She pointed out Grant’s wife, too, an elegant, rather calm-looking woman alongside her husband’s restless vitality, in conversation with a couple who looked as if they’d dressed for the opera at Covent Garden, and whose stiff expressions suggested they wished they were there instead.
‘Nigel Hadden-Vane and his wife,’ Andrea explained. She pronounced his name with an exaggerated posh accent that made it sound like ‘hard and vain’. ‘Tory MP, on Michael’s HAC—sorry, Home Affairs Committee. The enemy,’ she added, ‘or one of them. Margaret Hart does her best to keep him in line.’ She pointed out a woman wearing a dramatic deep-red cloak. ‘She’s the chair of the committee. Great fun. She tells people exactly what she thinks of them. You can watch them live on webcast. There’s another round of sittings coming up. But of course you’ve got better things to do.
‘Talking about the enemy, the person I’d really like to have invited here is Edward Roach—I’ve never met him in the flesh. Have you? No. But your Mr Brock has, hasn’t he? Is he coming tonight?’
‘He was invited, Andrea,’ Tom said. ‘Though he seems to have a lot on his mind at the moment.’
But at that moment Kathy spotted him arriving at the top of the stairs, making his way towards Michael Grant, who greeted him enthusiastically. She watched them talking together and was struck by how different Brock looked from when she’d last seen him in his office, weary and preoccupied. Now he had a smart haircut and seemed ten years younger and as animated as Grant. The MP led him over to meet his wife and daughter, and it was apparent from the way they were responding that he was being amusing and charming.
There were other faces there that Kathy recognised— Father Maguire, Winnie Wellington and, to her surprise, George Murray, trying to keep out of Winnie’s line of sight. He looked anxious when he saw Kathy watching him, and she smiled and gave him a little wave. As they took their seats, Lloyd made some comment about classical music and what to do if he started snoring too loudly. It occurred to Kathy that Lloyd had insulated himself with a few drinks before coming. ‘The tragedy is he means it,’ Nicole said, as Michael Grant appeared on the stage and silence fell.
Grant welcomed them and gave an outline of the youth programs their money would support, then introduced his daughter and her companions. Elizabeth took the microphone and explained that they called their ensemble ‘Doctor Breeze’, taking the name of the warm trade wind that soothes the beaches of Jamaica. They had selected a variety of pieces of music, she said, to reflect the diversity of the audience and the community they represented. She was a flautist, holding her flute as she spoke, and she introduced a classical guitarist, a cellist, and a young man at the piano, but behind them the audience could see other more esoteric instruments laid out on a table—a lute, a viola da gamba and others.
They began with Telemann, and Kathy heard Lloyd groan softly and saw him close his eyes. From Baroque Europe they then moved to twentieth-century South America with a piece by Villa-Lobos, then further south to Argentina and Astor Piazzolla, for whom Elizabeth exchanged her flute for an accordion-like bandoneon, to capture the poignant spirit of the Tango Nuevo. As the group moved from classical to jazz to world music, exchanging instruments, centuries and countries, the audience seemed to fall under a spell, both stimulated and lulled by every unexpected twist in the journey. They finished with a Vietnamese piece by an American composer, Monica Houghton, ‘We Rise Above Our Little Quarrels’, and by the end the listeners really did seem transformed. The applause was spontaneous, a single roar of sound, to which the group responded modestly. An encore was demanded, and they ended by returning to the eighteenth century from which they had begun, this time with Marin Marais. Lloyd had fallen asleep, and mumbled his objections as Nicole dug him in the ribs and they got to their feet.
Kathy wondered if she should say hello to Brock before they left, but he was deep in conversation with Jennifer Grant and the others were keen to leave, so they joined the crowd milling around the cloakroom. Kathy found herself standing next to Kerrie, the manager of Grant’s office in Cockpit Lane, and they were chatting about the concert when the imposing figure of Hadden-Vane swept by. Stopped momentarily by the congestion, he half turned to them. Noticing the flounce of a blue silk handkerchief in his top pocket to match his tie, Kathy thought of Martin Connell’s story about the MP and the knickers. She smiled, then abruptly suppressed it as Hadden-Vane turned and looked straight at her. His eyes connected, then passed on to Kerrie and lit up. He leaned towards her in a little bow and said softly, ‘Hello, Kerrie. Enjoy the show?’
