‘I got them to double-check. There’s no mistake.’
‘The bloody fool.’
‘Yes.’ He felt Kathy’s silence as he came to a decision. ‘Get him in here.’
He could see Lowry was puzzled that they should meet in an interview room, and that Kathy should be loading the recorder with a fresh tape. He looked tired and there was a smell of whisky on his breath.
‘I was just about to hit the sack, chief,’ he said, yawning broadly. ‘Something up?’
‘Yes,’ Brock said grimly, and began to recite the caution while Lowry stared first at him, then at Kathy, stunned.
‘Where were you at twenty to eight this evening, Gavin?’
‘What?’ He blinked stupidly like a man trying to force himself awake from a dream.
‘Seven-forty. Think.’
‘Sir, I don’t understand—’
‘Just answer.’
Lowry gaped for a moment, then said, ‘At home.’
‘You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Did you make a phone call at that time?’
‘No . . . no I didn’t. What is this, chief?’
‘I’m going to repeat that question just once. Think before you answer. Did you make a phone call this evening at seven-forty?’
Lowry flushed. ‘I just said no.’
‘Someone rang Harry Jackson on his mobile at that time and tipped him off that he was being tailed. Why did you do that, Gavin?’
‘Me! Don’t be daft, chief! I wouldn’t have done that, would I? Did he say I did?’
Brock handed Lowry the sheet of paper Kathy had given him.
‘What’s this?’
‘Mercury’s record of the call. That is your home number isn’t it?’
Lowry stared at it, eyes wide, then shook his head. ‘I don’t know what this is, Brock. Have I been set up?’ He looked in turn at Brock and Kathy. ‘Look, look, look . . . when I got home this evening, Connie had the meal ready. We ate, then I talked to her about Harry, just like we agreed. We discussed it. She was upset and couldn’t believe he was bent and I had to go over it several times. Around seven-thirty she took the boys up to bed. She’d planned to go out to the pictures with a girlfriend from work, but she said she didn’t feel like it any more, after what I’d told her about Harry, so she had a bath instead.’
‘After she phoned her friend?’ Kathy said quietly.
‘Her friend?’
‘To tell her that she wasn’t going to the pictures.’
‘Oh, yeah . . .’ Lowry’s mouth hung open, and he looked as if someone had smacked him on the head quite hard. ‘You’re joking. She wouldn’t have . . .’ Brock recognised the note of contempt again. ‘The stupid bitch. I told her. I explained! The stupid, stupid bitch!’
‘You’re suggesting what, exactly?’
He shook his head in exasperation. ‘She was upset that you suspected Harry. She was sorry for him. Connie must have rung him up and tipped him off.’
Jackson looked up as Brock and Kathy came back into the room. He was looking wearier now, tie loosened, shirtsleeves rolled up in the over-heated room.
Brock placed the record of the Mercury call in front of him. ‘The number that rang you at seven-forty this evening.’
‘Oh Christ.’ Jackson lowered his head abruptly, shoulders sagged. ‘He knows, does he, Gavin?’
‘Know what? Come on, Harry. I need it for the record. All of it.’
Jackson closed his eyes and took a deep breath before replying as if delivering a formal report. ‘The woman who spent the afternoon of last Saturday with me was Connie Lowry, DS Lowry’s wife. We’ve been seeing each other now for over two years.’
‘You’re lovers?’
‘Yeah.’
All the fight seemed to have gone out of Harry. He slumped forward on his elbows. Brock thought, Gavin knows she made the call, but the idea that the two of them—his stupid wife and his friend who was past it— might be having an affair had never entered his head.
‘Tell the truth, it feels good to say it out loud. Get it out in the open. Two years of bliss and quiet desperation . . . Christ, she and Gavin only went out for six months before they got married, and we’ve been lurking in the bleedin’ shadows for four times as long.’ He looked at Brock, wanting to explain. ‘It’s a rotten thing to do to a mate, but we never planned for it to happen. Gavin took her for granted, usual thing, just assumed he could live his life the way he wanted and she’d cope. He didn’t even notice she was miserable, needed help. She started coming to the mall, regular, and we’d have a coffee, and talk. After a while, well . . . I was the one who was there for her.’
