As afternoon began to give way to evening, Abberline prowled his office with clenched fists, occasionally giving vent to his pent-up feelings at the lack of tangible progress, and then apologising to a quietly smiling Marcus Logan. The ‘vague leads’ that had seemed so promising earlier that morning had fizzled out by noon and the frustration was taking its toll.
“No need to apologise to me, Chief Superintendent,” the old man replied with a rather forced chuckle. “I have heard far worse from my clients when they are under.”
The detective stopped pacing and faced him. “How can you keep smiling?”
“I’m not,” replied Logan, still smiling, “I just look like I am.”
At that moment the phone on Abberline’s desk rang. He grabbed it before the first trill had finished and barked his surname into the mouthpiece.
“It’s Matthews, sir.”
“Where are you?”
“In Southwark, sir, checking on places that sell books.” He was actually sitting in a squad car pulled up outside his twenty-eighth such establishment of the day, a dilapidated old antiquarian bookshop that looked as if it hadn’t done any business in months. “We might have had a bit of luck, I think. Just been to a second-hand bookseller who remembers selling two large consignments of chemistry books earlier this year, one to a guy just a few streets away and another to a man with a Fulham address.”
Abberline’s eyes lit up at the sound of the second place. “You followed them up?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Matthews, “I did the Southwark one and I sent Conway to Fulham. The Southwark guy is a chemistry student at the University of London, but he can’t attend lectures at the moment because he has a broken leg.”
“Genuine?”
“Seems to be. Certainly in plaster, which has been on for a while by the look of it, and his flat is the usual student tip. He shares it with four others, two of whom were there when I visited. Not what we are expecting from our boy.”
“No,” agreed Abberline, “that doesn’t fit the profiling at all. It isn’t him. And Fulham?”
“Conway’s just reported back, sir. Small house in a quiet street. No answer at the door, all the means of entry locked, ground floor curtains closed and the neighbours say they haven’t seen him for a couple of days. Name of Nicholas Trent. Works for Greater London Council.”
“Did you check with them?”
“Yes, sir. They confirm he works at County Hall, but he rang in sick the day before yesterday.”
Abberline’s eyes widened. “Did the neighbours say anything about him?”
“Quiet type, keeps himself to himself, makes no trouble and — get this — according to them, he keeps the place like it was brand new.”
Hope suddenly soared within Abberline’s breast. “Get round there!” he yelled. “I’m organising a search warrant!” Slamming the phone down, he scribbled down the address that Matthews gave him and roared, “Cornish!” at his closed office door
A detective constable’s head appeared round the door. “Sir?”
“Run a check with DVLC on a Nicholas Trent of this address. Now. I want to know what sort of car he drives.”
“Sir.” Cornish took the slip of paper and disappeared. Finally Abberline found he was able to sit down and look at his guest equably.
“I take it we have a lead?” asked Logan.
“We have a name, an address and we’ll soon have a car to go with it. He fits the profile and, guess what, he hasn’t been home for two days.”
“And we both know where he’ll be,” observed the old man.
Reaching for the phone again, Abberline added, “Excuse me, Mr. Logan, I have to summon up a search warrant.”