“What kind of visitors did the boy have?”

“Mostly kids his own age, or older. Some of them seemed a bit seedy. All sorts, really. They never caused any trouble, though. Mostly they didn’t stay long.”

“What did Mr. Stokes have to say about it?”

“Nothing. Not to me, at any rate.” She paused. “Oh, dear. How can I say this without sounding judgmental? I mean, I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but . . .”

“Go on, Mrs. Cunningham.”

“Margery, please. Well, it’s just that Mr. Stokes was a bit . . . like he wasn’t all there. He was in his own world. I don’t know what you’d call it. We used to say retarded, but I don’t know what the word is now. But it wasn’t his fault.”

“What wasn’t?”

“That he hadn’t had much education, though he did like to read a lot. He was a bit childlike, if you know what I mean. I think maybe that young lad took advantage of him, having his friends round and all.”

Gerry was getting the distinct impression that this was a textbook county lines operation. But what had happened to the operation? Perhaps the young man in question would be back. Or perhaps he had been replaced by Samir. But Margery Cunningham said she hadn’t seen Samir around the neighborhood, and she had no reason to lie.

“Do you remember the boy’s name?” Gerry asked.

“Never knew it.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I think so.”

“Can you tell me anything more about him?”

“No, love. I’m sorry.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired,” she said. “Do you know, I’ve been here over twenty-five years, but I shan’t be sad to leave. It used to be a nice estate, the Hollyfield. Good people. Honest. Decent. For the most part. You got the odd bad ’un. You always do, don’t you? But look at it now. Pah. No. Take me to my sheltered flat. That’s what I say. I’ll live out my days quite happily there. The sooner they knock this bloody place to the ground, the better.”

That was the second time today Gerry had heard that sentiment expressed, she realized as she headed back toward the park.

TADIĆ CERTAINLY appeared more presentable than the scruffy, unwashed animal Zelda remembered, as no doubt befit his elevated status in the organization, but it was him. She was certain. Put an ogre in an expensive suit and it was still an ogre. Though she tried to keep a grip on herself, she couldn’t help but grab her book and her shoulder bag and rush toward the street exit. As she did so, her bag knocked over the empty wineglass, and it shattered on the floor. His head jerked in her direction. She felt a chill run through her, as if she had inadvertently awoken a sleeping snake or crocodile, some sort of reptilian beast that operated on instinct alone. She kept going, ignoring the nasty looks she got from people she bumped into, until she was out in the street. Once there, she merged with the flow of pedestrians heading toward Marylebone Road and Great Portland Street Underground. She had no idea where she was going, only that her breath was tight in her chest, her heart was pounding dangerously fast and she had to get away from the Hotel Belgrade.