‘You missed our SIO’s visit,’ Brock said dryly.
‘Oh dear.’
‘Never mind. You’ll see him on TV tonight. He’s made a public statement, appealing for information. You do have a TV, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. Gavin isn’t loading the chief super down with paperwork, then?’
Brock smiled. ‘Too nimble on his feet for that, is our Orville. I get the impression he knows Gavin pretty well. He was highly amused when I brought up Gavin’s little worry about reporting direct to him. Said he’d only asked him to let him know if we were short of anything. Didn’t want me to get the impression they were penny-pinching.’
Stefan Vlasich showed little reaction to anything when they picked him up at the airport. He had broad, impassive Slavic features, and seemed determined to show no signs of emotion. He’d been working in the forests near Jaroslaw in eastern Poland, near the Ukraine border, he growled, staring stolidly at the Surrey countryside flashing past the patrol car window. Communications had not been good. It had taken longer than it should have to get him back to Warsaw and catch a plane. How long had he been there, in the forests? He swivelled his blank eyes round at Brock and said, ‘Four weeks. Almost five. Living night and day in a camp with twenty others, laying pipeline. The police spoke to the supervisors. They confirmed it, didn’t they? What, you think I came over here and killed my own daughter?’
‘We’ll have to go over all this in a formal interview, Mr Vlasich,’ Brock said. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s necessary for the record. But tell me now, will you? I’m curious. You really had no idea at all that your daughter was planning to visit you?’
Kathy was in the front passenger seat, next to the police driver, Brock and Vlasich in the back, Vlasich directly behind her so that she had to swivel right round to see his face.
‘No. No idea,’ he said, and turned away to watch the slip road curve onto the M25.
They crossed the Thames through the Dartford tunnel and emerged into the flat industrial wastes of Essex, and Kathy tried to imagine an earlier landscape, of marshes and Saxon hamlets, without success.
‘Are you taking me to see her?’ Vlasich asked heavily.
Brock replied, ‘Later, Mr Vlasich.’
They passed Junction 29, and then the driver began signalling his turn, and Vlasich said, ‘Where are we?’ Then, seeing the Silvermeadow sign, ‘What is this?’
‘We’re calling in here first, Mr Vlasich,’ Brock said. ‘It’s possible that Kerri died here.’
The vast carpark panorama opened up as the slip road reached the crest.
‘What?’ There was a note of sudden alarm in Vlasich’s voice, the more startling after its persistent monotone.
Kathy twisted round in her seat, but her attention was caught by Brock’s expression as he studied the other man, watchful, attentive, the hunter’s focus in his eyes.
‘She worked here, you know,’ Brock said, sounding the same as before. ‘We’re staging a walk-through with someone who looks like Kerri. We’d like you to witness it, if you wouldn’t mind. Is that all right?’
Kathy turned to look at Vlasich. He was staring at the long low bulk of the building ahead. ‘No . . . I don’t want . . . I won’t do this. I don’t want to go in there.’
‘I can understand it might be distressing for you,’ Brock said carefully, sounding more curious than sympathetic. ‘But your observations might help us. You may recognize someone. Something might jog your memory, about something Kerri might have said, or hinted.’
‘No way!’ Vlasich said, almost in a panic. ‘You turn round this fucking car right now!’
Brock considered him silently for a moment, then turned to the driver and murmured something. The car drew to a halt. ‘Kathy,’ Brock said, ‘you’d best stay here and meet the girls when they arrive. I’ll take Mr Vlasich to Hornchurch Street to make a formal statement.’
‘Fine,’ Kathy said, and looked again at the dead girl’s father. His face was as grey as the weeping sky.
*
Brock had told Kathy of his concern that the re-enactment might be lost among the shopping crowds at Silvermeadow, but it was clear, as soon as the police car pulled up at the west mall entrance, that the radio and poster publicity had ensured this was going to be the big event of the afternoon, if not the shopping week. A crowd of people was waiting as Lisa and Naomi stepped out, like stars arriving for a guest appearance. They walked forward to the doors, then hesitated at all this attention: the people strained forward, a TV cameraman backing away in front of them, lights and microphone suspended over their heads.
