Both Danilov and Strachan stood outside Central Police Station. At the bottom of the steps, a hawker was frying noodles, the wok flaring as he added soy sauce and sesame oil. The smell was entrancing. Strachan was waiting for the inspector to go before sitting on a seat and buying himself a bowl.
The inspector was smoking as usual, finishing another of his roll-ups, enjoying the bitterness of the smoke against his tongue.
‘Looks like they’ve solved the case, sir.’
‘Have they, Strachan?’
‘Yes, sir. Cartwright and Meaker have found him.’
‘I wonder, Strachan, I wonder.’ Danilov stubbed the end of his roll-up against the wall, placing the dimp in his pocket. Since his encounter with the beggar, he no longer threw them on the pavement.
The sight of another human being scrambling after the remains of a cigarette had been distressing for him. Nobody should ever be reduced to such depths.
Nobody.
He began to roll another one. Time to get one last cigarette in before returning to the non-smoking prison his daughter had imposed. He loved her but he wished he could smoke first thing in the morning. There was nothing like the first cough to wake a body.
‘It all seems sewn up, sir.’
‘Perhaps too sewn up.’
Strachan scratched his head. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘It all seems too pat. The Character Killer is so careful about the clues he leaves behind. Nobody ever sees him. His fingerprints are nowhere to be found, and yet he leaves trace elements of embalming fluid on a stone and on clothes. He must have known we would test everything. Remember, Thomas Allen knows the way we work, and the way we think.’
‘You still think Allen is the killer, sir?’
Danilov took another drag of the roll-up and blew the smoke out through his lips to join the oil-drenched aromas from the noodles. ‘I’m certain it’s him. They may find Allen at the undertakers’ tomorrow, but I doubt it. The clues are just too obvious for such a killer.’
‘The Chief Inspector is convinced, sir.’
‘He is, Strachan. He wants a quick arrest, proof his new Scotland Yard methods work. Writing it all on sheets of paper. It’s in here that matters.’ He tapped the side of his head and took another drag on his cigarette.
He would have to leave soon; Elina was expecting him home. She was cooking ‘dinner’ again. Then he had an idea. ‘What about you, Strachan?’
‘What about me, sir?’
‘Why don’t you join me for dinner? Elina is cooking.’
Strachan scratched his head. Another flare of flame from the hawker’s wok lit up the sky. ‘I’d love to, sir, but I wouldn’t want to impose.’
‘You wouldn’t. Elina always cooks more than necessary. The recipe books give portions for six people. She hasn’t worked out how to cut down the amounts yet.’
The hawker scraped the contents of his wok into a bowl. The smells of eel, shaoxing wine and chilli drifted over their heads.
‘I know she’d like to see you.’
Strachan smiled. ‘In that case, I’d be happy to accept.’
Danilov leant in and whispered, ‘But let’s get some of those delicious noodles, in case she burns the draniki. With my daughter’s cooking, it’s always best to be prepared.’
‘Perhaps we should have a bowl before we leave, sir; fortify ourselves for the journey home.’
Danilov threw his cigarette away. ‘Not a bad idea, Strachan. It could help protect our stomachs against her food too. Just in case. Always be prepared.’
‘Like boy scouts, sir.’
‘You’re learning fast, Detective Sergeant.’