20 February 1929

The constable had come into the Central Office of Scotland Yard and told Henry that he had a visitor waiting downstairs in reception.

'A gentleman, sir. His name is Abraham Levy and he says that you know him. He requests a few minutes of your time.'

It took Henry a moment or so to remember who Abraham Levy was and then a moment more to wonder why on earth he had come all the way to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard, instead of taking his problems to the local division. Henry tidied the files on his desk and then went down to see what the clockmaker wanted.

Abraham Levy had cropped up in an earlier investigation, but only as the landlord of someone whose unfortunate death Henry had investigated. Detective Chief Inspector Henry Johnstone recalled that he had spoken to Abraham Levy only on a couple of occasions but that he had liked the man.

Abraham had seen him coming down the stairs and unfolded himself from the hard wooden bench set near the door, an uncomfortable seat and draughty spot that Henry always assumed was established to dissuade anyone from staying too long. Abraham held out his hand; Henry shook it and then sat down beside Abraham.

'I can try to find some office space so that we can talk or we can chat here. The constable said this would only take a few moments.'

If Abraham was put out by this slightly dismissive attitude, he did not show it. Instead, he set his hat on his lap and folded his hands neatly behind it and looked at Henry carefully. 'When we met, it struck me that you are a just and careful man,' Abraham said. 'Some policemen I have known, they go through the motions only. They look as though they are doing something and they collect their pay and they go home and nothing has been done, but I do not think you are that kind of man. I come to you because so far I have only met that kind of policeman and I need someone different. Someone who will not just pretend to be concerned and go away thinking, "Oh, this is just a Jew boy I'm dealing with, so what concern is this of mine?"'

Henry considered for a moment and then he said, 'I think you might begin at the beginning.' He stood. 'There is a café just around the corner; perhaps this might be better discussed over a pot of tea.'

He glanced up, catching sight of a familiar figure coming down the stairs: his sergeant, Mickey Hitchens, who looked curiously in their direction and then clearly recognized Abraham.

'Mr Levy,' he said. 'And what brings you here?'

'A problem I cannot deal with on my own.'

Mickey frowned. The streets where Abraham Levy lived had been ruled by one Josiah Bailey and his family for quite some time, but had recently undergone a change of ownership – although the new ruler, Clem Atkins, had simply taken over both Bailey's lieutenants and his criminal schemes. It was Mickey's first thought that this was the source of the trouble.

'No,' Abraham reassured him. 'Mr Atkins continues the work of Mr Bailey, you might say. Little has changed and the protection money we pay as businessmen has not gone up dramatically since the change of management. No, this is a personal matter. A missing person. I fear perhaps a dead missing person, and as no one else will help me, I have come to you.'

They walked to the Lyons' Corner House that was set on the intersection of the Strand and Craven Street, and Henry ordered tea for them all. At two in the afternoon, they were between the crowds of lunchtime rush and the partakers of afternoon tea, and they found a table in a corner with a fair degree of privacy.

'So, tell me,' Henry said. 'Who has gone missing, and why do you feel that no one has been of assistance to you?'

Abraham arranged his cup carefully on his saucer, positioning the spoon so that it protruded at the opposite side to the cup handle. He looked suddenly awkward. He had long, slender hands, Henry noted, with well-clipped nails. Hands that were used to being occupied now found themselves ill at ease.

'On the third of this month my nephew caught a train,' Abraham began. 'His name is Joseph and he had been to visit his young lady – his intended. They are both young – Joseph is only nineteen years old and his fiancée is a year younger than that – and they are to be married in the autumn.'

'It is very young to be married,' Mickey observed.

'In our community, not so young. We think it's better that our children are safely married and have someone to care for and to care for them. Young ones often spend time living with their in-laws until they are ready to set up home for themselves. Anyway, Joseph and Rebecca are to be married – or were. Then Joseph caught the train to come home and he did not arrive.'

Mickey took out his notebook and set it on the table. 'The train from where?'

'He was travelling from Lincoln to London. He caught the train in Lincoln; Rebecca's family saw him off there, so they know he got on the train. But he did not arrive.'

'That's a long journey,' Henry observed. 'He could have got off at any station in between. From what I remember, there are a great many going up towards Lincoln. Where would he have changed trains to come back to London?'

'At Peterborough. Lincoln is on the loop from the main line that leaves Peterborough and, yes, there are a great many small stations on that line. Once in Peterborough, he could get the train back to King's Cross – an easy journey, if a little long, but one he has made more than a dozen times.

'His family contacted the police and were told that he was an adult and that adults go missing all the time and there should be no cause for concern; he would probably turn up. His family contacted the girl's family, in Lincoln, and were told that he and Rebecca had argued before he left and had parted on bad terms. When the police heard this, they decided that the boy was not so keen on the marriage, after all, and had chosen to go off on his own somewhere.'

'It's certainly possible,' Mickey said. 'As I said before, they are both very young, and young minds can be changed – young people can be impulsive.'

'All of that is true,' Abraham agreed. 'But that was on Sunday February the third and this is now Wednesday the twentieth. There has been no news since. He has not contacted his family or his fiancée or his friends. I know Joseph; he is not a boy who would put worry into the hearts of those he loves. If he had decided he did not want to marry, everyone would have understood. No one is being forced into this. But I do believe that he and Rebecca love one another.'

'How long have they known each other?' Henry asked.

'Since childhood. Our families grew up within a few houses of one another. Then Rebecca's family moved when she was twelve years old, but Joseph used to go up and stay there, and it was always understood that one day they would marry. But if either one of them had said no, we prefer to choose for ourselves, that would have been accepted, believe me.'

'But it would have caused awkwardness, at the very least, I would suppose?' Mickey suggested.

Abraham shrugged. 'Awkwardness for a little time, perhaps, but it would have been accepted and people would have got over their upset. No one wishes our young people to marry and be unhappy. But we believed them to be happy.'

'What was the...