Silvermeadow

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Well, I might call round there and check on her,’ Kathy said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  She set off again along the deck, stepping aside for two women with toddlers in pushchairs returning from the shops, and felt suddenly despondent. She’d told Leon that she had a life. What a joke. Everyone else was getting on with theirs, while she wandered round this bleak and sodden housing estate like a stubborn saleswoman peddling something that nobody wanted and in which she herself no longer believed. Yes, that was true, she thought, accusing herself coldly. She wasn’t doing this because she really believed that Kerri’s death was connected to North’s crime; she was doing it because she wanted to make a point to Bren and Leon.

  Lisa seemed even more timorous and nervous than the last time. Her mother didn’t introduce Kathy to the man who shuffled away to a bedroom as she came in, clearly not interested in taking part in her conversation with the girl.

  ‘Sorry to bother you again, Lisa,’ Kathy said, noting the redness round the eyes against the pale complexion. ‘How’ve you been?’

  The girl whispered, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good. Look, I just wanted to show you a few pictures. See if you can remember seeing any of these people.’ She opened the envelope and took out the photographs once again. Definitely the last time, she told herself.

  ‘Why?’ Lisa said doubtfully, seeing the men’s faces. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They’re just people we want to contact. You may have come across them. Take your time.’

  Lisa went through the sheaf slowly, listlessly. ‘No,’ she said when she reached the last one. ‘I don’t know any of these men.’

  ‘Oh well, can’t be helped.’ Kathy shrugged and began to gather them up again.

  ‘I know her though,’ Lisa said tentatively, pointing to one of the enlargements from the security cameras in the mall. It showed North as he had been caught on film ten days before, holding the hand of a child.

  ‘You know the little girl?’

  ‘Yeah, she lives here, on the estate.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Kathy said doubtfully. ‘The picture isn’t all that clear.’

  ‘Well it looks like her. Kerri . . .’ She hesitated, biting her lip. ‘Kerri used to baby-sit her.’

  ‘Kerri knew her? Have you any idea what her name is?’

  ‘Mandy, I think. Yes, Mandy. I don’t know her other name.’

  ‘Where did you see her?’

  ‘I went with Kerri one evening. We stayed there with Mandy till her mum came back from the movies.’

  ‘Did you meet the girl’s mother? What was she like?’

  ‘I don’t remember really. Like you, I think. Yes, fair hair, like Mandy.’

  ‘About my age?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Was that the only time you saw the girl?’

  ‘I’ve seen her around, with her mum. I do remember what she looked like.’

  Kathy looked hard at her, becoming more convinced, aware of her heart thumping. ‘That’s good, Lisa. Very good. Did you ever see her with a man?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘And you say she lives on the estate?’

  Lisa nodded. She was sounding reluctant now, and Kathy realised that she was leaning forward in her eagerness to hear the answers, making the girl anxious. She forced herself to sit back and appear relaxed.

  ‘Well, that’s interesting. Don’t suppose you remember where exactly?’

  ‘In one of the other courts. Tulip, I think.’

  ‘You still eating chocolate bars?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘How about if we went down to the corner shop and I bought you some as a reward for helping me?’

  The girl glanced towards the kitchen where her mother was doing something, the radio on. ‘Okay.’

  ‘And on the way you could show me where Mandy lives, eh?’

  From her car, Kathy called Brock’s home number. When he answered he sounded out of breath.

  ‘Kathy? What’s up?’ She could hear children’s laughter in the background.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, Brock.’

  ‘We’re just on our way out. What is it?’

  ‘I think . . . It’s possible that I’ve found the little girl North took with him to Silvermeadow two weeks ago.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I showed Lisa some pictures. She identified the girl as someone that Kerri used to baby-sit. Someone who lives on the Herbert Morrison estate.’

  ‘What!’ This time Brock’s voice was a bellow. ‘Kathy . . .’ He recovered himself. ‘You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you? Dropping bombshells.’

  ‘I hope this one’s more productive. I wouldn’t have bothered you until I’d checked this out, but then I thought, if there’s any chance that North is with them—’

  ‘Yes! Quite right. Where are you now?’

  ‘On the high street, parked outside the estate.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the incident room in Hornchurch Street as soon as I can get there.’

  As she made her way there Kathy reflected that if North was in Tulip Court then they had been coming and going within yards of him all this time. And, whether he had murdered her himself or not, he must surely be the reason that Kerri Vlasich had died.

  It took several hours to secure Tulip Court without the residents realising what was happening. During this time the tenant of the flat was identified from council housing department records as Sophie Bryant, a single woman living with one child, a five-year-old girl. Once Brock was satisfied that the area was secure, a policeman in a postman’s uniform went up to the flat with a registered parcel marked for a Mr Brown at that address, and rang the bell. After getting no reply he rang the adjoining flats, and learned that nothing had been seen of the Bryants for several days. Their visitor, a middle-aged man known as Keith, hadn’t been noticed for a week.

  Later that evening Brock, Kathy and two detectives entered the flat using keys supplied by the housing department on production of a search warrant. It was clear that Mrs Bryant and her daughter had taken most of their clothes and personal belongings with them. The whole apartment had been carefully wiped clean of fingerprints.

