Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

However, the bank book told a different story. The last entry, dated perhaps six months earlier, showed Harkness to be two hundred pounds overdrawn. Two hundred pounds would be – what? A third, or even half, of his annual salary. It was certainly more than most men earned in a year, and much more than Peter Jenkins could ever hope to see in his lifetime. And there were no further entries showing it as paid off.

She began to rifle through the remaining drawers now in earnest, looking for other documents. If Harkness had gone into overdraft six months ago and not repaid the money, there would be other loans. Loans from family members or friends, loans from banks, perhaps even a loan from the sort of private moneylender who served only the desperate. All her reluctance had fallen away, now, and she had to force herself to slow down. To search methodically. To handle only what was necessary. After all, one couldn't scrabble quietly.

In the end, she found only a memorandum book. It was large and quite empty, with the occasional appointment ("Dr Fowler, 11") or family anniversary ("Amy's birthday") recorded. But as she flicked through the pages to July, a genuine sense of urgency surged through her veins. The last remaining page in the book was Sunday, 10 July: tomorrow. It, too, was blank. But every following page had been torn out. According to Harkness's diary, there was no future. She stared at the book, possible interpretations flooding her brain. It was clearly the end of something: the end of his involvement with Keenan's gang. But apart from that obvious starting-point, there was no sign of what he intended.

She stood and stretched muscles stiff from long crouching. As she did, a squiggle at the edge of the blotting pad caught her eye. It was so unlike all the other marks on the pad: a looping, dramatic flourish that stood out in contrast to Harkness's tense, scratchy penmanship. It looked like somebody else's handwriting, yet it was the only indication that a second person had used this blotter. She bent to inspect the ink mark, frowning. Ran a finger over it, mentally reversing the letters. At that, her eyes widened. Good Lord. Could it be? It seemed rather far-fetched, but it was certainly possible. Yes.

Although it was a large risk, she tore away the edge of the top sheet of paper, removing the mark in question, and slipped it into her pocket. She turned to leave, then had a second thought. From the stationery drawer, she carefully withdrew a single sheet of writing-paper and pocketed that, too. Another rumble of laughter erupted from the dining room, that same hyena laugh making goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. As she eased out of the study window and dropped quietly into the shadowy garden, Mary hoped that James enjoyed at least part of his evening here. For what she was about to suggest to him would certainly spoil his night. Twenty-two

That laugh! That piercing, grating, hysterical yipping. James had seldom heard anything like it, and certainly not from Harkness. The man had always been sober. Earnest. Pompous, even. And now the sound of his mad laughter rang ceaselessly in James's ears as he and Barker drove through Tufnell Park, on the lookout for a small lad in the dark.

Mary was at the meeting point they'd arranged, a few yards from a quiet-looking pub in Leighton Road. She'd been all for somewhere less noticeable – a park or a church, say – but James had prevailed, saying it would be easier for her to blend in near a busy shop-front. He'd not dared admit he was worried for her safety in a dark, deserted park. She was a tricky, stubborn proposition, Mary Quinn, and despite his anxiety, at the thought of her a deep excitement stirred within him.

"Good dinner?" she asked, as she climbed in. The carriage, which hadn't entirely stopped, now accelerated smartly towards Bloomsbury and home.

He shrugged. It had been a good meal, as far as food was concerned, although the total absence of wines and spirits had been strange indeed. The sweet, fruit-flavoured drinks accompanying the meal had made it seem rather a children's party, and eating Stilton without a glass of port had seemed rather pointless. "I'm worried about Harkness. He seems to have gone completely round the bend."

Mary's eyes went round. "The mad laughter – that was Harkness?"

James nodded. "Telling desperately poor jokes, and then laughing at them. His wife hadn't the faintest idea what to say or do, and neither did the rest of us."

"Any idea what…?"

"What made him behave like that? Well, he wasn't tipsy, that's certain."

"The pressures of the building site…"

"They're not new. He's been on that job for years, now." She was silent, then, looking at him with concern in those luminous eyes. He felt a sudden impulse to bury his face in her neck and weep. Instead, he looked out of the window, concentrating on the gaslamps as they whizzed past. Each light was surrounded by a gauzy yellow halo that vanished when he blinked. "His behaviour. The account books. Everything points to his guilt, doesn't it?"

For answer, she fished in a pocket and offered him something with an apologetic look. "I also found these."

He took the items with some puzzlement. They didn't look like much: a long strip of thick blotter paper, much used and re-used; a blank sheet of writing-paper. As he studied the scrap, though, the sinking dread that had attended him all evening came into sharp focus. His stomach rolled queasily and he cursed under his breath. "You tore this from his blotter?"

She nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Why should you be?" he said fiercely. Turning his attention to the blank sheet, he stroked the watermark with tingling fingertips. "Confirmation," he said softly.

It wasn't a question but she nodded nevertheless. "It could be an accident…"

"The First Commissioner's signature neatly blotted on Harkness's pad – that's an accident?"

"He could have called upon Harkness," said Mary quickly. "Borrowed his desk to write a letter."

"He could have borrowed a sheet of paper, if it comes to that."

"That's true," she said slowly. "It would be simple to verify a visit to Harkness's house."

Abruptly, he crumpled the page he'd been holding so carefully. "False hope. If the Commissioner was in such a rush to appoint me to the safety review, he'd never have driven all the way out to Tufnell Park to write a letter. He'd have done so from his office, beside Palace Yard. No. This is clear evidence that Harkness forged my letter of appointment. And if he's forging letters from the Committee of Works, God only knows what else he's up to." He looked at Mary's reluctant expression and groaned. "Oh Lord – you've more to say, haven't you?" Mary's gaze dropped towards his hands, and he wished she'd look up again. As much as he hated this conversation, it was easier when he could see her eyes.

"Tell me about Harkness," she said quietly.

James paused for a moment. "A friend of my father's. A decent engineer, but not a brilliant one. Devout Christian. Wife. Children – four, I think, about my age and younger. Bit of a clot, but well-meaning, and a sound man." His mouth twisted. "Or so I thought."

"Has he money? Or rich relations?"

James shook his head, mystified. "Don't think so. He's always made a virtue of being a professional man, not an idle aristocrat. You know."

"So he's unlikely to have a private income."

"Just what are you suggesting, Mary?"

Her gaze was still averted, slim hands clasped tightly against her knee. "What did you think of his house?"

"What is this?!" He grasped her arms and tried to make her look at him. "What are you insinuating?"

"I'm looking for motive," she said calmly, not the least frightened of his explosion. "Tell me what you thought of his house. Its contents. The decorations."