definitely aware of CCTV.â
âVery well, thank you for telling me,â Vicary replied. âIâll record this information or non-information in the file, but youâll be faxing me a written report anyway?â
âOf course, sir,â Trelawney confirmed. âItâll be with you later today.â
âThank you ⦠Oh, Mr Trelawney,â Vicary caught Trelawney just before he hung up, âitâs just an interest of mine ⦠but your accent, mild as it is â¦â
âCornwall, my handsome,â Trelawney replied with good humour and in an exaggerated accent. âPadstow, to be exact.â
âAh ⦠I thought Devon or east Cornwall.â Vicary allowed his smile to be âheardâ down the phone line.
âWell, you were almost correct there, my handsome â north-east Cornwall. But Iâll write this up asap and fax it to you directly.â
âAppreciated. Thank you.â Vicary replaced the handset gently. He had very much enjoyed the brief conversation with DC Trelawney from Padstow, and he felt greatly uplifted by it.
The man ambled slowly out of the side door of the building and stepped on to Turner Street. He wore corduroy trousers, rolled up at the bottom in the form of rough turn-ups, brown shoes, a lightweight summer jacket and a flat white golfing cap. He had an ex-military khaki canvas knapsack slung over his left shoulder. The man turned right towards Whitechapel Road and when he got there turned left and kept close to the line of buildings as much out of the way of the other foot passengers as he could. He did not particularly enjoy the view of the Gherkin as he walked. He felt it was a monstrous building, very symbolic of the plethora of new buildings which he felt were ruining London, making the lovely old city slowly vanish. He once again noticed how that part of London in which he was walking had now been strongly given over to the influence of Islam: there were huge Mosques, for example, and many buildings that were originally public houses were occupied by businesses selling Asian clothing or halal meat. As the man approached Aldgate East Underground Station he crossed Whitechapel Road and walked into the White Hart, one of the few remaining public houses along the road. In the cool and calm interior of the pub he ordered a beer and chose to remain at the bar rather than sitting down. The man would cut a modest figure to the casual observer, with a barrel-chested upper body, short legs and standing just five feet six inches tall. As was his wont, the man kept himself to himself and avoided eye contact with other patrons. He was a man minding his own business and he clearly expected other people to mind theirs. He attracted little attention from the patrons, most of whom just glanced at him once and then forgot him, thinking as any observer would be forgiven for thinking, that he was just an ordinary âgeezerâ, having a beer or two at the end of the working day, on his way home to the âtrouble and strifeâ, middle-aged, scratching pennies, but still able to afford to eat and still able to afford a few beers. The man the other patrons were in fact glancing at once and then forgetting was John Shaftoe, MD, MCRP, FRCPath, Home Office registered forensic pathologist.
John Shaftoe remained in the White Hart until approximately 6.30 p.m., at which time he reasoned that the rush hour, which he often referred to as the âcrush hourâ, would have largely subsided. He walked back across Whitechapel Road to Aldgate East Underground Station and took the Metropolitan Line to Kingâs Cross, from where he took the mainline service to Brookmans Park. From Brookmans Park Railway Station he walked in a slow, ambling manner over the footbridge and into the centre of the village, then arrived at a gentle incline that was Brookmans Lane, observing, as he always did, the well-set detached houses on either side of the
âVery well, thank you for telling me,â Vicary replied. âIâll record this information or non-information in the file, but youâll be faxing me a written report anyway?â
âOf course, sir,â Trelawney confirmed. âItâll be with you later today.â
âThank you ⦠Oh, Mr Trelawney,â Vicary caught Trelawney just before he hung up, âitâs just an interest of mine ⦠but your accent, mild as it is â¦â
âCornwall, my handsome,â Trelawney replied with good humour and in an exaggerated accent. âPadstow, to be exact.â
âAh ⦠I thought Devon or east Cornwall.â Vicary allowed his smile to be âheardâ down the phone line.
âWell, you were almost correct there, my handsome â north-east Cornwall. But Iâll write this up asap and fax it to you directly.â
âAppreciated. Thank you.â Vicary replaced the handset gently. He had very much enjoyed the brief conversation with DC Trelawney from Padstow, and he felt greatly uplifted by it.
The man ambled slowly out of the side door of the building and stepped on to Turner Street. He wore corduroy trousers, rolled up at the bottom in the form of rough turn-ups, brown shoes, a lightweight summer jacket and a flat white golfing cap. He had an ex-military khaki canvas knapsack slung over his left shoulder. The man turned right towards Whitechapel Road and when he got there turned left and kept close to the line of buildings as much out of the way of the other foot passengers as he could. He did not particularly enjoy the view of the Gherkin as he walked. He felt it was a monstrous building, very symbolic of the plethora of new buildings which he felt were ruining London, making the lovely old city slowly vanish. He once again noticed how that part of London in which he was walking had now been strongly given over to the influence of Islam: there were huge Mosques, for example, and many buildings that were originally public houses were occupied by businesses selling Asian clothing or halal meat. As the man approached Aldgate East Underground Station he crossed Whitechapel Road and walked into the White Hart, one of the few remaining public houses along the road. In the cool and calm interior of the pub he ordered a beer and chose to remain at the bar rather than sitting down. The man would cut a modest figure to the casual observer, with a barrel-chested upper body, short legs and standing just five feet six inches tall. As was his wont, the man kept himself to himself and avoided eye contact with other patrons. He was a man minding his own business and he clearly expected other people to mind theirs. He attracted little attention from the patrons, most of whom just glanced at him once and then forgot him, thinking as any observer would be forgiven for thinking, that he was just an ordinary âgeezerâ, having a beer or two at the end of the working day, on his way home to the âtrouble and strifeâ, middle-aged, scratching pennies, but still able to afford to eat and still able to afford a few beers. The man the other patrons were in fact glancing at once and then forgetting was John Shaftoe, MD, MCRP, FRCPath, Home Office registered forensic pathologist.
John Shaftoe remained in the White Hart until approximately 6.30 p.m., at which time he reasoned that the rush hour, which he often referred to as the âcrush hourâ, would have largely subsided. He walked back across Whitechapel Road to Aldgate East Underground Station and took the Metropolitan Line to Kingâs Cross, from where he took the mainline service to Brookmans Park. From Brookmans Park Railway Station he walked in a slow, ambling manner over the footbridge and into the centre of the village, then arrived at a gentle incline that was Brookmans Lane, observing, as he always did, the well-set detached houses on either side of the
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