She smiled back and he continued on his way. Seeing Kathy’s look of surprise, Kerrie, still smiling to herself, said, ‘He’s an MP. Full of himself. Reckon they all are over there, don’t you?’
Their coats arrived and Kathy said goodbye and joined the others. They headed down the street for a curry at a place nearby that Lloyd recommended. They took their seats and while they waited for their drinks to arrive they talked about the concert. Lloyd queried the fact that they’d played so many different instruments. He seemed to think this was a bit flashy and disreputable until Tom suggested it was like being a pentathlete. Then Lloyd caught the look on Nicole’s face and changed the subject. ‘Your boss didn’t show up then, Kathy?’
‘Yes, he did eventually. He was talking to Grant’s wife when we left, otherwise I’d have introduced you.’
‘Pity, I’d have liked to have met the great man before he quits.’
Kathy was used to Lloyd playing the joker, and she assumed from his exaggeratedly innocent expression and the flicker of exasperation on Nicole’s face that he was having her on. Still, she took the bait and said, ‘Quits?’
‘Sure, any day now is what I hear. Hasn’t Tom told you that he’s taking over?’
Now it was Tom rolling his eyes, as if this was an old joke that had outlived its use-by date.
‘No, I don’t think he mentioned that.’
‘Really?’ Lloyd frowned with puzzlement and concern. ‘Well, he’s told us all about it, hasn’t he, Nic?’
‘Shut up, Lloyd,’ Nicole answered, but Kathy noticed she didn’t actually deny it. Tom was looking uncomfortable.
‘Oh God, yes, all kinds of plans to streamline . . .’
There was an awkward pause while the Indian waiter brought their lagers.
‘No, well,’ Lloyd went on, ‘I’m probably jumping ahead. I’m sure he’ll consult with everybody before he puts the more draconian measures into practice.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘It’s the timing that’s so perfect, Kathy. Cheers.’
‘Shut up, Lloyd,’ Tom growled, ‘for Christ’s sake. You’re not funny.’
‘What do you mean, about the timing?’ Kathy asked.
‘Well, he can’t go back to Branch now, can he? Not now.’
Tom made to say something, but Kathy cut in. ‘Why not?’
‘Hasn’t he told you about that, either?’ Lloyd’s face was a picture of innocent bafflement. He turned to Tom, then to Nicole, one of whom had apparently kicked him under the table. ‘What?’
‘Why?’ Kathy said, trying with difficulty to make her voice sound light and amused. ‘Why can’t he go back to Special Branch?’
Lloyd shrugged, looking as if he suddenly realised he’d gone too far. ‘Personality clash, Kathy. Tom’s boss is an old woman.’ He frowned, realising that wasn’t the right thing to say either. ‘A geriatric desk-jockey at forty. Sad case. Resents like hell the fact that this guy has balls. Well, you’d know all about that . . .’
‘Oh please.’ Nicole finally stepped in. ‘That’s enough. He’s been drinking this afternoon, Kathy. Take no notice of him. I know we all work for the Met, but do we have to talk shop?’
‘Hear hear,’ Tom said. ‘It’s slightly shop, but Kathy and I got a flight with Air Support this afternoon.’
‘Oh really! Where did you go?’
It was a good try, but it would have taken a better actor than either of them to make it so
und convincing. Lloyd gave Kathy a sheepish look and muttered, ‘Yeah, they’re right, take no notice of me. I’m pissed. Had a bad week. Almost killed a guy . . .’
And so the conversation veered off, but Kathy hardly heard it.
Not half a mile away, Brock also was seated at a restaurant table, but in much more relaxed company. The Grants had insisted he join them and the musicians for a meal and now the conversation flowed easily around the table in the mood of post-performance euphoria. They were all so likeable, he thought, modest and talented and full of youthful optimism, talking excitedly about their plans for when they finished at the Guildhall later in the year. Elizabeth had been accepted for the Artist Diploma program at the Juilliard in New York, and her mother was proud but anxious about her move away from them.
