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eight. it’s all persian to me

Continued from here:

April 1949.

Detective Brown knocked at DS Leane’s door, waited ten seconds and entered. Leane waved him over to chair in front of his desk and continued his conversation.

‘It says Tamam Shud.’

‘T.A.M.A.M. S.H.U.D.

‘No bloody idea. I would have thought it was more up your alley.’

Leane looked at Brown.

‘He’s here now.’

The conversation ended, Leane put the phone on its receiver, picked up an envelope from his desk and handed it to Brown.


Brown opened the envelope and shook a small slip of paper into his hand, turned it around and read the words. He looked up at Leane.

‘You asking?’

‘No, that’s for you to do, and keep it out of the papers.’


The gist of the conversation, as Francis understood it after putting down the phone, was that the book would be handed back to the police where it could be matched with the slip. What was deliberately left unclear was when.