HACKNEY
NORTH-EAST LONDON
His employer had told him to take a few days, which was why Barbara Havers found Ross Carver at home. She’d not needed to beat any bushes to locate him. She rang the mobile number next to his name in one of the files and there he was. Could she speak with him about the death of Teo Bontempi? she asked. She could meet him somewhere or she could come to him, wherever he happened to be.
There was a significant pause before he said heavily, “Teo?” with what sounded peculiarly like resignation. And then, “Of course.” He gave Barbara his details and she set off.
It turned out that he had a flat in a large block that was part of a collection of similar blocks running the length of Goldsmith’s Row, in Hackney. Most of these displayed bleak visages of dreary and long-unwashed London brick. Only one, however, appeared to be of more recent vintage and its concrete fa?ade hadn’t yet fallen victim to exhaust fumes, dust, and other grime.
This being London, there was, of course, no place for her Mini. Indeed, for reasons obscure, all traffic into Goldsmith’s Row had been blocked by means of three bollards. One could walk or one could bicycle in the lane. But that was the extent of it. So she pulled onto the pavement alongside a wrought-iron fence nearly overtaken by shrubbery, and she fished in her rat’s nest glovebox and found her police placard, dog-eared though it was. She positioned this to be clearly seen by anyone peering into the windscreen. She did hope that noticing the placard would preclude anyone’s noticing the plethora of takeaway cartons on the floor of the car and an overfull ashtray in need of clearing. She reckoned she could get away with the Cadbury wrappers that she habitually tossed over her shoulder.
Out in the air, she was immediately assailed by the stench of manure. Lots of manure. The area was a veritable manure-palooza that the summer heat seemed to be cooking into a grossly malodorous stew. That, together with the crowing of an overstimulated rooster, the quacking of many ducks, and the braying of a donkey, told her she was in the near vicinity of Hackney City Farm. Indeed, when she peered through the shrubbery on the other side of the fence, she found herself looking into a ramshackle flower and vegetable garden, beyond which she could make out the top of a barn. As she observed the garden, two young women entered from the barn side of it, wearing tall gumboots on their feet and sun hats on their heads. They carried gardening tools with them and trugs as well. Harvesting time, Barbara thought. Doubtless Hackney City Farm put its copious manure to very good use.
The smell didn’t fade as she walked along Goldsmith’s Row, checking addresses. She couldn’t imagine living directly across the lane from the farm. One probably couldn’t open a window ten months of the year.
Ross Carver’s block of flats was nearly at the end of the lane, but its position didn’t do much to improve the air. She found that she was trying to hold her breath. The stench was so bad that she reckoned breathing through her mouth might expose her to two dozen forms of bacteria previously unknown to science.
A buzzer releasing the lock gave her access to the building. She took the lift to the topmost floor. Ross Carver, she decided, must have been watching for her. She had barely lifted her hand to knock before the door swung open and a nice-looking but swarthy man—Carver himself, presumably—was standing before her.
She knew little about him other than that he was a structural engineer. At the moment, he appeared more like a wannabe rock star. He was unshaven, his sumptuous, dark curls were swept back from his face with some kind of gelatinous substance, and he wore a manbun at the back of his head, two small hoop earrings and a diamond-looking stud in one ear, and that stud’s mate in the other. He had on a waistcoat that had seen far better days on a much larger body, as well as blue jeans. He wore no shirt. Prince Charming he wasn’t.
She said, “Ross Carver?”
He said, “DS Havers?”
Their identities more or less established, he opened the door wide to a flat so meagrely furnished that she wondered if he lived in it at all. An adolescent boy came out of another room as she entered. Behind her, Ross Carver said, “My son, Colton.” She nodded at the boy. He nodded back, did that teenage-boy thing of flipping his overlong hair off his face, and said, “I should go?” to his father.
“Could be for the best,” Carver said. “She’s here to talk about Teo. Ask your mum about the Gibraltar trip. Tell her I’ll give her a bell tonight.”
“She’ll just say no.”
“I’ll try the sweet talk.”