school of policing (where it suited him, of course), gave me the standard disapproving look I was beginning to get used to from my subordinates, but I ignored him.
The guy really didn't have much choice, so he let us in and turned the music down. He sat down on a large beanbag and, waving in the general direction of the other beanbags assembled around the cluttered room, let us know that we too could sit down.
I told him we'd remain standing. He looked a mixture of nervous and confused, which was fine by me. I wanted to make him take this discussion seriously, to get him to rack his brains for information that could be of help.
As it happens, I didn't get a lot. His name was Drayer. He added that his first name was Zeke, but I told him I didn't believe anyone would have called their kid Zeke, not at the time he was born, which had to have been at least forty years earlier. He insisted that it was. I asked him if that was the name on his birth certificate. He admitted it wasn't. 'And have you changed it by deed poll?' He reluctantly conceded that he hadn't.
Eventually, I got it out of him that his real first name was Norman. 'Norman's an all right name,' I told him. 'It's no worse than Dennis, which is mine.'
'I know it's no worse,' he said, and left it at that. Cheeky bastard.
It turned out that Norman was a poet by trade. He performed his poetry in some of the local pubs and clubs and had also had a few bits and pieces published in various anthologies. 'It doesn't pay much,' he confided, 'but it's a clean life.' Looking round his worn-out living room, I wasn't sure I'd have used that description for it, but there you go. Everyone's entitled to their own illusions.
Norman appeared genuinely upset when he found out it was Miriam who'd been murdered. He hadn't really known her, he said, as she'd tended to keep herself to herself, but whenever he'd run into her in the hallway she had always smiled and said hello. 'She was a nice girl, you know. Made the effort. There aren't many like that in this city.'
We both nodded in agreement. 'It can be an unfriendly place,' I said, stating the obvious. 'Did Miss Fox have many visitors? Particularly male ones?'
'Er no, I don't think so,' he said, thinking about it. 'I saw one man go up there a couple of times.'
'What did he look like?' Malik asked.
'He was muscular, well formed. Attractive, I would think, to women. And there was a fire about him, a passion. An anger almost. As if somewhere inside him was a volcano waiting to erupt.'
'That's a truly terrible description,' I told him. 'Try again. Was he tall, short? Black, white?'
'He was black.'
I described the guy who'd just clouted me and it quickly transpired that they were one and the same. Well, at least he'd been right about one thing. There'd certainly been an anger there.
'How often did he come and go?'
'I saw him maybe two or three times in the hall or on the stairs. He never spoke to me.'
'Over how long a period?'
He shrugged. I think he was pissed off that I'd mocked his descriptive skills. 'I don't know, maybe three months.'
'And when was the last time you saw him?'
'A couple of weeks ago. Something like that.'
'Not within the last two or three days?'
'No.'
'How long have you been here?' Malik asked.
'About a year now.'
'And was Miss Fox already here when you moved in?'
'No, she wasn't. She came ... I don't know, about six months ago.'
'And you can't remember any other male visitors?'
He shook his head. 'No, I don't think so. Should I have done?'
'I thought poets were meant to be observant,' I told him. 'You know, viewing their surroundings and commenting on what they see.'
'What do you mean? What are you talking about?'
'She was a prostitute, Mr Drayer. Didn't you know that?'
It turned out he didn't, which was probably because there hadn't been any other male visitors that he recalled. She'd clearly kept her business and personal life separate. I showed him the photo-me images and asked him if he
The guy really didn't have much choice, so he let us in and turned the music down. He sat down on a large beanbag and, waving in the general direction of the other beanbags assembled around the cluttered room, let us know that we too could sit down.
I told him we'd remain standing. He looked a mixture of nervous and confused, which was fine by me. I wanted to make him take this discussion seriously, to get him to rack his brains for information that could be of help.
As it happens, I didn't get a lot. His name was Drayer. He added that his first name was Zeke, but I told him I didn't believe anyone would have called their kid Zeke, not at the time he was born, which had to have been at least forty years earlier. He insisted that it was. I asked him if that was the name on his birth certificate. He admitted it wasn't. 'And have you changed it by deed poll?' He reluctantly conceded that he hadn't.
Eventually, I got it out of him that his real first name was Norman. 'Norman's an all right name,' I told him. 'It's no worse than Dennis, which is mine.'
'I know it's no worse,' he said, and left it at that. Cheeky bastard.
It turned out that Norman was a poet by trade. He performed his poetry in some of the local pubs and clubs and had also had a few bits and pieces published in various anthologies. 'It doesn't pay much,' he confided, 'but it's a clean life.' Looking round his worn-out living room, I wasn't sure I'd have used that description for it, but there you go. Everyone's entitled to their own illusions.
Norman appeared genuinely upset when he found out it was Miriam who'd been murdered. He hadn't really known her, he said, as she'd tended to keep herself to herself, but whenever he'd run into her in the hallway she had always smiled and said hello. 'She was a nice girl, you know. Made the effort. There aren't many like that in this city.'
We both nodded in agreement. 'It can be an unfriendly place,' I said, stating the obvious. 'Did Miss Fox have many visitors? Particularly male ones?'
'Er no, I don't think so,' he said, thinking about it. 'I saw one man go up there a couple of times.'
'What did he look like?' Malik asked.
'He was muscular, well formed. Attractive, I would think, to women. And there was a fire about him, a passion. An anger almost. As if somewhere inside him was a volcano waiting to erupt.'
'That's a truly terrible description,' I told him. 'Try again. Was he tall, short? Black, white?'
'He was black.'
I described the guy who'd just clouted me and it quickly transpired that they were one and the same. Well, at least he'd been right about one thing. There'd certainly been an anger there.
'How often did he come and go?'
'I saw him maybe two or three times in the hall or on the stairs. He never spoke to me.'
'Over how long a period?'
He shrugged. I think he was pissed off that I'd mocked his descriptive skills. 'I don't know, maybe three months.'
'And when was the last time you saw him?'
'A couple of weeks ago. Something like that.'
'Not within the last two or three days?'
'No.'
'How long have you been here?' Malik asked.
'About a year now.'
'And was Miss Fox already here when you moved in?'
'No, she wasn't. She came ... I don't know, about six months ago.'
'And you can't remember any other male visitors?'
He shook his head. 'No, I don't think so. Should I have done?'
'I thought poets were meant to be observant,' I told him. 'You know, viewing their surroundings and commenting on what they see.'
'What do you mean? What are you talking about?'
'She was a prostitute, Mr Drayer. Didn't you know that?'
It turned out he didn't, which was probably because there hadn't been any other male visitors that he recalled. She'd clearly kept her business and personal life separate. I showed him the photo-me images and asked him if he
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