Whatever it took, Barbara thought. She said, “Ambergris oil,” to Wendy. “Have you sold any? This would be recently. Last few days, maybe?”

Wendy shook her grey locks. “Massage oil by the litre,” she said. “I’ve six spas who’re my most regular customers. They go in big for relaxants like eucalyptus. But no one’s doing ambergris. Which’s just as well, if you want to know my opinion. What we do to animals, someone out there will do to us eventually. Like aliens from another planet or something. They might like our fat just fine-the way we like whale blubber-and God only knows what they’ll use it for. But just you wait. It’s going to happen.”

“Wendy, luv,” Petula said, with one of those save-it-for-later chimes to her voice. She’d taken out a cloth and was using it to dust candles and the shelves they stood on. “It’s okay, dear.”

“I don’t even know when I last had ambergris oil in stock,” Wendy said to Barbara. “If someone asks for it, I tell them what I think.”

“And has anyone asked for it?” Barbara brought out the e-fits of their possible suspects. She was finding this part of the routine rather tedious, but who really knew when she was going to strike that vein of gold? “One of these blokes, p’rhaps?”

Wendy looked at the drawings. She frowned and then dug a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from deep within her copious cleavage. One of the lenses was cracked, so she used the other like a monocle. No, she told Barbara, neither of these blokes looked like anyone who’d come to the Cloud.

Barbara knew how unreliable her information would be-her drug use considered-so she showed the e-fits to Petula as well.

Petula made a study of both of them. Truth was, there were so many people coming into the market, especially at the weekends. She didn’t like to say one of these blokes had been in, but at the same time, she didn’t like to say neither of them had been in either. They looked a bit like beatnik poets, didn’t they? Or clarinet players in a jazz band. One half-expected to see their sort in Soho, didn’t one? Course one didn’t-not that much any longer-but there was a time-

Barbara created a diversion on Memory Lane with a question about Barry Minshall. “Albino magician” certainly got Petula’s attention-Wendy’s as well-and there was a moment when Barbara thought that the mention of Minshall’s name and a description of him was going to bear fruit. But no, an albino magician dressed in black and wearing dark glasses and a red stocking cap would be fairly memorable, even in Camden Lock Market. Minshall, they both said, was someone they definitely would have remembered.

Barbara realised that the tree of Wendy’s Cloud was not going to produce, no matter how she attempted its pollination. She returned the e-fits to her shoulder bag and left the two sisters to close up for the day, pausing on the pavement outside to light up a fag and consider her next move.

Late afternoon, and she could have gone home, but she had another route to explore. She hated the fact that all she kept turning down was one dead end after another, so she made her decision and went for her car. It was no great distance from Camden Lock to Wood Lane. And she could always go from there to the Holmes Street police station to see what more she could rattle out of Barry Minshall if things came to that.

She made her way north to Highgate Hill, doing a bit of rat-running in order to avoid the rush hour. It took her less time than she’d anticipated, and from there it was easy enough to negotiate the route to Archway Road.

She made one stop prior to taking herself to Wood Lane. A call to the incident room gleaned her the name of the estate agent who was selling the vacant flat in Walden Lodge that she’d heard about from one of the murder squad’s meetings. In the no-stone-left-unturned category, she knew that he was probably a pebble with nothing beneath it, but she went there anyway and had a word with the bloke, waving her e-fits in his direction for good measure. Sod bloody all on a toasted tea cake was what she got for the effort. She felt like a Girl Guide selling biscuits in front of a Weight Watchers’ meeting. There wasn’t a taker anywhere.

She went on to Wood Lane. There, she found the street crowded with cars parked its entire length. These would be the vehicles of commuters who drove in to town from the northern counties and parked to take the underground for the rest of the journey. Among them, the police were still searching for someone who had seen something in the early morning hours of the day that Davey Benton’s body had been found. Beneath the windscreen wiper of each car, a handout was tucked, and Barbara assumed it was this that asked for additional information from the daily commuters. For what it was worth. Perhaps a lot. Perhaps nothing at all.

At Walden Lodge, a descending drive led in the direction of an underground carpark. Barbara pulled her Mini into this drive. She was blocking access, but that couldn’t be helped.

When she climbed the front steps of the squat brick structure-so out of place in a street of otherwise historical buildings-she found that the front door was propped open. A yellow bucket of water held it so, and “The Moppits” was printed in red upon this. So much for security, Barbara thought. She entered the building and called out a hello.

A young man popped his head round the first corner. He had a mop in hand, and he wore a tool belt from which cleaning implements dangled officially. One of the Moppits, Barbara concluded, as above her in the building someone began hoovering.

“Help you?” the young man inquired, hitching up his tool belt. “Not s’posed to let anyone in.”

Barbara showed him her identification. She was working on the Queen’s Wood murder, she told him.

He told her hastily that he knew nothing about that. He and his wife were merely a mobile cleaning service. They didn’t live here. They came in once a week to do the sweeping, mopping, hoovering, and dusting of the common areas. And the windows as well, but only four times a year and today wasn’t one of those days.

It was too much information, but Barbara put that down to nerves: A cop pops up on someone’s horizon and suddenly everything can be open to interpretation. Best explain your life down to the minutest detail.

She had the flat number of the gent who’d seen the light flashing in the woods in the early morning hours when Davey’s body had been found. She had his name as well: Berkeley Pears, which sounded like a brand of tinned fruit to her. She told the Moppit where she was heading and went for the stairs to seek him out.

When she knocked on his door, a dog began yapping behind it. It was the kind of yapping she associated with a terrier in need of discipline, and she wasn’t disabused of this notion when four different locks were released and the opening door allowed a Jack Russell to charge forward, intent upon her ankles. She pulled back and raised her bag to club the animal off, but Mr. Pears appeared in the terrier’s wake. He blew on something that made no noise, but the dog apparently heard it. He-or was it she?-dropped to the floor at once, panting happily, as if a job had been well done.

“Excellent, Pearl,” Pears told the loathsome beast. “Good dog. Treaties?” Pearl wagged her tail.

“She’s supposed to do that?” Barbara said.

“It’s the startle factor,” the dog’s owner replied.

“I could’ve clubbed her. She could’ve been hurt.”

“She’s fast. She’d’ve had you before you had her.” He widened the door and said, “Bowl, Pearl. Now.” The dog dashed inside, presumably to wait by her dish for a reward. “C’n I help you?” Berkeley Pears then asked Barbara. “How did you get into the building? I thought you were management. We’re set to fight a legal battle over this, and she’s trying to intimidate us out of it.”

“Police.” Barbara showed him her ID. “DC Barbara Havers. Could I have a word?”