“We’re trying to sort all of that,” Lynley told her. He reached in his jacket for one of his cards. Barbara reached in her shoulder bag for one of hers.
“Ring one of us if you hear from her,” Barbara said. “It’s important.”
Easter Lange took the cards, read them both, and stuffed them into the pocket of her tunic. She said she certainly would ring them, and she’d certainly give them the only address she had for Mercy, but she hadn’t spoken to her in forever, and she didn’t expect to be speaking to her anytime soon. She didn’t know what sort of help she’d ever be able to give them.
“Any help is quite a lot better than no help at all,” Lynley told her.
KINGSLAND HIGH STREET
DALSTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
Lynley and Havers reached the same conclusions when they arrived at the location of the clinic, where the arrests of Mercy Hart—posing as Easter Lange—and Monifa Bankole had occurred. Their first conclusion was that, for a women’s clinic, it wasn’t doing anything to advertise its presence since the only sign indicating anything at all at the address they’d found in the police report was one that announced the establishment as Kingsland Toys, Games, and Books in bright letters on a purple background, all of it done in plastic. Their second conclusion was that the clinic was apparently closing down. A large van stood blocking the traffic travelling south, its rear doors gaping open and a ramp descending to the street. This appeared to be a grossly unpopular exercise, for a tailback had formed and the drivers affected were not being shy about sitting on their horns or shouting from their open windows. A traffic warden was definitely wanted. Unfortunately, none was evident.
“Ah London, a place of boundless tranquillity,” Havers said to the sky, and jerking her thumb at an establishment next door to the putative clinic, she went on with, “Taste of Tennessee would do well to start taking orders from all that lot, you ask me.”
“Is that the source of the horrific stench?” Lynley asked her.
“Grease and exhaust fumes, sir. Some people call it the fragrance of the gods. I could do with a nosh, by the way. I missed breakfast and we’re way past lunch.”
“Have you given much thought to the condition of your arteries?” Lynley said to the DS.
“I’ll eat veg tomorrow, sir. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All raw. With water. No fags either. Scout’s honour, nun’s vow, oath taken on the Bible, or whatever you like. I’d suggest the first option, though. Something tells me you don’t carry a Bible round in the boot of your car.”
Lynley glanced at her wryly. “You don’t expect me to believe any of that, do you? I mean the part of eating only raw vegetables and drinking only water.”
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”
“Havers, the word incorrigible does not do justice.”
“Have a heart, Inspector.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “Heart, yours. Clogged arteries. Sudden death.”
“Oh good bloody grief.”
“Which we, whom you leave behind, would feel. Come along, Sergeant.”
They crossed the High Street and paced back to Kingsland Toys, Games, and Books where two men in blue boilersuits with Pack ’n’ Go forming an embroidered arc on the back were just coming out of a door propped open for ease of access and egress. They were carrying an upended desk with gaping holes where its drawers had been. Lynley stopped them, identified himself, and asked for a word.
It was brief and given only after they had the desk loaded into the van. Yes, they were emptying the clinic, they told him. Yes, it was closing down. Yes, they’d been sent to do the job. No, they didn’t know who had made the arrangements. They just went where they were told to go by their guv’nor, and this was where they were told to go. They were taking everything to a storage facility “out Beckton way.” They’d made one delivery there already and “the guv’nor being so tight with the money, he won’t buy something larger for bigger jobs like this one,” they might even be forced to make the trek to Beckton one more time. There was nothing for it but to soldier on, which was what they were trying to do. This last was said more meaningfully than that which had come before it.
“My colleague and I need to have a look round the place, I’m afraid. Have you had your lunch?”
They both guffawed at that, which suggested they weren’t allowed lunch when they were transporting items. When Lynley encouraged them to have a lengthy break from their labours and to use the advent of the Metropolitan Police as their excuse if their guv questioned them, they were only too happy to comply. They didn’t bother to ask him for a warrant. It seemed that the siren smell of Taste of Tennessee had been working its magic upon them as efficiently as it had done upon Havers. They made fast tracks to that establishment and disappeared inside.