Kathy came to Lisa’s side and whispered encouragement. She looked very pale as she drew herself up and set off again, face set, striding forward, her hair pulled back in a ponytail tied up in a scarlet and green ribbon, as Kerri’s had probably been, the green backpack bobbing conspicuously between her shoulders. There had been doubts about whether Lisa should do this, whether it might be distressing for her to play the part of her murdered friend, but when it had been raised with her she had been adamant. It was her duty to Kerri, she had said through tears. Kerri wouldn’t want anyone else to do it.
Once in the mall it seemed to Kathy that the cavalcade took on the character of a royal progress, with lines of shoppers forming up on each side of the route in front of the advancing party, Harry Jackson’s security guards forging the way ahead, small kids running along the outside to stir up the stragglers. A second local TV news camera crew joined the procession, then another. Shoppers got to their feet at the café tables as they passed, and lined the balcony rails overhead. Kathy noticed how the girls seemed to become more confident. When they reached the C&A windows they paused, positioning themselves advantageously in front of the cameras, and put on a show of window-shopping while the crowd stood attentively silent all around.
They moved on down the mall and the music on the PA system cut out so that a voice could inform everyone what was happening, the programme notes to a real-life tragedy. The music resumed, an upbeat number, just as it had a week before, and the cavalcade moved forward towards the escalators and surged down into the rainforest and through the food court. It was obvious that the crush would never make it through the narrower spaces of the Bazaar, and the PA system came on again to announce that the reenactment was now at an end and that police officers would be ready at tables strategically positioned throughout the centre to hear from witnesses, their tables identifiable by enlarged photographs of Kerri’s smiling face. At the same time, all stalls in the food court would be offering a ten per cent discount on food purchases made before six p.m., twenty per cent on family specials.
Kathy took the girls back to the patrol car waiting to take them home. Lisa was subdued, but Naomi seemed almost serene as she turned to Kathy at the car door and said, ‘Same time tomorrow, then?’
‘Yes, thank you, Naomi. We really appreciate it.’ And she added, though afterwards she wondered if it had been a bit mawkish, ‘Kerri would be grateful too, for what you’ve done.’
She tapped in her security code at the door to the service area, getting a little buzz from the recollection of Leon giving her his number. So long ago it seemed, before everything happened, before she had even imagined that it could happen. She was impatient to leave, to pick him up in Lambeth as they’d arranged, but there were things that had to be done.
Sharon gave her a wave from her console in the security centre as she came in. Speedy was working at another table, on what looked like a video-editing machine, with images flashing past on the screen in front of him. He spotted her reflection in his screen and turned to her with a big toothy smile. ‘Yo, Sergeant!’ he called.
‘Hello Speedy,’ Kathy said, surprised at this welcome, wondering what had put him in such a good mood.
‘Your tape’s ready, babe,’ he said. ‘All done.’
‘Thanks. We appreciate it.’ Bo Seager had arranged for Speedy to compile a tape of the walk-through from his monitors for Brock
to view when he returned from Hornchurch Street.
‘Ms Seager said if you want you can use the video machine in her office,’ Sharon said. ‘The office’ll be open till late.’
‘Great. We might do that. It gets rather hectic in the unit.’ Kathy took the tape that Speedy offered her and turned to go.
‘Oh, and I’ve got this as well,’ Speedy said, reaching for a second tape in a sealed box.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s some odds and ends I found,’ Speedy said, grinning rather wildly. He’s on something, she thought. ‘Just stuff from the monitors. But I thought there might be something there of use to you. You never know.’
‘Really? You think it could help us? Maybe I should leave this for my boss too.’
‘Oh, no.’ He sniggered as if at some private joke. ‘Have a look at it yourself first, babe, before you show him. Decide whether it’s worth a wider audience.’
There was something about the way he put it that she didn’t like.
