At the bar, the landlord was arguing with two men who were trying to persuade him to turn the television down and switch on the radio so they could hear the Liberation Cup final about to start at the Tottenham ground. ‘No one wants the parade on, mate,’ a thick-set older man was saying. ‘Kick-off’s any minute. Go on.’

‘I can’t turn the parade off, can I?’ the landlord said, subtly nodding outside to where the three young men were sipping their drinks. ‘So no.’ The telephone behind him rang and he picked it up as we stepped out the door. ‘What? No. It’s the Rising Sun pub, mate. Frank who?’

‘Wait!’ shouted Tibbot, whirling around. ‘Wait, that’s for me.’

16

The landlord handed Tibbot the telephone. ‘It’s me,’ he muttered into it. ‘Yes.’ The landlord gave us a suspicious look, but obviously decided it was nothing to do with him and went off to collect some glasses. I leaned against the back of a chair and glanced at the men outside. They didn’t appear to be watching us, but how could I really tell? ‘Why would that be?’ Tibbot mumbled into the mouthpiece, resting his elbow on the bar. There was an undercurrent of concern in his voice, but also curiosity. ‘How recently? I see.’ He tapped his fingers on the bar. ‘Yeah. But she … Who could authorize that? Right. Yeah, please.’ He took a notepad and pencil from his pocket and wrote something down. ‘All right, ta. Take care.’

‘Did he find it?’ I asked, as soon as the receiver was down. He kept looking at the telephone, tapping his thumb on the bar thoughtfully.

‘Yeah,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘But there’s something strange.’

‘What?’ He looked over at the landlord, who was watching us through the corner of his eye. ‘There are three men outside,’ I muttered.

‘I’ve seen them.’

We chatted about the parade as we headed out, towards the end of the street, and as soon as we were out of earshot, his features clouded. I looked at him keenly. ‘It took Kenneth longer than he thought to find the file; and someone came back from the parade early so he couldn’t leave without it looking a bit off,’ he explained.

‘But he got it?’

‘Yes.’

I waited. ‘You said there was something strange.’

‘Yeah, well, we have the name of the woman who bought this car. For now, we’ll presume she’s the one in the photo you found. She’s Rachel Burton of 2 King Henry Road, Gravesend, Kent. She bought it in 1943. In 1950 it was requisitioned by the government as common property and transferred to the oversight of one Dr Richard Larren. No address for him, though.’ I was impressed by his precise recall without recourse to his notebook, but no doubt he had spent forty years committing such details to memory.

‘Who is he?’