  When he got home to Warren Lane that night, Brock found that Suzanne had a cooked dinner ready for him. The smell of it, beef bourguignon, percolated deliciously through the house and lifted his spirits as soon as he stepped through the front door. He opened a bottle of burgundy and they ate a companionable meal, telling each other about their day. The pantomime had been a great success, and further expeditions had been planned for the following day.

  ‘I’m really sorry I missed it, Suzanne,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ She patted his hand.

  ‘Yes it does,’ he said, and meant it. The chance wouldn’t come again. He took hold of her fingers and gave them a squeeze. ‘I was really looking forward to it, the atmosphere, the children’s faces. Was Captain Hook good?’

  ‘Terrifying. And the crocodile. The kids were absolutely captivated. Do you know, it was the first time they’d seen live theatre? I’m just worried I might have got them stage-struck and blighted their little lives for ever.’

  ‘Would that be so bad? Miranda’s got stage presence, I reckon. Tragedy, though, not pantomime. Lady Macbeth rather than Cinderella.’

  ‘She can be rather intense, can’t she? Coming back on the train she asked if you were very lonely, living on your own.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said she should ask you, if she could catch you in.’

  Brock laughed. ‘Tomorrow, I promise. Where are we going?’

  ‘The zoo, but don’t make promises, David. Sergeant Kolla may ferret out another lead. Now she does sound intense.’

  ‘Determined, certainly. But I thought she was becoming a bit more relaxed recently.’

  ‘Does she have a man?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Don’t you know? Don’t you discuss such things with your coll
eagues?’

  ‘No. And I’m not sure in the sense that I thought I’d detected some mutual interest between her and someone, but now I don’t know.’

  ‘Another copper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that a good thing?’

  ‘Probably, yes. Why not?’

  ‘I just thought life might get a bit in-bred, you know. Anyway, how can I say? I’ve never even met Sergeant Kolla.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do. Then I can stop being jealous of her.’

  ‘Eh?’ Brock lowered his fork to his plate in surprise.

  ‘Yes, of course. You obviously have a lot of, well, respect for each other.’

  ‘I should think so.’

  ‘Don’t get huffy, David. Tell you what, why don’t you invite her and this possible mutual admirer over for a meal, and I’ll tell you whether they’re made for each other or not. Make it tomorrow evening. I’ll cook something nice.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Brock looked doubtful.

  ‘Why not? Unless you’re trying to keep me a secret?’

  ‘No, no . . .’ He frowned at his plate. ‘Why would I do that?’ But it was true, he realised. He didn’t want . . . what? To have to define their relationship to people who had nothing to do with it? Was that it? Or to have to explain when, or if, it came to nothing.

  Suzanne burst out laughing. ‘Oh, David. I hope you lie better than that to your villains.’

  He grinned back. ‘They’re not usually as perceptive as you.’

  They held each other’s eyes, smiling, then leant towards one another across the corner of the table and shared a gentle kiss.

  ‘Let’s go to bed,’ Suzanne suggested, and they got to their feet and carried dishes through to the kitchen. Brock watched her at the sink, rinsing plates, and was filled with a sense of gratitude. He took hold of her again, and again they kissed, longer and deeper.

  They were disturbed by a small shuffling sound at the door, and looked over to see Miranda there, face puffy with sleep, staring fixedly at them.

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’ Suzanne said, going to her.

  ‘I had a bad dream,’ the little girl muttered, and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I saw a monster.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my darling.’ Suzanne gathered her up in her arms. ‘There are no monsters here. Uncle David would never allow it.’

  Miranda stared across at Brock with the same uncertain look he’d seen on her face before.

  Suzanne stroked her hair and said, ‘Probably it was the crocodile in the pantomime that gave you the dreams, darling.’

  The little girl pressed her face against Suzanne’s cheek and whispered something.

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘The monster turns people into dwarfs, and eats them for his dinner,’ Miranda whispered, and again stared at Brock, then at the dinner plates on the kitchen table.

  18

  Kathy was at Euston in plenty of time the following evening, Thursday the twenty-third of December. The train was late and her feet were frozen by the time it arrived. She felt her heart give a lurch when she saw him, and she thought, That’s how you know, isn’t it?

  He walked steadily towards her through the milling people, the slamming doors and baggage trolleys, his eyes on her, the barest smile, and they embraced and kissed each other on the cheek.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he said.

  ‘Freezing. How was your trip?’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  ‘Tell me all about it in the car.’ She turned towards the exit.

  ‘Kathy, wait. I’m not going back to the flat.’

  ‘What?’ She thought she’d misheard him in the noise of the station.

  ‘I’m getting a taxi to my parents’ house. I’ve arranged to spend Christmas with them.’

  The roar of people and banging doors seemed to fade to a buzz in Kathy’s head. She stared at him.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just decided this afternoon.’

  ‘What then?’ she asked.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘After Christmas.’

  ‘Oh. Well, we’ll see, I suppose.’

  He took a step towards her, and brushed his mouth against her cheek again. ‘Sorry. Best this way.’

