He stepped outside and took his phone out of the breast pocket of his leather jacket. He dialed the number and waited. Looking up, he saw passengers walk out of the station’s stone archway as he put the phone to his ear.

“Hello.”

“I’m down here now,” Macdonald said.

“Okay.”

“I’ll probably hang around all day.”

“How about all winter?”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Silence at the other end.

“I’ll start up at Muncaster Road.”

“Have you checked out the pond?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Anything’s possible. That’s all I can say right now.”

“Okay.”

“I want to see the hotel room again.”

“Assuming there’s enough time.”

“I need to breathe in that air once more.”

“Keep me posted.”

Macdonald heard a click, and the line went dead.

Putting his phone away, he turned south on St. John ’s Road, waited for a break in traffic on Battersea Rise and continued along Northcote.

He turned left onto Chatto and gazed longingly at the Eagles pub. That was for later, he thought, maybe a lot later.

After another couple of blocks, he turned onto Muncaster. The row houses shone warily in the January sun. Their brick and plaster merged with the color of the pavement. A mailman appeared out of nowhere, wheeling a letter bag so red it made his eyes hurt. Macdonald watched him ring a doorbell. Postmen always ring twice, he thought as he opened a low wrought-iron gate. He lifted the knocker and banged loudly. Such a brutal way to announce your presence, he thought.

The door opened all the way to the end of a heavy iron chain, and he saw the outlines of a woman’s face in the dim hallway.

“Who’s there?”

“Is this the residence of John Anderton?” Macdonald rummaged around for his badge.

“Who wants to know?”

“The police.” He held up the badge. “I’m the one who called earlier today.”