“He’s a clerk at St. Pancras station,” said Beddoes, in injured tones, “been there twenty-five years.”

“How old, then?”

“Around forty. Well, you can see his grandmother must have been getting on for ninety. Anyway, there’s nothing against him at work, the Divi checked that quickly. May root something out when they have time to do it more thoroughly, but on a superficial estimate he’s slow and slightly stupid but honest. On duty today from nine to five-thirty as usual, and he had lunch in the canteen with one of the bods. No one who was sounded mentioned abnormal behaviour today, which they probably would have done if there’d been any to notice. Doesn’t seem to have any cronies. However, he drinks. Mrs. M. told us that, not the station people. In spite of her modesty I gather she often had to provide for both of them when Ivan had swigged his wages at a couple of sessions. He was afraid of grandma—so was Mrs. M. incidentally—but not enough afraid to stop him having terrific rows. Mrs. M. could hear, but not understand. They carried on in Russian. That was another reason why Mrs. M. didn’t flaunt the brooch. She felt Ivan would have been a bit cheesed at gran doling out largesse while he gasped for a pint.”

“What about the ikon? If it’s such an eye-catcher—”

“He never went in her room—strictest propriety. And you can’t see it from the door.”

“Oh well. Ivan hasn’t shown up yet? Or will he be at the pub?”

“Not finished yet,” said Beddoes, with relish. “Mrs. M. came home from work and shopping about six-thirty. Some ten minutes later she heard someone come in and go upstairs. She knew it must be Ivan because no one else has a key to the front door, apart from herself and the landlady—old girl of sixty-eight, living at Epping for twenty years, so can we wash her out? Anyway, Mrs. M. heard Ivan call—the point being that Gran was so scared of Reds that she bolted herself in the room all day, except for trips to the communal cold water tap in the kitch downstairs and the communal lean-to lav, and wouldn’t unbolt till you’d knocked and declared yourself. Mrs. M. was lighting her fire. She heard Ivan moving about overhead, and thought of taking up the shopping. She hadn’t gone up with it as soon as she’d come in for two reasons. First, there’d been no light in the upper window. Nothing to alarm her in that. It was often like it, only meant Gran was asleep. Second, she wanted to wait for Ivan because he’d have the money to pay her—she hoped. Just as she thought this she heard Ivan charge downstairs and out. She supposed he’d gone out to get something he’d forgotten. In about five minutes she went out to her kitchen and noticed that the Karukhin’s door was open and the light was on. That was odd, because of Ivan being out and Gran’s Bolshevik neurosis. Mrs. M. slipped up to see if she was all right—and there you are. She ran out and dialled 999. Call came in at six fifty-two, patrol arrived six fifty-five, and the divi followed at seven. Called us at seven-twenty. Mrs. M. was in a terrible state at first, because she’d asked for the police. Said she never thought that Ivan had probably run out to do the same thing, or else to fetch a doctor. When he didn’t come back she was more upset than ever—frightened at the implications, maybe.”