Capital

The pub was about a five-minute walk away, through the mixture of semi-gentrified and still-slummy streets. Mill shoved through the heavy door into the saloon bar. It was empty apart from three or four people sitting at the bar and, at a table facing the entrance, the man who was recognisable from the newspaper photograph as Smitty. He sat to the left of the dartboard, beneath a huge old Watneys mirror. In front of him was a mobile phone, a pint and a packet of crisps. The two policemen went over and stood in front of him. Smitty looked up.
    ‘Hello. You look like coppers,’ he said.
    Mill held out his warrant card. Smitty gestured at the seats opposite him.
    ‘You ever watch The Simpsons ? Bart. I love Bart. You know one of Bart’s sayings? “I didn’t do it. Nobody saw me do it. You can’t prove anything.”’
    ‘We’re not here about anything in that Standard article. I don’t care what you’ve done in the course of doing your, er, stuff,’ said Mill. ‘In the course of your legitimate art work. Actually, I have your book.’ That wasn’t strictly true, since it was Janie who owned a copy of Smitty , Smitty’s lavishly illustrated book about himself. But he thought that would be gratifying to the artist, who indeed did look a tiny bit pleased. ‘I’m not talking to you under caution. I just want to ask about something. Another pint?’ He pointed at Smitty’s drink. Smitty thought for a moment.
    ‘IPA,’ he said.
    ‘Pint of IPA, bottle of Kaliber, and whatever you’re having,’ he said to the DC, who headed off to the bar. Smitty stretched his arms out and looked around the pub.
    ‘I love this place. Know why? It’s what I call PM. Proper Manky. Hasn’t been cleaned up and tarted up like most of London. I love this mirror. When did Watneys go out of business, what, twenty years ago? And they’ve still got the mirror. Formica tables. Beer towels. Everywhere else round here, it’s caipirinhas and Perrier-Jouët. See those regulars at the bar? See any of them move or speak? Exactly. They never do. Fancy some food? They’ve got crisps, pork scratchings, or if you’re feeling really flash, pickled eggs. That’s Proper Manky. In another few years, there won’t be anywhere like this left anywhere in London. It’ll all be lychee martinis, decaf vanilla lattes, and complimentary Wi-Fi.’
    The DC came back from the bar and put down the drinks. Mill took a swig of his no-alcohol lager.
    ‘So, this is about Pepys Road,’ Smitty said. ‘Where my nan lived.’
    ‘Exactly. And where there’s been a long-running campaign of harassment, postcards, graffiti, videos, a blog, and now acts of damage and vandalism and animal cruelty.’
    As he had done with Shahid Kamal, Mill was looking very closely at Smitty while he said this. The artist’s reaction didn’t seem to be one of guilt or concern. Mill opened his briefcase and took out a folder with photocopies of the inquiry’s Greatest Hits, mainly postcards and stills from the DVD but also pictures of the graffiti and the defacements and a series of photos of the dead birds and scratched cars. Smitty looked at the pictures.
    ‘I remember this stuff starting, what, must have been about a year ago. Before my nan got ill. I went around there, she’d had a few cards with pictures of her house. And then she’d just had a DVD which she hadn’t played because she didn’t have a DVD player. I passed them on to my mum and that’s the last I heard of it. I assumed it had just stopped. My mum did the place up and then she sold it. We Want What You Have. A good line, I remember thinking. Funny that it kept going.’
    ‘We wondered if it might have something to do with you. It feels like your kind of thing.’
    Smitty snorted. ‘My arse it does. Animal cruelty? I was a vegan for five years and I still hardly ever eat anything with a face. And I assure you I’m very bloody careful about not breaking the law. I have quite a lot to lose, guys. I can see why this feels arty and see why you made the connection but trust me, it’s two plus two equals eleven.’
    He kept on looking through the pictures. Smitty’s mind went back to the time he had gone and seen his grandmother, the last time he had seen her in full health – if indeed she had been in full health, because in retrospect he’d thought that she seemed a little weak, a little peaky. If he’d only known, then . . . then what? Then, not necessarily anything different. But he still would