  She stood immobilised as he walked past her and away.

  Later, when she got into her car, she remembered Brock’s unprecedented invitation to them both to dinner that evening, and swore under her breath. She didn’t want to call it off. She wanted to meet the mysterious Suzanne, and her children. His children?

  As some kind of compensation, she had bought not one but two ridiculously expensive bottles of wine. She stood clutching them on Brock’s doorstep, the wind whistling round her upturned coat collar, turning her nose red, and listened to the heavy footsteps coming down the stairs inside.

  ‘Kathy! Hello. Come in out of the cold.’ Brock looked over her shoulder. ‘Did you come separately?’

  ‘Leon’s not coming, Brock. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh dear. Everything all right?’

  ‘Not really, no. Bit of a misunderstanding.’

  ‘You sound glum,’ he said, closing the front door behind her and taking the bottles so that she could take off her coat. He looked concerned, but then a thought seemed to strike him and his expression changed to a little smile.

  Kathy regarded this with surprise and some irritation. She didn’t enjoy the idea of him finding her and Leon a joke.

  ‘These are very good,’ he said, examining the labels on the bottles, and the little smile broke out again.

  Kathy wasn’t in the mood for private jokes she didn’t understand, especially if, as seemed likely, they were at her expense. ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Oh . . . just that I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you and Leon that I’m on my own too.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes. Suzanne and the children have gone, I’m afraid. Sorry. As you say, a bit of a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh dear . . .’

  Kathy didn’t know what to say. Neither of them did. They stood there in the small hallway looking uncomfortable. The more she thought about it, the more awkward it became. They saw each other continually at work but rarely outside, and here they were forced into a social intimacy that probably neither of them welcomed, because of partners who had now abandoned them.

  ‘They weren’t ill, were they?’ she asked, for the sake of something to say.

  ‘No, nothing like that. Leon?’

  ‘No, no. Actually I never even had the chance to tell him you’d invited him. It’s not his fault. I’m sure he would, er, want me to apologise . . . for him.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’

  She was beginning to understand his smile. What else could you do? She grinned back.

  He led the way up the stairs and into the kitchen where he uncorked and poured the wine. She couldn’t see any signs of food preparation.

  ‘Absent friends,’ Brock said. ‘Mmm, this is good. Bad luck on them. Here, let me show you something.’

  He picked up the bottle and led her up the next half flight to the living room. It was exactly as Kathy remembered it, except that in the centre of the room, on the rug in front of the hissing gas fire and surrounded by the sofa and armchairs, on the very spot where she had once stabbed a man to death, was a small pile of garden rubbish. She shuddered and turned away.

  ‘Ah,’ she heard him say. She realised he must have noticed her reaction. ‘The spot, yes. I’d almost forgotten. You haven’t been back since, have you? Are you all right? Sit down.’

  She wasn’t all right, she discovered. She could feel the blood draining from her head, and sat down firmly on one of the armchairs, willing herself not to pass out in front of him. She was startled by the force of her reaction to seeing the place again.

  She forced herself to speak, the blood buzzing in her ears. ‘Don’t you mind? I really thought you’d have sold this house after it happened.’ She was glad now that the oth
ers weren’t here. She wouldn’t have wanted to have to explain.

  ‘No need. The blood didn’t stain the polished floorboards. I only had to buy a new rug.’

  He was being deliberately prosaic because he had seen now that she was having trouble, and this was his way of helping her. She grimaced in acknowledgement. She had killed the man, but in self-defence, when she disturbed him after he’d half-killed Brock. He’d had a blade—she pictured it now, glittering in his hand—and she’d been unarmed. The only weapon available had been the long fork with which Brock toasted bread and crumpets on the gas fire, and with which she had finally, unavoidably, stabbed the man in the throat.

  Her eyes turned to the mantelpiece above the fire, and it was hanging there.

  ‘Christ, Brock,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve still got the bloody toasting fork.’

  She took a gulp of her wine, the glass trembling wildly in her hand.

  ‘You didn’t tell the children, did you?’

  ‘No. Are you sure you’re all right, Kathy? Maybe a brandy would be better?’

  She shook her head, trying to find words of conversation. She wanted him to talk, about anything else. ‘So, what’s with the compost heap?’

  ‘Ah yes, I’ve been sitting here for much of the day contemplating that’—he waved a hand at the debris— ‘trying to learn the appropriate lessons.’

  Kathy noticed a half-empty bottle of whisky and an empty glass on a side table, and wondered just how much help he’d had in his contemplation.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is, or was, my prize bonsai. Juniperus chinensis, Chinese juniper. It was started from advanced stock on VJ Day, nineteen forty-five, by my father. About the only thing of his that I still possessed, that and the bonsai tools. He was an enthusiast, a great admirer of Japanese culture.’

  ‘So what happened to it?’

  ‘Two children by the name of Stewart and Miranda. They thought I was getting a bit too pally with their grandmother—’

  ‘Suzanne is their grandmother?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You didn’t think they were ours, did you? Anyway, they decided to terminate their visit by doing something so unspeakable that I’d be forced to kick them all out. Quite smart really, for eight and five years old respectively.’