At the end of the meal Brock made his good nights and set off home, stopping along the way to phone Suzanne. She sounded pleased to hear from him, and they agreed that it had been good to see each other, and they would do it again soon. They were both careful in what they said, but warm, definitely warm. The atmosphere of the restaurant still clung to Brock and he hummed a snatch of Tango Nuevo as he went on.
The atmosphere of the restaurant clung to Kathy, too, as Tom drove them away. She waited for him to say something, but when he remained silent she started.
‘So what was that all about, you not being able to go back to Branch?’
‘I told you I’d been having problems there lately.’
‘Not really. You haven’t really told me anything about what’s been happening.’
‘Like Lloyd said, it’s a personality clash. It happens all the time.’
‘And what about your plans?’
‘I’m just playing it by ear.’
‘That’s not what Lloyd said. He and Nicole seemed to know all about them.’
This was the nub, of course, that her friend Nicole, who’d never met Tom until she’d introduced them, seemed to know more about what was going on inside his head than she did.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. I bumped into them one lunchtime and was shooting off my mouth about stuff, that’s all.’
Kathy bridled. Tom didn’t shoot his mouth off to strangers. He was secretive and highly selective in what he said. ‘Stuff you haven’t told me.’
‘Look, it’s difficult sometimes to discuss certain things with you. You’re involved, with me, with Brock . . .’
‘Brock? What about him?’
‘You’ve been with him a long time. You’re very loyal to him, understandably so.’
‘And I would see your thoughts as disloyal?’
‘I’m just saying that it’s difficult sometimes to air ideas freely without feeling they may be taken the wrong way.’
‘Whereas with someone who’s practically a total stranger, like Nicole, you can feel free to shoot your mouth off? That’s bullshit.’
She felt the knot tightening in her stomach. What also irked her was the way in which he hadn’t discussed where they were now going, but had simply driven north towards Finchley on the assumption, presumably, that he would be inviting himself in. They were almost there now, and she was just preparing some line to challenge him when he pulled over and said, ‘I’m sorry, Kathy, we got off on the wrong foot tonight. It was Lloyd’s fault. Let’s leave it for now. We’ll catch up tomorrow or Monday and talk about it. Okay?’
Stung, she unfastened her seatbelt and got out of the car, and then, looking back in through the window, she caught a glimpse of him checking his watch impatiently before he waved and took off. She stared after him and thought she saw a familiar shadow draw out behind him as he crossed the junction down the street, but this time she didn’t phone him.
twenty-two
Sunday, a dark overcast morning, and Kathy woke after a disturbed sleep. The knot of tension in her stomach was still there, and she found she couldn’t swallow the coffee she made. There was only one cure she knew of, and that was work, so she took an empty tube train into the city and walked to Queen Anne’s Gate. The offices, too, were deserted and she felt like an intruder in the silent building.
Loose ends, Brock had said. She went back over her case notes and identified a few. They still hadn’t been able to contact the owner of the red BMW sports car she’d seen in Tallow Square, a Mrs Coretta Wilkins with an address in Chigwell, and Kathy tried the phone number again without success. They had no record for Mrs Wilkins, whose car hadn’t been reported stolen, and it seemed that her improbable presence there must be coincidental. Then there was Mrs Lavender, whom Father Maguire and Brock had mentioned from the old days in Cockpit Lane, but hadn’t been on Michael Grant’s list. She could try to track down people who worked at the old Studio One club on Maxfield Street where the three victims used to go, or trace ‘Rhonda’, who had possibly had a boyfriend called Robbie, perhaps the third and most elusive victim. Or she might find out more about Teddy Vexx and Jay Crocker, and their dodgy laundrette.
She worked for five hours with little success, finding nothing that stirred any real interest in her, until the silence began to get her down. She switched off her computer and left, walking across St James’s Park to Trafalgar Square and on past Leicester Square to Gerrard Street where she had a quiet meal in a tiny Chinese restaurant she knew. Afterwards she went to a movie, feeling as if her life were on hold, waiting for something significant to happen.
