Kearney was a creature of habit. Most men were. It took Troy only three days to establish his pattern. Not being of sufficient rank to merit a Special Branch watch, he was abroad in the city indistinguishable from any other Londoner, apart from the fact that he was probably better dressed.
His morning routine was to walk to the far end of Prince of Wales Drive and catch the 137 bus across Chelsea Bridge to Park Lane, get off at the Dorchester, and walk the few remaining yards to Leconfield House in Curzon Street. He was a late starter. Hardly in the office much before ten, but also a late leaver. Scarcely out of it before eight, and even then with a briefcase full of documents under his arm. Troy felt certain that if he watched for longer he’d find plenty of nights when Kearney was still in his office at midnight, but time was running out. There is only so much squatting on the rim of the volcano a man can do.
Kearney’s indulgence was not to travel home by public transport. A cab met him in Curzon street, every night, and bearing in mind that it was never quite the same time every night, it looked to be an arrangement set up and varied daily. The cab always dropped him on the far side of Chelsea Bridge, at which point Kearney would cut across Battersea Park, south of the fun fair, to the eastern end of the boating lake, which he would then follow on the southern side, parallel to the road, until he reached the exit pretty well opposite his own apartment. Troy ascribed it to the illusion of exercise. It was less than half a mile, but it probably appeased Kearney’s conscience and took up less time than yoga or Sunday morning soccer. After that, he’d bet money that Kearney kicked off his shoes and poured himself a large Scotch. It did not seem that he did rough trade, but the advantage of no watchers was that he could do anyone. Again, if time permitted and Troy waited he felt sure he’d see young men at the door. What he wouldn’t see was a visit to any Soho bar known for its homos. This was a man with a secret. That he’d ever bedded Burgess struck Troy as a stupid mistake, and one Kearney no doubt had regretted ever since. And, there was no live-in. Kearney spent his private life largely alone. And largely frustrated, Troy thought. Just as well. Frustrated or not, Troy needed Kearney alone. He’d no wish to kill him in company.