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better known characters on their ground, a tiny creature, only four foot eight tall and thin as an adulterer’s excuse. She dressed always, winter and summer, in a black coat, black boots, and a black felt hat, with, of course, the tastefully matching accessories of black teeth and black fingernails.
    She was unusual for a bag lady in that she only ever toted one bag, whereas most female tramps collected more and more junk all the time. There was one in South Kensington, for instance, who now had to push a stolen supermarket trolley to carry all her bags; and another who lived under the bridge where the M4 crossed Syon Lane, who had accumulated so much stuff she could no longer move about at all. The last time Slider had passed she had even acquired a sofa and a matching armchair. He firmly expected to see a standard lamp and a sideboard next time he drove by.
    Very Little Else, however, travelled light. She walked her ground in a methodical way, stumping along muttering to herself with her one bag clutched tightly inher right hand, while her left gesticulated an accompaniment to her monologue. When Slider had first come to Shepherd’s Bush, she’d had an old Turkish-patterned carpet bag, but that had gone the way of all flesh. Now it was just a plastic carrier, which only lasted a few weeks before having to be replaced. No-one had ever fathomed out where she slept, or what she lived on, but she was popular with the beat coppers because she was no trouble. Slider thought they probably all slipped her a few bob every time they met her.
    Since D’Arblay evidently got on with her, perhaps he should get him to interview her about the motel fire. He glanced out of the window. On the other hand, the sun was shining out there, muted by the dust of ages on the window panes, but inviting. ‘Any idea where she’d be today?’
    ‘Somewhere between White City and East Acton, sir.’
    ‘Ah. Thank you, D’Arblay.’
    It was one of those sunny afternoons when suddenly the world slows down to continental pace. The pavements smelled like hot skin, the tar of the roads softened benignly, pigeons got serious about each other wherever there was a patch of balding urban grass. In the row of shops opposite the park in Bloemfontein Road, suddenly-genial shopkeepers propped their doors wide and dreamed of the subcontinent they’d left behind them. Windows stood open everywhere, and the air was exotic with the fragrance of spices and frying garlic. Outside the post office, two scrawny single mothers folded their arms and chatted, forgetting for once to slap and scold; and in a pushchair by the door a happy baby mugged old ladies for smiles.
    It was here that Slider finally came upon Very Little Else. He spotted her turning the corner into Bryony Road, and going into the park through the gate by the bowling-green. He parked the car further up the road and went back to look for her, and found her sitting on a benchwith her back to a warm privet hedge, blinking in the sunshine like a dusty black cat, and fumbling to open a packet of baby’s rusks which she held in her lap.
    The grass around her feet had bloomed as if by magic into a flock of hopeful pigeons, but she didn’t seem to have noticed them, nor to care that her fingers slid again and again over the well-sealed packet-end without making any impression. She seemed to be quite happy just sitting there, and Slider felt it would have been a shame to disturb her, except that in the past he had found her not averse to a spot of company.
    ‘Hello, Else,’ he said, positioning himself so that his shadow fell across her face and she could see him clearly. He stood still to let her get a good look at him, and she examined him carefully, frowning as she sought through her mental files for recognition. ‘Don’t you remember me?’ he said after a minute.
    ‘Yore a pleeceman,’ she said definitely, and then shook her head disappointedly. ‘My memory’s not what it was. I used to know you