The Invisible Code by Christopher Fowler Page A

The friend told me how much Sabira hated going to the embassy dinners. She said she’d rather go and eat pizza in a café.’ He smiled, but it faded with the memory. ‘I thought Sabira was very – nice.’ Both of the detectives could see that it wasn’t what he had been about to say.
    ‘Do you remember the name of the friend?’ Bryant asked.
    ‘I would have written it down. You always do; it’s a habit.’ He pulled out a BlackBerry and thumbed through his notes. ‘Edona. I guessed the spelling. Didn’t get the last name – probably too many consonants for me to handle. I took a picture of her for fun. I wasn’t going to use the shot.’
    ‘What did you talk about?’
    ‘Nothing much, we were just filling in the time.’ He suddenly rose to his feet. ‘Is that it? Can I go now?’
    ‘One last thing,’ said May. ‘When was this?’
    Waters checked his BlackBerry again. ‘I made the note in early June. So, nearly a month ago.’
    ‘Mr Waters,’ said Bryant sharply, ‘did you really not talk to Sabira Kasavian? The woman your camera loved so much?’
    ‘I told you, no.’ He did not catch Bryant’s eye. As he left, he passed Detective Constable Fraternity DuCaine in the passageway. DuCaine looked back as he entered.
    ‘Who was that?’
    ‘A photographer who knows Sabira,’ said May. ‘Why?’
    ‘So that’s Waters. I’ve seen him around. He’s always outside West End clubs, chatting up women. A real eye for the ladies. Did you find a connection?’
    May went to the window and watched Waters crossingthe street. ‘No,’ he said, puzzled. ‘According to him, he stood next to her for fifteen minutes and they never exchanged a single word. He’s stretching the truth, but I have no idea why.’

12

    THE ENGLISH HEART
     
    HAMPSTEAD HAD ALWAYS prided itself on being a cut above other London areas. The homes of Byron, Dickens, Keats and Florence Nightingale had now been usurped by financiers who had turned the village into one of the most expensive places in the world. Its street names were printed in elegant reverse text, white lettering out of black tiles, its avenues were sumptuously leafy, its houses gabled and slightly suburban, set back from the sight of vulgar vehicles. It had lakes and the largest open heathland in London, and looked down on everyone else from a windswept peak where the city temperatures cooled, and on a summer day like this you could almost believe you were deep in countryside until you saw the high-street prices.
    May wondered aloud who lived there, and Bryant was delighted to enlighten him; in 1951, he explained, the Church Commissioners, who owned most of Hampstead, were advised by their estate agent to sell everything off as prices were about to plunge. They sold, prices soared, and Hampstead Man, the pipe-smoking chap who wrote books that didn’t sell and supported nuclear disarmament,moved down the hill to shabbier postcodes, leaving Hampstead to rapacious property developers. Even the politicians moved to cheaper areas.
    The Cedar Tree Clinic was founded in a house formerly owned by an English composer who had chosen the spot for its tranquillity. In 1937 it was bought by a wealthy American benefactress who came to paint and stayed to heal. The clinic’s gardens sloped to manicured woodlands and had provided a sheltered spot for officers recuperating from a devastating war. Now the main house was used by burned-out musicians and detoxing media executives, but the east wing was for more troubled souls, those with recurring addictions and nervous disorders.
    ‘Put that out,’ John May instructed. ‘The last thing they want is the smell of tobacco drifting over their lawns.’
    ‘Lightweights.’ Bryant knocked out his pipe, unscrewed the stem and without checking for embers dropped the bowl into his jacket pocket. He stamped his feet on the porch steps. ‘Bloody English summer, my feet are frozen.’
    ‘You should try wearing thicker socks.’
    ‘I shouldn’t