A Woman Unknown by Frances Brody

would be able to follow Hartigan and report on his movements.
    Sykes did not know why the man was being followed. He was a person of interest before the murder. There was no obvious motive for Hartigan to have murderedRuncie, but there was opportunity and proximity. He could be the killer.
    Just when the motorbike tyres would stand no more checking, a constable came out of the hotel’s back door and gave him the nod. Sykes climbed on the motorbike and fired the engine into life. He edged towards King Street, holding back as he glanced to his right. Hartigan’s hired Rolls-Royce stood at the kerb, motor running. Nattily dressed in dark suit, felt hat and bow tie, Hartigan tipped the commissionaire who opened the car door for him. They were off. Sykes kept a discreet distance. He risked dodging up a side street once the car entered Briggate. He zigged and zagged, to come out further along the road and not make himself obvious. The street was less busy on a Sunday, with strolling pedestrians and the traffic more sparse than on weekdays.
    It was a twisting journey, with several wrong turns, and a stop while the driver leaned out and asked directions. When they crossed Richmond Road, Sykes did a little detour, and fell back. He rode along a parallel street, just in time to see the Rolls cross Church Road. The car came to a halt by a Roman Catholic church. Sykes waited by the school building, which offered cover. He watched through the railings, keeping his distance. Since boyhood, he had disliked being too near a Catholic church. It was something bred in him that he could never shake, as if dreaded idolatry and superstition would ooze from the forbidding edifice and overpower him.
    Hartigan did not go into the church. He went to the presbytery and knocked on the door. The priest must have been waiting. He emerged in his long black cassock,funny little hat on his head, and wearing a narrow scarf around his neck. The clergyman carried a small bag. It would not in the least surprise Sykes to find that they were in cahoots over some deadly deed.
    Hartigan held the car door open for the priest, and then climbed in beside him.
    Sykes followed, beginning to worry that he would be spotted. The driver showed fewer hesitations now. They picked up speed.
    The journey led out of the city, into the leafy suburbs where trees grew in large gardens and on the broad pavements. They passed Roundhay Park, and then turned left. Sykes kept the length of the street between them.
    The Rolls entered the grounds of a nursing home. Sykes glanced at the sign: Ashville Nursing Home. He cycled past and parked his bike in the ginnel that bordered the nursing home grounds. There was a side gate that creaked as he opened it.
    The gardens blazed with colour. If the nursing staff’s capabilities matched that of the gardeners, the patients would be fortunate indeed.
    Who are you visiting, Mr Hartigan? Sykes asked silently.
    Sykes watched from the shrubbery as Hartigan and the priest went inside. The driver lumbered out of the car, stretched, and lit a cigarette. He began to plod about the grounds. For a moment, Sykes wondered had he been spotted. The man found his way to a bench in the shade of an ash tree. The fellow might look a little on the dopey side, but he knew how to choose a vantage point that gave him a view of the path and the house while keeping an eye on his precious motor.
    Like a man with legitimate business, Sykes strode to the front door that was open to the sunshine. A table in the tiled entry hall held a huge vase of roses. Beyond the wide oak staircase was a goods lift, large enough to carry wheelchairs. He looked up. At the top of the stairs, the two visitors were with a uniformed man who Sykes guessed had left the entry desk to escort them. They disappeared into a corridor.
    Sykes quickly nipped behind the tall counter. A visitors’ book lay open, its neat column headings conveniently recording, date, time, name of visitor and person