Maybe it’s a dirty movie, she thought. Maybe this is Speedy’s way of flashing.
‘Okay. I’ll do that.’
‘Yeah.’ He grinned, and turned away. ‘You do that, babe.’
She turned to Sharon, who shrugged and gave her a look that said, that’s Speedy for you.
Kathy returned to the unit and phoned Brock. He was on his way back, he told her, having spent over an hour interviewing Stefan Vlasich, which hadn’t been very helpful. The man’s composure had been reimposed, his answers short and unilluminating. When pressed about his reaction to going into Silvermeadow he claimed that he had been unable to face the sight of another child playing the role of his little girl, but Brock knew that his panic had started before he had mentioned the walk-through. There was something odd there all right. Then they had gone to the morgue, where the people had done their best to make one side of Kerri’s face presentable. Stefan Vlasich had stared through the window at the small shrouded figure of his daughter without a flicker of reaction.
‘What about the walk-through?’ Brock asked. ‘How did it go?’
‘Fine. The girls did it very well. We’ve had a lot of reports from members of the public who say they knew Kerri by sight, but no one who can be specific about the sixth. The walk-through itself was like a circus. There’s a tape of it here for you to see, if you want. There’s a machine in the centre management offices, and they say they’ll be open till late if you want a bit of peace and quiet.’
‘Okay. Why don’t you go home now, Kathy? Get to bed early tonight. Boss’s orders.’
Kathy hesitated. ‘I’d like that,’ she said, with a little smile.
She drove into central London, phoning him on the way, so that he was waiting under the arch of the railway bridge when she arrived. He put the carrier bags he was carrying into the back and slipped in quickly beside her, and they grabbed each other as if their whole day had been spent waiting in furious impatience for this moment, which it had.
‘God,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve missed you. I can’t believe how much.’
‘Me too. Home?’
‘Yes please.’
‘What did you tell your mum and dad?’
‘I’m staying with a friend. We’re thinking of getting a place together.’
‘How did they take that?’
‘Fine. They seemed pleased.’
‘Did you specify the gender of the friend?’
‘No, and they didn’t ask. Funny really.’
Kathy pulled out into the traffic and turned north, heading for Vauxhall Bridge. ‘Have you been shopping?’ she asked, nodding over her shoulder at the bags in the back.
‘Just a few things for you. Food, a couple of bottles, one or two little things for the kitchen. You’re not offended, are you?’
She laughed. ‘Course not. What sort of little things?’
He reached back for one of the bags and brought them out: pepper and salt grinders, a corkscrew, two eggcups and a thing for drizzling olive oil.
‘Drizzling olive oil! Wow.’
‘You’re sure you’re not offended?’
‘Not in the least. I did a bit of shopping today too.’
‘What did you get?’
‘That’s a surprise.’
Brock took the video down the mall to the centre management offices. The door was locked, but Bo Seager answered his knock. Her mood seemed much changed from the previous evening, relaxed and welcoming. She took the tape from him and put it in the machine, sat him down and offered him a malt.
‘That does sound tempting,’ he said. ‘Just a small one, thanks, Ms Seager.’
‘Bo, please.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry if we sounded kinda belligerent last night. David, isn’t it? Frankly, we were nervous about the impact of all this. And I guess Nathan Tindall felt he had to make a point.’
‘He did that all right.’
‘Nathan believes in covering all the angles. That way he may well end up with my job, if and when I mess things up good and proper.’ She said it lightly, as if it was to be taken as a joke. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers. So you feel less nervous now . . . Bo?’
‘After the way the walk-through went today, I feel we may have to make a big donation to the police widows fund, or whatever. Oh dear, you’re frowning at my tastelessness. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right. So it didn’t put your customers off?’
‘Quite the opposite! It seems a murder is a much bigger draw than Santa Claus. Isn’t that interesting? I might give a paper on it to the next marketing conference. Look, I’ll show you.’
