Memory stirring, he added, “But, Redfyre, Sydney Fox—he’s at death’s door! At a hospital in London. Tuberculosis, and he’s been out of action for some time, according to Oily, who always finds out these things. He can’t have been rampaging around Cambridge, frightening the shit out of all of us this last bit. And why start with innocent old Ernest Jessup, twenty years later? What did he do to attract murderous attention all of a sudden? That list of corpses around Cambridge you say you have—old Syd can’t be responsible. Can he?”

“Possibly not. Though his partner in crime may have interesting things to tell us!” Redfyre said grimly.

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Yorkshire, Wednesday, the 21st of May, 1924

Up in the wilds of Yorkshire: “Drop me here, Constable,” MacFarlane said. He’d decided to get out and walk the length of the gravelled drive so that old Mrs. Fox, Syd’s mam, could get a good view of him. He’d noticed the net curtains at the front bay window had twitched as the police car approached.

He saluted the driver, screwed his bowler more tightly onto his head—always a good breeze blowing in Yorkshire—buttoned up his khaki cashmere overcoat, squared his meaty shoulders and began to crunch his way rhythmically down the drive. He knew from hand-to-hand experience the devastating effect a cohort of KOYLIs could have. Even a solitary figure of MacFarlane’s size and bearing gave pause for thought.

Had he overworked his preparation to interview the aged, reclusive mother of a man himself at death’s door, a man who featured on his interview list concerning crimes committed in distant Cambridge? Crimes originating in a murky scene acted out a quarter of a century ago in a far-off continent? The link was tenuous. He would be required—all too literally—to account for this trip. In cash terms to his superiors, and much more trickily, in terms of motive, to the watcher within.

Yes, he had probably oversteered, he admitted. Turning up on her doorstep, dressed like a posh thug from the intelligence service, slim briefcase tucked under the arm in unconscious replacement for a swagger stick. Still, some ladies actually liked the look, he’d heard. And you should never underestimate the opposition. Tough breed, Yorkshire widows! You had to prepare for the worst and hope to emerge from any encounter without acquiring a crack on the jaw or a conjugal knot around the neck. How old had Redfyre reckoned this one was? Seventy-four? He should be all right.

He crunched on, his step unfaltering. But he recollected the advice given him just now by his young police driver on the long drive up from the railway station. When invited to mark MacFarlane’s card, he’d replied eagerly enough and with Yorkshire brevity and pungency.