Melmoth Terrace was deserted. Parked cars, a prowling cat, the distant sound of the Light Programme. Ten thousand more fag ends ground into the cobblestones outside No. 19 by a dozen more hacks who had hung around for weeks. He knocked but knew before he did that the birds had flown. The house was empty. No one answered and when he stuck his ear to the letterbox all he could hear was the rattle and hum of a badly balanced refrigerator. Across the street he saw curtains twitch. Then a window opened, the sound of the music on the Light surged and a woman’s voice yelled, ‘Bugger off ! Haven’t you lazy bastards got proper jobs to go to?’ The window slammed shut. He thought better of asking her any questions, whoever she was.
Back at the Yard, Clark said he wasn’t surprised. After all, they no longer had any obligation to inform the police of their whereabouts.
Someone knew. Someone had to know.
Troy called Alex.
‘Freddie . . .’ A breeze in his voice to take the wind out of Troy’s sails. ‘I was just in the middle of—’
‘Don’t brush me off, Alex. Stopwhat you’re doing and find time.’
‘What do you want?’ said Alex, the urgency to be free still audible in his tone.
‘The Ffitches have vanished.’
‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘Where are they, Alex?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Alex, I’ve two unexplained deaths on my hands. Don’t piss me about. Those women were bought and sold like cocoa futures. A quote in this paper, an interview in that, but nobody ran with their story, nobody had their version in full. They knew what it was worth and stored it up for their own future. You made all the running breaking the case. You precipitated everything that followed. You’ve bought their story, haven’t you?’
‘Freddie, I—’
‘You know where they are!’
‘Freddie, you can’t ask me to reveal a source. It simply isn’t done.’
‘The Ffitches aren’t a source, Alex. Any way you look at it they’re not your source. That journalistic hog won’t wash.’
‘What are they, then?’
‘They’re material witnesses. And you’re obstructing an investigation.’
Alex’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘Freddie. I can’t talk about this matter on this line.’
‘Then get to one you can use. And if you don’t call me in five minutes, I’ll call your editor.’
Troy waited five minutes, then ten, then quarter of an hour. When Alex rang, Troy could hear the roar of traffic in the background.
‘Where are you?’
‘Far side of Blackfriars Bridge. Had to get a cab across the river. I don’t trust any of the call boxes in Fleet Street. You never know who’s hooked up to what.’
‘A wise precaution, I’m sure.’
‘Freddie, I don’t care to be bullied.’
‘Then tell me where they are and I’ll stop.’
There was a pause. He knew Alex was weighing the risk of challenging him one more time.
‘OK. OK. Tara’s at . . . have you got a pen?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a long one. She’s at Brick Kiln Cottage, May’s Lane, Dedham, near Colchester, in Essex.’
Troy could hardly believe it – the circularity of it. He had thought he had seen the last of Dedham.
‘Phone number?’
‘Isn’t one.’
‘And Caro? Are they together?’
‘I don’t know where Caro is. Honestly, I don’t. Tara won’t tell me. Says I deal with her or nobody.’
Troy found this perfectly plausible. That was just the way Tara would play it.
‘When are you running with their story?’
‘As soon as she gets back and spills the beans. She wanted a break from it all. Said it was wearing her sister out. I told her she could have a week. That was three days ago.’
It was perfectly clear to Troy that Alex had his doubts as to Tara ever reappearing to spill the beans.
‘Thank you, Alex.’
‘Freddie. Just one thing. Please don’t fuck this up for me.’
Troy would try not to, but he did not care how much the Sunday Post had paid for the Ffitch version or whether they got to run with it or not.