Brock looked down at his blank note pad, trying to suppress a momentary vivid picture of Suzanne. He had no doubt at all that Harry was telling the truth.
‘I didn’t think it could happen at my time of life, Mr Brock, but it did. It crept up on me. One day I was pouring out a cup of tea, and I realised that I was thinking about her all the bleedin’ time. Couldn’t help myself. Like some pathetic teenager. But that doesn’t stop you feeling guilty. Yeah, I’m glad it’s out in the open now.’
‘What did you mean earlier, when you said that now you were finished?’
‘My job, at Silvermeadow. I’m already under a cloud with everything that’s been happening, and this’ll be the final straw, I reckon. They’ll have my guts, mine and Bo Seager’s.’
‘Why her?’
‘Politics, chief. Nathan Tindall wants her job, and now’s the time for him to make his move.’
Connie Lowry guessed why they’d come as soon as she saw them standing there on her doorstep. Brock could see it written all over her face. She was in her dressing gown, for it was after midnight, but she didn’t look as if she’d been asleep.
‘Yes?’ she said cautiously.
He introduced himself and Kathy, and she led them into the front living room of a neat, well-cared-for home, made comfortably untidy by the wooden train set the little boys had been playing with earlier, while she and Gavin had been discussing Harry Jackson.
‘I wondered . . . when you called Gavin in,’ she said. ‘You’ve come about Harry, haven’t you?’
Brock nodded, and she did the same, a mutual understanding. ‘You know then, about him and me.’
‘He told us you’ve had a relationship for a couple of years.’
She coloured slightly. ‘Yes . . . well, it’s a relief, really, to have it out in the open at last.’ She didn’t sound entirely convinced about that. ‘Does Gavin know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I don’t want to see him. Will you tell him that? Tell him I don’t want him to come back here tonight.’
‘Why don’t you tell him yourself, Connie?’ Brock said quietly. ‘He’s at Hornchurch Street station. Why not give him a ring?’
‘No. I don’t want to talk to him. I couldn’t. Not yet.’
Brock shrugged. ‘Can you tell us where you were last Saturday afternoon, Connie?’
‘With Harry. We met outside Boots in Brentwood shortly after two, and went back to his house. We try to see each other at least twice a week.’
‘What about your boys?’
She blushed, but her voice remained firm. ‘A friend of mine looks after them. She knows about Harry and me.’
‘How long did you stay with him?’
She thought. ‘Till after six. We listened to the end of the six o’clock news on the car radio when Harry drove me back to Brentwood. Gavin wasn’t due home till nine that night.’ She looked at them defiantly. ‘You have to live like that, when it’s a secret. But not any more.’
On the road back, Brock said, ‘Oh well, another false trail.’
‘Yes,’ Kathy said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Not at all. It looked very promising.’
‘Poor Gavin. He must think I’m bringing down some kind of curse on him. First his car and now his marriage.’
‘Yes, you do seem to be his
nemesis, don’t you? Well, I’m having a day off tomorrow. If they discover anything interesting on the security tapes they can phone me. But not during matinée hours.’
‘You’re going to see a show?’
‘Yes, Peter Pan.’
‘Really? Appropriate.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, that’s what Harry’s trying to be, isn’t it?’
Brock wasn’t too impressed by that observation, and decided to change the subject. ‘I heard a rumour that you and Leon are going up north for a couple of days. Is that right?’
He noticed Kathy’s grip tighten abruptly on the steering wheel, and followed her eyes flicking down to the car clock. He felt the car give a little swerve on the road.
‘You all right?’
‘Oh . . . yes,’ she said. ‘I just forgot something. Doesn’t matter. What were we talking about?’
‘About you going up north.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not this week anyway.’
Brock looked over, curious, but she said no more, her face giving away nothing of what was going on inside her head.
