Page 104 of Fire Must Burn

‘Sorry, there’s one more thing I need to look into,’ said Iris. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the weekend, darling. Next one is on me.’

She got out, collected her suitcase, walked across to her boat and waved before going in. She watched out of the window as the cab drove off with Gwen, then immediately dropped her suitcase on her saloon table and went back out.

Forty minutes later she stood in front of Grenville House, watching people go in and out of the entrance from the other side of Grosvenor Road for a while. Then she walked around to the side of the building and looked up.

Five storeys up, she saw one window that had been boarded up from the inside. She could see scorch marks around the window frame.

Sixty feet up, give or take, she thought.

She stood under the window, then turned and stood with her heels against the wall of the building. Then she paced across the narrow street until her toes bumped up against the building opposite.

Maybe twenty feet, she estimated.

She looked up at the building across from Tony’s flat. The roof was set back another ten feet from where the lowest level hit the pavement.

She looked around until she saw a pebble lying on the ground. She picked it up, tossed it in the air and caught it a few times, getting a feel for its weight. Then she drew her arm back and threw it as hard as she could at the boarded-up window. It fell short by about ten feet, banging off the top of the window frame of the flat below.

Right, she thought.

She walked away quickly in case anyone in the lower flat would be looking to see who was throwing stones at them.

Avery Conley sat at his desk in his office at the BBC in Alexandra Palace on Monday morning, going over his list for the day’s broadcasting schedule. They were going to be sending out a live performance ofThe Barber of Sevillefrom the Cambridge Theatre in Seven Dials that evening, and the process of transporting and setting up the bulky cameras and sound equipment was proving to be a logistical nightmare.

But each logistical nightmare was a learning experience, he thought with more assurance than he truly believed. He hummed as he went through everything, then wondered at the tune.

Ah, ‘Blue Blood’ fromIolanthe. That had the lyric with ‘Seven Dials’ in it somewhere. Must have been what prompted it.

His intercom buzzed, and he pressed the lever to connect him to his secretary.

‘Yes, Imelda?’

‘There is a Mrs Bainbridge on the line wishing to speak with you,’ she said. ‘Are you available?’

‘Mrs Bainbridge? How curious. Certainly, Imelda. Put her through.’

A moment later, his telephone rang.

‘Avery Conley here,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Mr Conley,’ came a woman’s voice. ‘It’s Gwen Bainbridge. I hope this isn’t a bad time.’

‘Not at all, Mrs Bainbridge,’ he said. ‘It’s an unexpected pleasure to hear your voice again. How may I help you?’

‘I was wondering if I could ask a rather large favour of you.’

‘Name it. I owe you one after what you and Miss Sparks did for us last spring.’

‘I find myself pursuing another matter of a, shall we say, delicate nature.’

‘Another criminal matter?’

‘Well, yes. We are unofficially assisting Scotland Yard, andI’m afraid I cannot tell you any more details, but I am going into a situation where I will be posing as something that I am not, which is awkward, to say the least, and I would like to use your name and number as a reference should I need confirmation.’

‘Posing as what, specifically?’

‘As an employee of the BBC.’

‘Interesting,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘What are you planning to do with this new career?’