“Found property?”
“That's what he called it.”
The only question the boy had at the end of their meeting was to enquire how best to find the Chandler solicitors. Sitwell had directed him to King-Ryder Productions since—as everyone who'd been even moderately conscious for the last two decades knew—Michael Chandler and David King-Ryder had been partners until Michael Chandler's untimely death. “I suppose I should have pointed him towards the King-Ryder estate as well, come to think of it,” Sitwell said contemplatively, adding “Poor sod,” in apparent reference to David King-Ryder's suicide earlier that summer. “But as the production company's still up and running, I thought it made sense to start with them.”
What, Barbara thought, an intriguing wrinkle. She wondered if it was on the blanket of the murder or part of another bed entirely.
Into her silence, Sitwell waxed apologetic. He was sorry he couldn't be more helpful. There'd been nothing sinister about the boy's visit. Nothing exceptional about it either. Sitwell had forgotten altogether that he'd ever met him and he still couldn't say how Terry Cole had come to have his business card because he still couldn't recall ever handing him one.
“He took one,” Barbara said, and indicated a card holder on Sitwell's desk with a nod of her head.
“Oh. I see. I don't remember him doing so, but I suppose he might have. I wonder why.”
“For his chewing gum,” she told him, thinking, And thank God for that.
She made her way back out to the street. There, she dug out of her bag the roster of employees that Dick Long had given her at 31-32 Soho Square. The list was alphabetical by employee surname. It included the office telephone number of the person in question, the home address and phone number, and the organisation for which each individual worked.
Barbara scanned the list till she'd come up with what she was looking for.
King-Ryder Productions, she read next to the tenth name down.
Bingo, she thought.
Security was non-existent at Shelly Platt's address. She lived not far from Earl's Court Station, in a conversion that had once been protected by the sort of door whose lock could be released by a resident pushing a buzzer from within an individual flat. Now, however, the door stood open. When, in an automatic response to seeing it ajar, Lynley paused to examine its locking mechanism, he saw that while the door itself had the requisite parts, the jamb that surrounded it had been destroyed sometime in the past. The door was still capable of swinging shut, but it caught upon nothing. Burgle at Will could have been the building's epigraph.
There was no lift, so Lynley and Nkata headed for the stairs at the far end of the corridor. Shelly lived on the fourth floor, which gave both men an opportunity to assess their physical condition. Nkata's was better, Lynley discovered. His lips had never so much as tasted tobacco. That abstinence—not to mention the man's insufferable youth—showed. But Nkata was considerate enough to mention neither. Although the blasted man did pretend to pause on the second floor mezzanine to admire what passed for a view and to give Lynley a breather, which he would have been damned before taking in front of his subordinate.
There were two flats on the fourth floor, one facing the street and one overlooking what lay behind the building. Shelly Platt lived in this latter accommodation, which proved to be a small bed-sit.
They had to rap on the door several times to get a response from within. When it was finally opened the length of an insubstantial security chain, a squinting face with sleep-modified orange hair peered out at them.
“Wha'? Oh. Two of you, is it? No offence, luv. I don't do black. Not prejudiced, mind you. Jus’ a 'rangement I got with a three-way girl who's getting on in years. I c'n give you her number if you want.” The girl had the distinctly adenoidal accent of a woman who'd spent her formative years just north of the Mersey.
“Miss Platt?” Lynley asked.
“When I'm conscious.” She grinned. Her teeth were grey. “Don't get your type round here much. Wha'd'you have in mind?”
“Conversation.” Lynley produced his warrant card and reacted quickly with his foot when she sought to slam the door. “CID,” he told her. “We'd like a word, Miss Platt.”
“You lot woke me up.” She was suddenly aggrieved. “You c'n come back later, when I've had me kip.”
“I doubt you want us to do that,” Lynley told her. “Especially if you're in the midst of an engagement later. That could put a damper on business. Let us in, please.”