The following day she was called to a meeting with the Crown prosecutors, and it wasn’t until the early afternoon that she returned to her desk, determined to draw up a report for Brock, along with a request to be taken off Brown Bread. There was one new bit of information waiting for her on her computer, a list of car numbers courtesy of the Greenwich Rainbow Coordinator, taken from the golf club camera in Shooters Hill. Comparing them with her list of numbers of interest was what her old schoolteacher would have called busy-work, but there was a kind of mindless entertainment in it, like playing a poker machine, hoping for a random match. When she had eliminated all the numbers known to belong to Roach family members she had a list of their visitors’ cars for the past six days. Unfortunately this didn’t cover the night of the Singhs’ intimidation, for the camera tape had been reused since then, but in any case, there was no sign of Vexx’s Peugeot or Crocker’s Mondeo on the list. She began to run checks on the unknown numbers and soon came to one that made her sit up—Mrs Wilkins’ red BMW had been a frequent visitor to The Glebe. Kathy checked the times. Not just any visitor, but an overnight visitor no less, on three of the last six nights.
Encouraged, Kathy continued to check numbers. Several were innocent enough—a plumber, a messenger service, guests for Sunday lunch who lived nearby. Then Kathy hit another jackpot, and this time she felt that little dizzying adrenaline shock that people describe as heart-stopping. She checked the number again. It occurred four times, twice coming and twice going, both late at night, after midnight, in the early hours of Sunday and before that on the previous Wednesday. A Subaru, registered to Tom Reeves.
She took a deep breath, then got on the phone to Greenwich, requesting digital copies of the camera images for a number of the times recorded.They said it would take a couple of hours if it was top priority and she told them it was, giving DCI Brock’s name. Kathy waited, heart thumping, then rang down to the front desk to see if Tom had signed in that day and was told that he’d been there since noon. She forced herself to complete her check of the car numbers, then saved the file with a new password and began her report for Brock, no more than a list of key facts, the way he liked it.
The file of requested images finally arrived on her computer and she opened the first, for the early hours of Wednesday morning, when he’d turned up exhausted at her flat. And there he was, no mistake, his face caught behind the windscreen by the streetlight opposite the golf club entrance, and beside him, smiling prettily, Miss J’Adore. Then she checked the most recent image, just the other night, after the concert and their quarrel—same again, with the same dark-haired girl.
In each case there was a second image taken less than an hour after the first, showing the Subaru emerging from the lane leading to The Glebe, the driver now alone in the car. And then she realised who Miss J’Adore was.
Kathy moved on to the other images she’d requested, of Mrs Wilkins’ BMW, and there was the girl again, behind the wheel this time. She should have thought of it, she told herself—wasn’t Coretta a Greek name? Coretta Wilkins was probably an aunt or cousin of Magdalen Roach, Miss J’Adore herself, who’d been borrowing her car.
‘You bastard,’ Kathy whispered, staring again at the image of Tom and Magdalen in his Subaru. ‘You stupid bastard.’ She pressed the key for a print.
She found him in the basement ‘Roach Room’. He was sitting tilted back in his chair, feet up, hands behind his head, contemplating the photos on the wall when she opened the door, and he reacted with a jump, swinging himself upright.
‘Oh, hi, Kathy. How are you?’
She closed the door behind her. ‘A bit clearer now, Tom. Here, I’ve got another picture for your rogues’ gallery.’
He reached for it with a smile. ‘Oh, thank—’ He froze as he took in what it was. ‘Fuck.’
‘Is that what you do with her?’
He stared at her, mouth open.
‘An eloquent answer. I’m going to see Brock. Want to come?’
‘No!’ He leapt to his feet.
‘What, this is all a terrible mistake, this is not what it seems? Don’t insult me, Tom. There are other pictures.’
‘My God. How . . . Who?’
‘Never mind.’ Kathy reached for the print and turned away. ‘I think I’ll see him myself first.’
Tom rushed towards her, and for a moment she thought he was going to grab her, but instead he threw himself between her and the door. ‘Kathy, listen, don’t do anything until you’ve heard what I’ve got to say. Please.’
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