Last Detective by Leslie Thomas

to the small grocers, the tobacconists, the fish-and-chip merchants, the humid cafés, the bright, cheap clothes shops, the betting shops, of course, and several long stretches occupied by the showrooms of second-hand car dealers, the vehicles and the salesmen smiling identical smiles from the open fronts of the premises.
    The local newspaper, the Citizen , was uncomfortably accommodated in a house, once the residence of the neighbourhood’s only famous son, Miles Shaltoe, a writer of somewhat dubious novels who enjoyed a vogue in the early nineteen hundreds. There was a plaque commemorating his occupation under the fascia which proclaimed ‘North West London Citizen’ and in smaller letters ‘Every Friday’. There were also several ladies’ hairdressers, one boasting the title ‘Antoinette of Paris, Switzerland and Hemel Hempstead’. There were numerous public houses interpolated along the street, with the The Babe in Arms occupying a favoured position adjacent to the public conveniences, two cinemas, the more palatial of which now only featured Indian films, a West Indian Bongo Club and an English Bingo Club, a pawnshop, its avuncular balls first hung in 1896, and ‘The Healing Hands’ massage parlour, an establishment of more recent roots.
    Despite attempts with paint and plastic to brighten it, the street was decayed and tired, sighing for the euthanasia of the demolition man’s flying ball. Davies walked along it, as he had many times in his past five years in that town, but now examining the upper windows and wondering if any eyes had looked down from their vantage on the final journey of Celia Norris.
    The upper floors, while mostly curtained and closed, with lights behind them at this time of evening, had the occasionally noteworthy difference. There were the premises of Madame Tarantella Phelps-Smith, High Class Fortunes Told, the Winged Victory Ex-Servicemen’s Club, the ubiquitous snooker hall and the Quaker Meeting Room, undoubtedly reeking with the rising odours of the Take-away-Curry shop underneath.
    The husky evening itself was layered with odours—Guinness, chips, work and dirt. There was a municipal tree at the junction with Jubilee Road, one of the Victorian offshoots. It was donated by the Rotary Club—and had a plaque to prove it—to commemorate the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II and, despite being protectively caged in an iron waistcoat, it was stricken as though by some long-term lightning.
    Davies walked the length of the High Street twice in forty minutes. It was busy with buses and homeward cars now, and with people scurrying from their work, thinking of freedom, food, television or possibly love. He ended his thoughtful patrol at The Babe in Arms and went into the elongated bar. Mod was predictably peering into a half pint, which he had purchased with his own money. He was glad to see Davies for he was anxious to know further about his private murder case and his glass was running low.
    â€˜I’ve started,’ said Davies when they were drinking. ‘I’ve started on the case.’
    â€˜How far have you got?’
    â€˜Nowhere.’
    Mod nodded at his beer and at the logic of the reply. ‘Will you keep me informed, Dangerous?’ he asked. ‘I have a lot of time to think, you know. I may just come up with something.’
    â€˜I’ll tell you,’ promised Davies. He glanced up and down the bar. ‘She’s not in then? Flamenco Fanny.’
    â€˜No,’ confirmed Mod. ‘I think she must have broken her ankle last night when she fell down. With any luck.’
    The door opened on cue and the rough woman, her untidy leg in a hammerhead of plaster-of-Paris, stumped in supported by a massive walking stick. ‘Olé!’ she cried.
    â€˜Oshit,’ said Davies.

    Even with the annoyance of the rough woman stumping around all night in the bar on her enormous plaster cast it was only