mineral water, then smoked two cigarettes in quick succession.
On my way back to the station I called in on Len Runnion at his pawn shop just off the Gray's Inn Road. In some ways, Runnion was one of Tomboy's successors. He dealt in stolen goods of pretty much every description, using the pawn shop as a cover. He had none of the class of Tomboy, though. A very short man with a leering smile that made Raymond's look genuine, Runnion had cunning, ratlike eyes that darted about when he talked. And he never looked anyone in the eyes, which is something I can't stand. To me, it means they've got skeletons in the closet. From what I knew of Runnion, and from what I could guess from his general demeanour, I expect he had a whole graveyard in his.
In the armed robbery I was still effectively investigating, the two robbers had held up a post office and, after stabbing the postmaster's wife and one of the customers, had got away with several hundred vehicle tax discs as well as a small sum of cash. I strongly suspected that they were amateurs who wouldn't really know what to do with the discs other than sell them on to other criminals. Professionals don't knife two people for that sort of return. It was a fair assumption then that they'd try someone like Runnion as a possible conduit for the goods, and if they had I wanted to know about it.
Runnion claimed ignorance of any tax discs. 'What would I do with them?' he asked me as he polished some garish-looking costume jewellery. I stated the obvious and he told me that he wouldn't have a clue where to sell such things. I didn't believe him, of course. Men in his line of business always know where to unload contraband. I told him that the perpetrators had stabbed the postmaster's wife and one of the customers during the course of the robbery, and that the customer had been lucky not to bleed to death. 'He was sixty-one years old, trying to protect the members of staff.'
Runnion shook his head in mock disbelief. 'There's no need for that,' he said. 'Never any need for violence. It's all about forward planning, isn't it? If you use forward planning, no-one gets hurt. The kids these days, they just don't have any. It's the education system, you know. They don't teach them anything any more.'
Which was probably true, but you don't need to hear it from a toe-rag like Len Runnion. I told him firmly that if he was approached by anyone offering stolen tax discs he should play them along a bit, get them to come back again, and inform me straight away.
He nodded. 'Yeah, yeah, no problem. Goes without saying. I don't have no truck with bastards like that.' Which, of course, he did. Among other things, Runnion was well known for supplying firearms, usually on a rental basis, to whoever needed them. We might never have caught him for it, but that didn't mean anything. We knew he did it. 'If I hear anything, I'll make sure you're the first to know, Sergeant.'
'You'd better do, Leonard. You'd better do.'
'And will there, shall we say, be a little drink in it for me if I come good?' The eyes darted about like flies in a field of shit.
'I'm sure we'll be able to come up with something,' I told him, knowing that bribery was usually more effective than threats. After all, as a police officer, what could I threaten him with? That we'd look into his business affairs more closely when we had the time? It would hardly have got him quaking in his boots.
It was five to two by the time I got out of Runnion's shop. Rather than continue my journey to the station, I thought I'd phone Malik to see how everything was going.
He picked up after one ring. 'Miriam Fox.'
'Miriam?'
'That's our victim,' he said. 'Eighteen years old, just turned. Ran away from home three years ago. She's been on the streets ever since.'
'Miriam. It seems a funny name for a tom. I assume she was a tom?'
'She was. Six convictions for soliciting. The last was two months ago. Apparently she came from a good home. Parents live out in Oxfordshire, father's something big in computers. Plenty of money.'
'The sort of people who call their kid Miriam.'
'It's a rich girl's name,' he agreed.
'A runaway, then.'
'That's what I can't understand. All over the world you've got people struggling to get out of poverty and make a better life for themselves, and this girl was trying to do exactly the opposite.'
'Don't ever try to understand people,' I told him. 'You'll just be disappointed. Have the family been informed?'
'The local boys are round there now.'
'Good.'
'I've got her last known address here. A flat in Somers Town, not far from the station.'
I had to hand it to Malik, he didn't hang about. 'Has it been sealed yet?' I asked him.
'Yeah. According to the DI, they've got a uniform down there at the moment.'
'Keys?' It was always worth asking this sort of thing. You'd be amazed how many times simple things like means of entrance to an abode got overlooked.
'I had to pick them up myself. The landlord was one cheap bastard. It turned out she was late with the rent. He asked me what he could do to get hold of the money she owed him.'
'I hope you told him where to get off.'
'I told him he'd have to talk to her pimp. I said as soon as I got his address, I'd give it to him.'
I managed my first smile of the day. 'I bet that pleased him.'
'I don't think there was much that was going to please him today. Anyway, the DI wants us to check out the address. See what we can find.'
I told Malik where I was and he said he'd come by and pick me up en route. He rang off and I lit a cigarette, sheltering the lighter from the cold November wind.
As I stood there breathing in the polluted city air, it struck me that maybe Malik was right. What the fuck had Miriam Fox been thinking about, coming here?
6
For me, one of the worst jobs in policing is looking through the possessions of a murder victim. A lot of the time when a murder's an open-and-shut case, which mostly they are, it's not necessary to do it, but sometimes there's no choice, and it's a painful process, the reason being that it puts flesh and bones on people, gives you insights into what made them tick, and this only serves to make them more human. When you're trying to be rational and objective, this is something you could really do without.
Miriam Fox's flat was on the third floor of a tatty-looking townhouse that could have been improved dramatically by a simple lick of paint. The front door was on the latch so we walked right in. Bags of festering rubbish sat just inside the entrance and the interior hallway was cold and smelled of damp. Thumping techno music blared from behind one of the doors. It annoyed me that people lived like this. I was all for minimalism, but this was just letting things go. It had nothing to do with poverty. It was all about self-respect. You didn't need money to clear away rubbish, and a can of paint didn't cost much. You could get a lot of paint, plus brushes for everyone, for the price of a few extra-strength lagers or a gram of smack. It's all about priorities.
A uniformed officer stood outside the door of flat number 5. Someone in flat number 4, which was just down the hall, was also playing music but thankfully not as loud as the guy downstairs. It also sounded quite a lot better – hippy stuff, with a woman singing earnestly about something or other that was obviously important to her. The uniform looked pleased to be relieved of his guard duty and made a rapid exit.