When she got home to the deserted flat she still couldn’t really believe that it could have happened. He hadn’t phoned. Presumably he had assumed she’d deliberately not come. Well, of course he would. What else could he think? That she’d forgotten? The idea was absurd. DS Kathy Kolla didn’t forget appointments.
She looked at the time yet again. The train would have reached Liverpool long ago. Reluctantly she tried his mobile number, but got the message that it was switched off. Then she got the number of the Adelphi Hotel and rang that. She asked reception if they had a room in the name of Desai and the woman said yes. She imagined him in the room, tired and angry with her, and her courage, or perhaps it was her stamina, failed. She rang off before she could be connected, and turned to a small pile of mail. Among the junk was a Christmas card from her aunt and uncle in Sheffield, and a separate small package containing a Christmas present from them which she didn’t open. She winced, realising that that was something else she’d forgotten. There was also her credit card statement, the size of which gave her a small shock.
On the other side of London, as far to the south of Eros as Kathy was to the north, Brock was working his way through his house, tidying stuff away and putting potentially dangerous things—the toasting fork, the carving knife, the can of rat poison—and fragile things— the sole artwork (a Schwitters tram ticket collage), the laptop, the wine glasses—out of reach of small children, and wondering as he did it if all this was really necessary. He discovered, when he finally sank below the surface of a hot bath, that he really was looking forward to being invaded.
17
Brock woke the next day with somewhat less confidence, and grew more apprehensive as the time of his guests’ arrival drew closer. It wasn’t a bad morning, with a bit of sun breaking through the clouds, but still, day showed Warren Lane in a colder and more realistic light than night, and there was no avoiding the fact that this was not Disneyland.
The party arrived on the dot of nine, as promised. It was one of the things he liked about Suzanne, her determination to stave off slack timekeeping and other symptoms of chaos. And as he helped them in, each carrying a piece of luggage, he recognised immediately that this was exactly what the children needed and responded to. They were a team, each secure in playing their part.
And he realised too that he needn’t have worried about the place not being interesting enough for them, as they followed him, wide-eyed and observant, exchanging whispered comments, up through the house, from the winding stairs and landings lined with books to the living room with its hissing gas fire and bay window projecting out over the lane and the long bench with computers, out to the kitchen with its eccentric collection of gadgets and air heavy with the smell of coffee, then upwards again to their room under the roof. He and Suzanne left them there, marvelling at the height of the beds off the floor, which grandly raised them up and gave them views out of the dormer window, over the little courtyard at the back of the house and beyond the rooftops towards the very distant prospect of Dulwich Park.
They had had an adventurous journey, Suzanne explained over the cup of coffee which Brock had ready for her. Leaving well before dawn, they had, against her better judgement, breakfasted on the road on generous helpings of sausage and eggs. Ten minutes later they had watched the sun rise in a golden blaze through the eastern mist while Miranda brought up her breakfast on the grassy verge. She had done it uncomplainingly, and Suzanne hadn’t had the heart to remind the little figure, grey and heaving, that she had warned her that precisely this would happen if she had a greasy meal while travelling in the car. After that they did the journey in hops, stopping regularly to avoid further incident.
As she explained all this, Brock was further reassured. With her competence and the kids’ resilience, everything would be fine.
‘I feel like a truant,’ Suzanne said. ‘The shop’s so busy, and I’ve just walked out and left them to it, and it feels great.’
‘Me too.’ He smiled.
‘Your case? You’re sure we’re not in the way? The children have been following all the gruesome details on TV. I’m afraid you’re going to get a request for a guided tour of the murder sites.’
Brock laughed. ‘They’ll probably enjoy Silvermeadow. There’s a volcano, you know. Erupts on the hour.’
‘Yes, I’d heard.’
‘We both need a break,’ Brock said. ‘You’re looking tired.’
‘Is that a polite way of saying haggard?’
‘Never.’
