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?