The Toff and the Fallen Angels by John Creasey

obviously deeply worried,’ said Jolly. ‘It’s very hard to believe that Professor Webberson is dead, sir, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Rollison heavily. ‘Hard to realise that two of the girls are probably dead, too, and Naomi Smith is on the killer’s list. At least he won’t use the same hammer again,’ he added. ‘About nine in the morning. That will give us five hours’ sleep, with luck.’
    â€˜I’ll call you, sir.’
    Rollison went to bed with so much on his mind that he half-expected to be a long time getting off, but in fact he was asleep as soon as he had adjusted the sheets and blankets. The reassurance about Angela, shadowed by the other murders, by the dangers, by the threats, had exhausted him.
    Jolly brought him tea at five minutes past nine.
    At ten o’clock he pulled up outside the modern severity of the new New Scotland Yard, was recognised and passed from constable to sergeant, sergeant to chief inspector and finally into Grice’s office. Grice was not there. Three newspapers were open on his desk, an indication of sudden departure.
    â€˜He’s with the assistant commissioner, sir,’ said the chief inspector. ‘He isn’t likely to be long.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Rollison - and the door opened and Grice came in. He did not look in the best of moods, and simply nodded before rounding the desk and shuffling the newspapers into position. ‘Good morning, Bill,’ said Rollison. ‘I wanted to come and say “thanks” in person.’
    Grice grunted.
    â€˜The assistant commissioner doubts the need or the wisdom of my search of Slatter’s house,’ he said. ‘Slatter’s already been talking to MPs and they have been talking to the Home Secretary. Did you have to choose as suspect a millionaire who owns more property in London than any other single person?’
    â€˜No,’ said Rollison. ‘Angela chose him.’
    â€˜She has been seen in the house this morning,’ Grice went on. ‘I want you to find out why she went there as soon as you can, and if it’s some damned flight of fancy, I want her out.’
    â€˜Yes, Superintendent,’ said Rollison with tactful humility. ‘Any news?’
    â€˜The sledge hammer was the one used to kill Keith Webberson.’ Grice touched a file on his desk. ‘It had been stolen from a building site nearby, a small block of flats is going up where there used to be a big house. No fingerprints, but there are burned initials on the shaft,’ Grice added.
    â€˜What initials?’
    â€˜T.S. - and don’t start jumping to any more conclusions.’ Grice’s interview with the assistant commissioner for crime must have been very unpleasant. ‘And don’t ask me whether I’m trying to find the owner, either.’ He moved his right hand as one of three telephones on his desk began to ring. ‘Why should anyone try to murder Mrs Smith, if we could answer that . . . Grice here.’
    His expression changed as he listened, the sense of grievance died.
    â€˜Yes . . .’ he said. ‘Are you quite sure? . . . Well, now we know where we are. Is there any way of finding out whether she was killed by the same sledge hammer? . . . Yes, compare the wounds with those on the back of Professor Webberson’s head . . . Yes, as far as I know I’ll be here all the morning.’
    He put the receiver down, and leaned back in his chair. Rollison was almost sure what the main news was but he waited for Grice to deliberate, without trying to rush him.
    â€˜The body taken out of the Thames was Winifred de Vaux’s,’ he said flatly. ‘The dentist has just given positive identification. There’s no news of the other missing girl. Webberson was murdered about eight days ago - four or five days before the de Vaux girl disappeared. And—’ Grice pulled at his lower lip before