Finally, she turned her attention to the shoebox of CDs, aware that John Mardell’s taste in music might give them a small insight to his character, but would be of little use in locating him, unless one of the cases contained something unexpected.

Daylight was beginning to fade as Hawkins took the first CD out of the box. She lifted the case clear of the gloomy boot recess and inspected it; a home-made sleeve clearly declaring it the work of an apparently unsigned local band named Cardigan. She opened the lid and poked at its contents, checking the paper insert for hand-written notes.

There were none, so she carefully replaced the box and removed its neighbour, again checking the cover in the failing light.

‘How’s it going?’ Mike’s head appeared as he moved from front to rear passenger door, catching her eye through the raised boot-lid window.

Hawkins didn’t answer, but he must have caught the puzzled expression on her face as he came around to join her at the back of the car.

‘Hold on.’ She took the third CD from the box; then the fourth. Then the last.

‘Find something?’ he asked, watching her.

‘Yeah,’ she said, tapping the last CD against her palm, letting the pieces assemble in her head, a half smile coming to her face …

‘I think I know where Mardell is.’

53

‘Wow.’ Hawkins eased the volume down on the Giulietta’s stereo, dulling Cardigan’s thrashing roar. ‘I guess the name was their attempt at irony.’

Mike nodded. ‘Take this left.’

Hawkins slowed and turned on to Galena Road. She had taken the CD from John Mardell’s Renault, mainly for reference, but curiosity crept in as she and Maguire drove out of Perivale, having left his Range Rover there for later collection.

Cardigan’s album, simply entitled 73, had been the first one she’d removed from the box in Mardell’s boot. But it had also been the second, the third and the last. In fact, the shoe box contained nothing but identical copies of their music, which indicated that Mardell was somehow connected to the band, most likely on the promotional side, given the number of their albums in his possession.

So, if he wasn’t with the band, they were definitely worth approaching to ask his whereabouts.

Helpfully, every CD inlay also included the band’s address in Hammersmith, a twenty-minute drive east of Perivale. And as she made the final turn into Albion Mews, a row of lock-ups built into the arches beneath an overground train line, Hawkins realized that the photograph on the album cover was a black and white picture of the address itself.

‘Now the title makes sense.’ She pulled up about halfway along the row, holding up the case in line with the arch now ten yards in front of them, the Giulietta’s headlights picking out the same large number 73 on the fascia shown in the photo.