‘Mr Hardacre doesn’t like people who set buildings on fire, does he, sir?’ said Cradock as they watched their boss depart.

‘That appears to be the case,’ Jago replied. ‘I can’t say I do either. It sounds like we can add catching arsonists to our list of priorities for him – up there with the thieves. You should probably mark his words, as he said – and especially make sure you don’t catch me mollycoddling you. Now, where’s that special constable gone?’

He glanced around and beckoned Stone to rejoin them. ‘I want you to stay here and make sure no one touches that body, all right? The doctor’s going to send someone over to take it to the hospital, and after that you can resume your normal duties.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Stone.

‘By the way, are you a full-time special or part-time?’

‘Part-time, sir – I’ve got a business to run.’

‘What sort of business is that?’

‘I’m a hairdresser, sir.’

‘Really? Well, I just want to know where I can find you if you’re not on duty.’

‘I’ll most likely be at one of my salons – I’ve got two.’

‘And where would they be?’

‘Not far – just down the road, really. One’s in Catherine Street, round the back of the Theatre Royal, and the other one’s in Maiden Lane, just by the south side of the market. That’s the main one, and it’s where I live too, in the upstairs flat. You can’t miss them – they’re both called Maison Charles.’

‘Thank you – we may see you later. You can get back to that body now.’

‘Yes, sir – thank you, sir.’

Stone returned to his post, while Jago and Cradock left the car in Drury Lane and followed his directions for the short walk to the market. As they made their way down Russell Street, the scene before them seemed to Jago like a vision of organised chaos. Vans, lorries and the occasional horse and cart were parked in apparently random fashion, while porters in flat caps and old overcoats pulled long and noisy two-wheeled market barrows behind them or pushed smaller, upright sack barrows before them, weaving their way through a maze of heaped-up crates and sacks of produce. Added to this, like ants scurrying to and from their nest, were men conveying their load in wicker baskets stacked six or more high on their heads. It was definitely a place to watch your step, thought Jago, as he took prompt evasive action to avoid a van edging its way through the crowd.

The inside of the market’s main building, a large rectangular space under a soaring iron-vaulted roof, was a similar hive of activity. Long rows of what looked like traders’ small shops or offices were fronted with boxes and crates of fruit and vegetables ranging up in carefully constructed displays to show off their wares to best advantage. What Jago took to be buyers were scrutinising the quality of the produce and getting out their order books, their relatively smart clothes differentiating them from the porters who bustled in all directions here too.

Jago judged it would save time to ask for George Radley’s shop rather than push their way round the whole market in search of it, and the directions given by the first person they asked took them straight to it. The sign over the window said ‘James Radley & Sons’, and inside they found a cramped space where a middle-aged man sat hunched over a small office desk, conducting what sounded like a terse business conversation on a telephone. He gestured to them to sit down on a couple of wooden chairs that filled the space between the desk and the wall, and brought his phone call to an end.

‘Good morning,’ he said brusquely. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’

‘No,’ said Jago. ‘We’re police officers. I’m Detective Inspector Jago, and this is Detective Constable Cradock.’

‘Detectives, eh? And what are you detecting today? Nothing to do with me, I hope.’

‘That depends. Are you Mr George Radley?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case I’m afraid it is. It concerns your brother.’

‘What, Roy? Is he in another scrape?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know – he’s always in trouble, that one. What people call a “colourful” character. If there’s a scrape anyone can get in, he’ll be in it.’

‘He’s in more than a scrape today, I’m afraid, Mr Radley. You may’ve heard that the Prince Albert Theatre was hit by a bomb this morning.’

‘Yes, I did. You’re not saying he was—’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, sir, but your brother was in the theatre at the time. A police constable found his body.’

Radley slumped into his chair and swallowed hard. He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, it’s just a shock. You hear it happening all the time, don’t you, what with the air raids and all, but you never think it’ll be your own family.’

‘Yes. I should note, though, that we don’t believe it was the bomb that killed him – we’re treating it as a suspicious death.’

‘What does that mean? Someone killed him, deliberately?’

‘We’ll need to wait until the post-mortem’s been done to be sure, but it’s looking that way, yes.’ Jago gave him a little time to adjust to this news before continuing. ‘You say your brother was a colourful character – what do you mean?’

‘Well, he was theatrical, wasn’t he? You don’t get to be successful on the stage unless you’re colourful. He was larger than life, I suppose, and people like that sometimes leave other people a bit damaged along the way. Casualties of their success, you might say.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to harm him?’

‘Not so much as to kill him, no. He probably annoyed a lot of people, and some of them might’ve hated him, but kill him? I don’t think so.’

‘Can you tell me where you were this morning, before nine fifteen?’

‘What, am I a suspect?’

‘No. I’d just like to know so we can eliminate you from our inquiries.’

‘If you must know, I was here at work – and for several hours before that.’

‘Right here, at your desk?’

‘Not all the time, no. I was out and about round the market too.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

‘You mean where I was at every moment of that time? No, of course not. But everyone in this market knows me – they’ll tell you.’

‘Thank you. And another question for you – I was told Mr Radley had family in this area. The person who told me mentioned you and your sister, but were there any other close relations?’

‘No, just me and Joan – she’s a bit younger than me. That’s about it as far as family’s concerned, unless you include Roy’s wife. You know about her, do you?’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. So he was married, then?’

‘Well, yes and no, really. I mean, he certainly got married, years ago, but they haven’t been together for some time.’

‘Were they divorced?’

‘Not as far as I know, but something definitely happened. I don’t know what, exactly – Roy never talked to me about things like that. I believe he walked out on her, but I don’t know why.’

‘Can you give me her name?’

‘Yes, it’s Doreen – Doreen Radley.’

‘And do you know where we can find her?’

‘I know what his address used to be, and if he left her, I imagine she’s probably still living there. I haven’t seen her since they broke up, though, so you’d better just try. They lived in Sussex Mansions, in Maiden Lane, next to the Bedford Head pub – Flat 22, I think.’

‘So where was your brother living after he moved out?’

‘Last I heard, he was in some theatrical lodgings in Goodwin’s Court – number 16. Pretty basic sort of accommodation, I believe, thirty bob a week all found, but he never invited me there. He used to turn up here from time to time, but he never seemed to have much in the way of money – I think he’d fallen on hard times. Sometimes he’d ask if he could borrow a bit. Never paid it back, but it was never a lot, and I couldn’t say no to my own flesh and blood, could I?’

‘Do you have any idea what he might’ve been doing in that theatre?’

‘No, I...