Deep Cover by Peter Turnbull Page A

revealed itself to be a residential street lined with solid Victorian terraced housing, but was interspersed with post-Second World War development on the southern side, which, as very frequently in London and other cities in the UK, indicated where bombs had fallen during the Blitz. The Halkier household was, like the houses around it, a clear survivor of Nazi bombs: brick built, white-painted around the front bay window, and a black-gloss-painted door with a brass knocker. A small front garden of just four feet separated the house from the pavement. Vicary pushed open the low metal gate, which squeaked on dry hinges as he did so, and was, whether by design or not, he thought, a very efficient burglar deterrent. He rapped on the brass knocker, employing the traditional police officer’s knock . . . tap, tap . . . tap. The door was opened rapidly by a slender, healthy looking man who Vicary assessed to be in his late sixties.
    â€˜What!’ the man demanded, aggressively.
    â€˜Police.’ Vicary showed the man his ID. ‘No trouble, just seeking information.’
    â€˜Oh . . . I see.’ The man instantly relaxed. ‘It can get bad round here, kids knocking on doors and then running away. Dare say it could be worse. I moved the old knocker higher up the door but they can still reach it.’ The man spoke with a warm London accent. ‘And if it’s not kids, it’s folk trying to sell me double glazing.’
    â€˜Well, I’m not either one,’ Vicary replied softly. Behind the man he saw a neat, well-ordered hallway with everything just so, and the smell of furniture polish from within the house reached him. He stood on the threshold, but still out of doors. ‘Can I ask, are you Mr Halkier?’
    â€˜Yes, that I am. Joseph Halkier. Why?’
    â€˜Did you report your daughter as a missing person some ten years ago?’
    â€˜Yes . . .’ The man’s voice seemed to rise in its pitch. ‘Yes, our Rosemary. Why?’
    â€˜I’m afraid I may have some bad news for you.’
    Joseph Halkier stiffened. ‘After this length of time, there can be no bad news. If it’s about our Rosemary it can only be good news, even if her dear old body has been found that’s still good news, because it’s better than not knowing.’ He stepped aside. ‘You’d better come in, sir.’
    Vicary stepped over the threshold and wiped his shoes on the ‘welcome’ mat just inside the doorway. Joseph Halkier, dressed in a blue sweater, jeans and sports shoes – which made him appear younger than his likely years – shut the door behind Vicary with a gentle click and asked him to go into the first room on his right, which transpired to be the living room of the home. It was furnished with a 1950s vintage three-piece suite, heavy 1930s vintage wooden furniture and a dark-brown carpet. The room had a surprisingly musty smell, and that, and the absence of any form of heating, suggested to Vicary that the room was designated to be the ‘best’ room of the house, used only on special occasions or to entertain official callers. The day-to-day living in the house – including the television, radio and music player and the heating – was likely to be confined to the rear of the house. Joseph Halkier followed Vicary into the room and indicated the armchairs and the settee, and said, in a sombre, resigned tone, ‘Please do take a seat, sir.’
    Vicary sat in the armchair which stood furthest from the door so that he had his back to the window as dusk enveloped the street. Halkier sat opposite him in a matching armchair. He remained silent but stared intently at Vicary.
    â€˜No easy way of telling you, Mr Halkier, but a body has been found. It is a body which matches the description of Rosemary but . . . but I have to say that the identity has to be confirmed.’
    Joseph Halkier’s