“Oh yes, that’ll be easy. Gertrude, your confidential poison pen letters, that you probably wrote yourself to get my sympathy, are now in police files.”

“Why would she want your sympathy?”

I stood. “It’s a long story.”

Something told me that the highly regarded fingerprint man was right. Why had she done it, and why shown me? Perhaps she wanted me to understand that she and Benjie were more sinned against than sinning, or that she felt under siege in her own community. “Dad, I have to return them. I don’t know what game she’s playing but it’s her game not mine.”

“If I don’t let Macintosh do his little check, he’ll cotton on that it’s not a legitimate job and that would not look good.”

He was right, and what harm could it do? If Gertrude asked me, I’d find some excuse to prevaricate.

“Don’t let him keep them too long.” I picked up the note Dad had made of the golfer’s name. “I’ll take this to Mr. Sykes.”

Dad gave one of his small groans. “You don’t want to go in the Mucky Duck.”

“But I’m going to.”

“They won’t let you in, unaccompanied female.”

“Then I’ll just have to stand in the doorway and shout Sykes’s name.”

Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

I parked just beyond White Swan Yard. This is where my birth mother lives. Thanks to that fact, I had no difficulty in entering the Mucky Duck. The landlord recognised me as the woman who occasionally came to the out-sales counter to fetch her mam a jug of stout.

Sykes was seated in the corner, with a group of railwaymen. He gave a wave and came over. “Slumming it, Mrs. Shackleton?”

“All in a good cause.”

We found a seat by the window. Pale sunshine gleamed on the beaten copper of the table top. He set down his pint glass. “Do you want a drink?”

“No thanks. I need to get back, but I have news. An American visitor to the golf tournament, Mr. Espinosa, claims to recognise our man.” I handed him Dad’s note of the name.

He tried to conceal his excitement, but failed. “Let’s hope this takes us somewhere.” He lowered his voice. “I’m beginning to think whoever put that body on the train was paid handsomely, or met with an accident afterwards.”

“No luck with the rhubarb growers?”

“None whatsoever. They’re so taciturn, they ought to be employed by the secret service, only they’d never report to their own side or any other. Oh and I’m losing count of how many pints bought for railwaymen who know nothing.”

“Be sure to keep a note of expenses.” I stood. “I’m parked next to you. Wait with me while I order something at the bar.”

“Let me do it for you.”