‘Josef Olinski.’

‘Yes, that’s him.’

‘Was there a name on the letter, a signature?’ asks Quinn.

‘Yes, but I don’t remember what it was. It all just seemed so harmless. I mean, there’s always artsy stuff appearing on the streets. Cow statues and stuff like that. These cabinet things were covered in some fancy material and I just assumed they were legit. I never imagined what was inside.’ Simpson’s eyes dart from Archer to Quinn. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m going to lose my job over this, aren’t I?’

‘I doubt that, PC Simpson. What did you talk about?’ asks Archer.

‘General stuff. He was married with a kid. He seemed friendly and willing to help. I asked him what was in the cabinets and he told me it was some sort of art exhibit. We laughed, thinking it was just a load of old rubbish.’

‘The CCTV footage shows you looking under the covers.’

‘I did, but I didn’t really see much. It was dark and the covers didn’t help. Honestly, I couldn’t have imagined anyone would have the nerve to put dead bodies inside containers and leave them on Charing Cross Road.’

‘OK, Kevin. Thank you,’ says Quinn.

‘There is something else . . .’ Simpson leaves the statement hanging as if waiting for permission to speak.

‘You’re keeping us on tenterhooks, Constable. Please break the suspense,’ says Quinn.

‘Josef Olinski said these three were the first of many. He told me they had already delivered six more cabinets to two other locations.’

Chapter 7

7

IT’S LATE AND THE WINDOWS are dark in Roupell Street, near Waterloo, where Grandad lives and where Archer lived as a teenager after everything went to hell. The echo of her boots shatters the night-time calm as she makes her way toward number fifty-two under the warm amber glow of the Victorian lamppost that lights up the sleepy two-storey brown-brick terraces. This quiet, unspoilt nineteenth-century village preserved in the heart of London is like stepping into another time. For Archer, there is something special about this hidden enclave that makes it feel like a weight shifts off her shoulders each time she returns.

Grandad’s house is recognisable from a distance because of the star jasmine that grows from a small hole in the pavement outside. It’s been there for as long as she can remember, growing and clinging to the brown bricks between his front door and living-room window. Over the years she and Grandad have tended it, trimming its bony branches, watering its squashed roots and enjoying its sweet jasmine scent in the spring and summer times. They admire its tenacity for thriving against the odds, growing from the smallest of holes in the pavement of a Central London street. Grandad told her that if this little plant could bloom and survive with so much to hold it back, then so could she.