“Distressing business, sir,” PC White said, settling down in his chair again. “But you’ve nothing to worry about, sir. There won’t be anything unpleasant. Perhaps you’d give me a little information; just to keep our records straight.” He drew a sheet of paper towards him. “Your name, sir?”
George’s mind went blank with fright. He hadn’t thought they’d ask questions about himself. It would be madness to let them know that he had anything to do with Sydney. If they ever found Crispin…
A name jumped into his confused mind. “Thomas Grant,” he blurted out, and then, tightening his control over himself, he volunteered, “247, North Circular Road, Finchley.” He had once stayed at that address, a boardinghouse, when he first came to London.
PC White wrote for a moment, his head on one side, taking pride in his neat, copper-plate handwriting. "And what makes you think you know the deceased?”
“It’s the description,” George said, slowly recovering from his first fright. “The burn. I had a friend once who was fair and had a burn on the right of his face. I haven’t seen him for some months. He used to live at my address—it’s a guest house. Timson was his name. Fred Timson.”
PC White did a little more writing. “You haven’t seen him for some time?” he repeated.
“Well, no. Of course, I may be mistaken. But, I thought…”
“Very good of you, I’m sure. We’re grateful for any help.
The gentleman had no papers nor anything to tell us who he is.” He got slowly to his feet. “Well, sir, if you’ll come along with me.”
George suddenly felt that he couldn’t go through with this ghastly business. PC White noticed how pale he had gone.