enough to rule it out. But if it ever happened, he thought his own police days might be over.
‘Not so long ago, I’d have had half a dozen bods on these cases and now it’s all I can do to get you for a morning. Still, if things really hot up the Chief has promised she’llfind a way to give me what I need.’
‘Looks like they might be hotting up. This Marshall guy has to be in the frame again now, doesn’t he?’
‘One man on the SOR doesn’t make a summer. Right, it’s somewhere in this maze of bungaloid streets.’
They toured around for several minutes, swinging right and left, backing out of cul-de-sacs. No one was about apart from a window cleaner and a couple ofdogs.
‘How’s Steph liking the drugs op?’
‘No accounting for taste. She loves it. Getting dealers off the streets and kids off the drugs is her mission. Reckon she’ll head up the squad before she’s thirty. She made herself unpopular with a couple of uniform though – they were apparently all for making drugs legal and she got into a bit of a strop.’
‘There is an argument for decriminalising them.Not sure I support it but there’s a case to be made.’
Ben shook his head. ‘Thing is, guv, there’s the soft drugs and – that was Cherry Road, you just passed it – back, then first left.’
‘Discreet,’ Serrailler said. ‘Out of sight of nosy neighbours.’
But Marshall had seen them draw up. The front door opened and he all but hustled them inside.
‘Thought you’d be here,’ he said. He led them intoa cramped front room, made more cramped by a bulky leather sofa and arm chair, and a table on which stood a large half-completed balsa-wood model of St Paul’s Cathedral. More pieces were piled around on sheets of paper, with tiny pots of enamel paint, a jar of brushes, glue, card. The room smelled of it.
Serrailler had his warrant card out but Marshall waved at it. ‘You think I don’t know youlot a mile off? What is it? Way you walk maybe.’
He was a nondescript man, average height, mid-brown hair, rimless glasses. The only notable thing about him was his thinness. Ben Vanek was reminded of a character in a children’s book he had had, a boy so flat he could slide under doors and post himself in an envelope. If Marshall stood sideways, he almost disappeared.
He gestured to them tosit down, then went to the table, picked up a knife and piece of balsa and bent over the model. He studied it in silence for a few seconds, then placed the wood delicately to one side of the great roof.
‘Glue dries,’ he said, ‘if I leave it.’
‘You’ve got a lot of patience.’
‘Have to.’
Serrailler studied the model. As far as he could see there was not a hair out of true. It was a painstakingpiece of work, apparently done entirely from an enlarged photograph of the cathedral that was laid out on the table.
‘I know what you’ve come about,’ Marshall said, meeting his eye. ‘Well, I would.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never forgotten her, you know. Might have been yesterday. Clear as yesterday. It just doesn’t happen, does it? You see a girl at a bus stop – next thing, she’s vanished off the faceof the earth. Just doesn’t happen.’
‘Unfortunately, it does.’
‘Still, it’s something, I suppose, finding her body. Something for her family.’
‘Something. But not everything.’
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I knew you’d be round here, even without me being on the register. Got nothing to do with it though.’
‘Hasn’t it?’
Marshall looked up and met Ben Vanek’s eye this time.
‘Nope. Done my time, learned my lesson. Only it’s like tar rubbed into your skin. Never leaves you. Every time I go out.’
‘Is there a Mrs Marshall?’
‘Buggered off with my best mate, once it all came out.’
‘Do you work?’
‘Who employs people like me?’
‘Forget all that,’ Serrailler said. ‘You say you remember Harriet Lowther very clearly … that day you saw her
‘Not so long ago, I’d have had half a dozen bods on these cases and now it’s all I can do to get you for a morning. Still, if things really hot up the Chief has promised she’llfind a way to give me what I need.’
‘Looks like they might be hotting up. This Marshall guy has to be in the frame again now, doesn’t he?’
‘One man on the SOR doesn’t make a summer. Right, it’s somewhere in this maze of bungaloid streets.’
They toured around for several minutes, swinging right and left, backing out of cul-de-sacs. No one was about apart from a window cleaner and a couple ofdogs.
‘How’s Steph liking the drugs op?’
‘No accounting for taste. She loves it. Getting dealers off the streets and kids off the drugs is her mission. Reckon she’ll head up the squad before she’s thirty. She made herself unpopular with a couple of uniform though – they were apparently all for making drugs legal and she got into a bit of a strop.’
‘There is an argument for decriminalising them.Not sure I support it but there’s a case to be made.’
Ben shook his head. ‘Thing is, guv, there’s the soft drugs and – that was Cherry Road, you just passed it – back, then first left.’
‘Discreet,’ Serrailler said. ‘Out of sight of nosy neighbours.’
But Marshall had seen them draw up. The front door opened and he all but hustled them inside.
‘Thought you’d be here,’ he said. He led them intoa cramped front room, made more cramped by a bulky leather sofa and arm chair, and a table on which stood a large half-completed balsa-wood model of St Paul’s Cathedral. More pieces were piled around on sheets of paper, with tiny pots of enamel paint, a jar of brushes, glue, card. The room smelled of it.
Serrailler had his warrant card out but Marshall waved at it. ‘You think I don’t know youlot a mile off? What is it? Way you walk maybe.’
He was a nondescript man, average height, mid-brown hair, rimless glasses. The only notable thing about him was his thinness. Ben Vanek was reminded of a character in a children’s book he had had, a boy so flat he could slide under doors and post himself in an envelope. If Marshall stood sideways, he almost disappeared.
He gestured to them tosit down, then went to the table, picked up a knife and piece of balsa and bent over the model. He studied it in silence for a few seconds, then placed the wood delicately to one side of the great roof.
‘Glue dries,’ he said, ‘if I leave it.’
‘You’ve got a lot of patience.’
‘Have to.’
Serrailler studied the model. As far as he could see there was not a hair out of true. It was a painstakingpiece of work, apparently done entirely from an enlarged photograph of the cathedral that was laid out on the table.
‘I know what you’ve come about,’ Marshall said, meeting his eye. ‘Well, I would.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never forgotten her, you know. Might have been yesterday. Clear as yesterday. It just doesn’t happen, does it? You see a girl at a bus stop – next thing, she’s vanished off the faceof the earth. Just doesn’t happen.’
‘Unfortunately, it does.’
‘Still, it’s something, I suppose, finding her body. Something for her family.’
‘Something. But not everything.’
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I knew you’d be round here, even without me being on the register. Got nothing to do with it though.’
‘Hasn’t it?’
Marshall looked up and met Ben Vanek’s eye this time.
‘Nope. Done my time, learned my lesson. Only it’s like tar rubbed into your skin. Never leaves you. Every time I go out.’
‘Is there a Mrs Marshall?’
‘Buggered off with my best mate, once it all came out.’
‘Do you work?’
‘Who employs people like me?’
‘Forget all that,’ Serrailler said. ‘You say you remember Harriet Lowther very clearly … that day you saw her
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