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Maisie recounted the events of the past week, from Priscilla’s telephone call to Sandra’s release, and her subsequent flight from the home of Douglas and Priscilla Partridge, into whose care she had been entrusted.

“She broke into the garage, then into this other bloke’s offices in the City?”

Maisie nodded.

“I had a feeling she was on to something. I don’t know what she might’ve found in our files over there, but she was looking for something that had nothing to do with her work, and that’s a fact.”

“We’re in possession of a very comprehensive history of many of the most notorious crimes in London and the Home Counties, and we’ve records that name some very powerful people in Westminster, in the City, and—as it happens—what could be termed, the ‘underworld.’ Even if they haven’t been directly implicated in a case, you can bet that anyone of importance is in those files somewhere, even if it’s only a name on a card.”

“Blimey.” Billy shook his head. “She’s got some nerve, that Sandra, I’ll say that for her.”

“The stronger the emotions, the more they will lead people to carry a burden well beyond their weight—you know that. She’s as grief-stricken as anyone I have ever seen, and she’s been rolling a rock up a hill.”

“I feel bad, Miss.” Billy picked at the rough skin along the edge of his thumb. “I thought her being suspicious was all to do with her feelings, that it would pass with time.”

“I know. But it’s no good looking back—there’s work to be done, Billy. First of all, see if you can find out where her in-laws live. Visit the house, keep an eye on it, see who comes and goes—you know the drill. I don’t want you to question them, because I don’t want them worried—I daresay they are still burdened by the death of their son. I believe they live near Whitstable. Here’s Eric’s full name—shouldn’t be too difficult to find them. You could even go over to the garage, find out if Reg Martin knows where they live. And while you’re there, just talk to the man, see what he has to say about what happened. I don’t want you to scare him—in fact, you can tell him you’re there on my behalf, that I want to visit Eric’s parents to pay my respects. Don’t let him know that Sandra has been released, or that we have no idea where she is.”

Billy nodded, scribbled in his notebook, and reached for his jacket. “I’ll go over there now. Anything else, Miss?”

“Yes, find out all you can about a man called William Walling.”

Billy frowned. “That rings a bell.” He draped his jacket across the desk and went to the card file, where he pulled out a drawer. “Too bloody tidy, that’s the trouble . . . oh, here it is.” He brought the card to Maisie. “I knew where to find it because I came in one day and Sandra was going through the cards. She left the card sticking up so she knew where to go back to, then went to put the kettle on, so I had a quick look at what she was doing.”

Maisie took the card. “This is an old card. Maurice’s handwriting . . . always a challenge to the eye—oh dear.”

“Uh-oh, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Of course. This goes back over twenty years now. It’s just a record of the fact that, when Maurice opened his first clinic in the east end, Walling sent an employee to ask if the premises needed looking after—protection, if you will. Maurice declined, but thereafter ensured that the clinic became a useful tea-stop for the policeman on the beat, so it went around that there was a ‘presence’ there, even at night, with the clinic open around the clock.” She tapped the card against her hand. “This could be another of our more devious brethren, Billy, so find out all you can about him. I should add that he’s now a respected businessman.”

“Aren’t they all when they want to be? Seems that the big boys like Walling, and that Alfie Mantle—you remember, who was put away a few months ago—all dress like lords and mix in the right places, so you’ve got your city gents and your politicians hobnobbing with these men who’re right villains.” Billy looked at Maisie. “What will we do if we can’t find