He went to her and gave her a kiss, interrupted immediately by the sound of children’s footsteps on the stairs. They assembled side by side in the doorway and the boy asked solemnly, ‘We wondered if we could visit your courtyard, Uncle David.’
‘Of course,’ Brock said, and led the way.
There wasn’t much to see: several large terracotta pots supporting the scruffy remnants of unidentifiable plants, and a wooden bench placed in the corner most likely to catch a little sun. Next to this bench stood the most impressive object in the yard, to which the children were drawn.
‘What do you think that is?’ Brock asked.
‘A bush,’ Miranda said immediately.
‘No,’ Brock said. ‘It’s a tree.’
‘A baby tree?’ she said.
‘A grown-up one. It’s about the same age as me.’
She frowned dubiously, peering more closely at the twisted roots writhing out of the moss in the shallow blue-glazed bowl, the gnarled branches, the layered foliage of pine needles.
‘Well, it looks old, but it can’t be, cos it’s only little,’ she said.
‘About ninety centimetres tall,’ Stewart suggested.
‘It’s like it’s been shrunk,’ Miranda said.
‘Like looking through the wrong end of a telescope,’ her brother offered. ‘Is it a dwarf?’
‘That’s right,’ Brock said. ‘Would you like to know how I did it?’
‘You did it?’ Miranda said, eyes huge. ‘You made a dwarf?’
He took them into the kitchen, where he hunted through the drawers until he found his roll of bonsai tools, the Japanese branch cutters and root shears and scissors and potting stick and binding wire, and told them how he was able to shrink everything about the tree to scale, except for the needles and cones, which tried to grow to normal size.
‘Isn’t that cruel?’ Miranda asked grimacing. ‘Cutting their roots? Isn’t that like cutting their toes off?’
‘It doesn’t hurt,’ said Stewart dismissively. ‘Trees can’t feel things. They don’t have nervous systems.’
‘How do you know it doesn’t hurt?’ she protested. ‘Just because it can’t scream!’
Brock saw the tear begin to swell into her eye and said gently, ‘That worried me at first, Miranda. But there is a way you can tell that the tree doesn’t mind.’
‘How?’ She s
niffed.
‘Because it grows perfectly. It’s as healthy as an ordinary tree, and will live just as long, if it’s looked after. Unhappy trees don’t do that.’
‘Don’t they?’ She looked as if she wanted to believe him, but wasn’t quite convinced.
Kathy phoned the Adelphi again first thing and made her abject apologies to Leon. She wasn’t sure if he really believed her when she said she’d totally forgotten about the train until it was too late, because he said little.
‘I could get a train up there this morning,’ she suggested.
‘Yes.’ He didn’t sound enthusiastic.
‘Well, do you want me to?’
‘What’ll you do if you don’t come up?’
‘Oh, work. I’ve got some things to follow up.’
‘I think you’d better do that, Kathy. You’ve obviously got a lot on your mind.’
They hung on in silence for a moment, then she said, ‘I’ll meet you at Euston tomorrow evening, then. What time does the train get in?’
He told her and they rang off. For a moment Kathy was inclined to get on a train anyway and surprise him, but then she got cold feet and decided against it.
She drove to the Herbert Morrison estate, parking on the high street and walking to Crocus Court. Naomi’s grandmother answered the door and invited her in, though Naomi, whom she wanted, wasn’t at home.
‘She’s working at Silvermeadow this morning, Sergeant. Is there anything we can do?’
There seemed little point, but Kathy showed them the photographs of North and the others anyway. They recognised none of them.
‘Never mind,’ Kathy said. ‘I suppose Lisa is at work too, is she?’
‘Oh no. Lisa gave up her job at the mall. She won’t go back there now.’
‘Not as tough as our Naomi,’ Mr Tait put in with satisfaction.
‘Naomi isn’t insensitive,’ his wife said quickly. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think that. But she’s more mature than Lisa, better able to face up to reality. Well, she’s had to be, poor little soul. Whereas Lisa is a very sensitive girl. She’s really taken things to heart. Her mum’s quite concerned about her, I think.’
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