She reached for the remote and sat back, crossing her long dark legs in a way that Brock found momentarily distracting. Then the screen came to life with a scene like a triumphal parade.
‘Good grief !’ Brock muttered.
There was no doubt that Speedy Reynolds had flair, heightening the drama of the occasion with rapid switches from camera to camera, distant shots alternating with close-ups, panning and zooming like a professional.
‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ Bo said. ‘Speedy, I mean. He does it really well.’
‘Good grief,’ Brock repeated, shaking his head as the edited film came to an end.
‘What’s the matter?’ Bo asked him.
‘It’s a bloody circus!’
‘You look shocked.’
He shook his head. ‘No, not really. We uncover a body in the woods, or a plane comes down somewhere, and suddenly the lanes are full of cars, like blowflies homing in on the smell of death. But still, this is something, isn’t it? Carnival time.’
‘Oh, come on! You called them here! You wanted them to take an interest. Then you sit back and call them blowflies!’
He saw that she was teasing him, and he smiled back. ‘Yes, well, you don’t seem to be wasting the opportunity— ten per cent discounts on food in the food court? And it all seems to be doing great things for your turnover—the carparks look pretty full.’
‘Fifty per cent up on a normal Monday evening, I’d say. You’re disapproving again, but seriously, I wonder why you object to people showing their interest in their own way? Who’s to say what’s responsible interest and what’s morbid? Me, I prefer to take people just as they are.’
‘Then you’d probably make a good copper, Bo.’
‘No, a good shopping centre manager—much more rewarding, financially anyway. And more than financially. I don’t know how you can spend your life digging about exposing the shit in life. I prefer to wrap it all up in gorgeous gift paper and sell it for a bomb. I guess it’s basically a difference of philosophy.’
‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Philosophy, eh?’ He finished his drink and she reached across with the bottle, ignoring his shake of the head.
‘Sure. You’re a liberal, right? You adore positive logic, and you have a certain political awareness, which maybe is the conscience of the privileged. You want to have things verified, and at the same time help the less fortunate. It’s very old
-fashioned.’
‘Thank you,’ Brock grunted. He had heard this lecture before, and wasn’t really in the mood for it again.
‘Winston Starkey, for instance, the black guy who runs the games arcade, who your officers were hassling.’
‘I am pursuing that, don’t worry. If they were in the wrong, they’ll pay, believe me.’
‘Oh, I do. You’ve been talking to him, yes?’
‘I went and had a word with him this morning, yes. You’re well informed, Bo.’
‘Naturally. But actually he came and told me so himself. He believes that some of the other traders and our security guys—all white, of course—have it in for him. Put your people up to it.’
‘He’s probably right. What’s your point?’
‘My point is that you want to believe the best of him, because of what he is: black and gay and kinda dumb. Whereas I don’t.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. If he’s up to anything, and especially if it’s drugs, I want you to hit him hard. And I’m black and wear gold jewellery too.’
‘Fair enough.’
Bo smiled. ‘Your sergeants have a more modern philosophy.’
‘Have they really?’
‘Sure. They’re not like you, they’re classless, thank God.’
Brock frowned at his glass, feeling tired.
She mistook his expression and said quickly, ‘Sorry, David, no offence to you. I just find this English class thing so boring.’
‘I know . . .’ He decided he’d better let her have her fun. ‘I thought I was fairly classless, actually.’
‘Sure,’ she laughed. ‘Middle-classless. I’m not sure whether it’s upper-middle-classless or middle-middle-classless, but that’s because I’m a foreigner. If I were English I’d know for sure within ten seconds of you opening your mouth which kind of classless you were. Now the tough guy, what’s his name?’
‘Lowry.’
‘Yes. He’s a contemporary, post-Thatcher, English type, I’d say.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Oh, hungry, devious, prepared to do whatever it takes.’
‘I think that’s just style, Bo. Posturing. We all do it, in our different ways. Reassures us that we aren’t completely beholden to the chief super’—he eyed her over the rim of his glass—‘or the finance manager.’
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