Free Waiting for Wednesday by Nicci French Page A

that?’
    ‘A list of what was stolen. Including, as you’ll see, the silver forks you sold. Is there anything else there you remember?’
    He shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Those forks were all I got.’
    ‘From Dave,’ said Munster.
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘So,’ Munster went on, ‘the items we retrieved were part of a larger haul, but you never saw the rest.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘And your link to this theft was Dave, whose second name you don’t know, who you think lives south of the river, and who you have no means of contacting.’
    Hunt shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘You know the way things are,’ he said.
    ‘And your only alibi for the day of the burglary would be provided by a man called Ian, also with no second name, now currently on his travels. And uncontactable.’
    ‘Sorry about that,’ said Hunt.
    ‘In other words,’ said Munster, ‘you can’t tell us anything we can check, apart from what we already know.’
    ‘You’re police,’ said Hunt. ‘I don’t know what you can check and what you can’t check.’
    ‘Of course, if you were to put us in touch with whoever passed that silver to you, we’d seriously consider dropping the charge against you.’
    ‘Then I wish I could put you in touch with him.’
    ‘Dave?’
    ‘Yeah. But I can’t.’
    ‘Is there anything at all you can tell us?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Hunt. ‘Just ask.’
    ‘Where did you spend last night? At least you can tell us that.’
    ‘I’ve been moving around,’ said Hunt. ‘I haven’t got anywhere regular.’
    ‘You can only sleep in one place at a time. Where did you sleep last night?’
    ‘It’s in these flats, down near Chalk Farm. There’s this friend of mine, friend of a friend. He’s away. He lets me doss down there.’
    ‘What’s the address?’
    ‘I can’t remember.’
    ‘Then take us there.’
    It was a short drive, then the three of them – Munster, Riley and Hunt – walked into the courtyard of the battered, dishevelled estate and up a staircase. On the third floor, Munster stopped and leaned on the balcony railing, looking across at the William Morris building. They were in the John Ruskin building. Beyond were houses that, even now, were worth more than a million pounds but here one in every three or four flats was boarded up, waiting for a renovation that had probably been put on hold until someone was ready to pay for it. Hunt walked along the balcony and stopped. He took out a key from his jacket pocket and unlocked a front door.
    ‘Stop,’ Munster said. ‘Don’t go in. You wait out here with DC Riley.’
    He stepped inside and immediately was reminded of his early days in the force when he had spent much of his time in places like this. It was a smell of mustiness, damp, some food going off somewhere. It was the smell of not bothering, of giving up. He recognized it all. The grubby linoleum, the dirty sofas and chairs in the living room, everything grubby and old, except the large new flat-screen TV. In the kitchen, the sink was full of dishes; there was a greasy frying pan on the hob. He was seeking something that didn’t fit, something different from the usual crap, and it didn’t seem as if he was going to find it. Had Hunt got rid of everything? He should probably send some officers round for a proper search, if he could get them. Because Hunt was right. Legal aid had been cut and now it was the police’s turn. But then he went into the bathroom and there, finally, was something. He pulled on his plastic gloves. It was too big for an evidence bag. He called Riley and Hunt inside.
    ‘What’s that doing here?’
    ‘It’s a cog,’ said Riley. ‘It looks like it should be in some big old machine.’
    There was a pause.
    ‘Why shouldn’t it be in a bathroom?’ said Hunt. ‘It looks nice. Shiny. It’s a decoration.’
    ‘You weren’t admiring its shininess,’ said Munster. ‘You were washing it. Where did you get a thing like this from?