Lynley said to her, “Mercy Hart?”
Her reply was, “No. I’m Keisha.” She turned in the direction of a narrow stairway behind her and shouted, “Mum. You got company.” When she turned back to them, she flashed a smile—directed at Nkata, as far as Lynley could tell—and then with lowered eyelids, said, “Sorry. I can’t let you in. Mum’s rules. Wait here,” and she shut the door. Through it, they could hear children’s voices and the clattering of toys on a lino floor.
Out in the street, a motorcycle roared suddenly as someone revved its engine, and a dog nearby began to bark. In the distance, a train clanked in the direction of central London. They weren’t far from the railway tracks, although there had been no station that they saw on their search for Rokeby Street.
The door swung open again and they were face-to-face with a woman who didn’t look much older than Keisha. Lynley said, “Mercy Hart?” and to her reply of “Tha’s right,” he concluded that she’d either found what Ponce de Leon had been searching for or she’d had her first child when she was barely out of childhood herself. He showed her his warrant card and introduced himself and DS Nkata. “Metropolitan Police,” he added. “May we have a word?”
Mercy’s hand reached for the doorknob, forming a barrier. “What about?”
“About the women’s health centre that’s just been closed in North London. In Kingsland High Street, to be more accurate.”
“I don’t know about a health centre in Kingsland High Street.”
Lynley nodded. “As Mercy Hart, I can see how you wouldn’t know it. As Easter Lange, however, it seems you know it quite well. It’s called Women’s Health of Hackney. We’ve spoken to your aunt, by the way. May we come in?”
Mercy’s eyes narrowed but she stepped back from the door. She didn’t move far into the heart of the house, however. Instead, she dug a packet of cigarettes from her trousers, went up four of the stairs, and planted herself there, beneath one of what appeared to be a dozen nicely framed family photographs that climbed the wall. She left Lynley and Nkata standing at the foot of the stairs. She lit up from a plastic lighter, inhaled, and waited.
“A woman calling herself Easter Lange worked at the women’s health clinic I’ve mentioned,” Lynley said. “She was also arrested there and taken in for questioning. She was in the company of another woman at the time, Monifa Bankole, and I expect if we show that woman a picture of you, she’s going to identify you as Easter Lange.”
Mercy took this in without expression. She said, after a moment for consideration, “I used her name. That’s it. I didn’t take a thing else off her.”
Nkata looked up from his notebook and said, “Meaning you di’n’t latch on to Easter Lange’s identity otherwise?”
“Just her name. So what’s she told you? I robbed her bank account? Started up a credit card in her name?” Mercy gave a short laugh. “Not very likely, that.”
“Whyn’t you use your own name at the clinic, then?”
“I never liked it, my name. So I didn’t feel like using it. Hers is nicer. I always thought so.”
With very little trouble, they’d manoeuvred her into an admission about the clinic. Lynley gave thought to what else she could be manoeuvred into admitting should they ask their questions carefully enough. He said, “Isn’t it more likely that you used her name to keep ‘Mercy Hart’ safe from the authorities should you be closed down?”
“I don’t need to be afraid of the authorities.”
“Ah.” Lynley altered his position to lean against the wall as Nkata did the same against the wall opposite. Lynley said, “You certainly set up the clinic to look suspicious. You had the medical folders of patients who don’t exist. You had an appointment diary with the names of actual mothers and daughters who had an exceptionally good reason not to speak to the police. But, as a rule, it’s difficult to”—Lynley sought and finally chose—“batten down every hatch. In this case—in the case of the clinic in Kingsland High Street—one of the hatches was left loose. We have the appointment diary.”
She said nothing. She managed to look relatively unconcerned. Clearly, she was waiting for more information.
“Monifa Bankole,” Nkata told her. “She paid a deposit to have her daughter cut at your clinic, only her husband sent her back for the money, which was why she was there when you got arrested by the locals.”