Dark Mirror bak-10

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Doesn’t sound like irony to me,’ Kathy went on remorselessly. ‘It sounds like a frank expression of love. You were lovers, weren’t you?’

  He bowed his head. ‘No. There was a time when I felt we might have been. She seemed to encourage me, when she needed my support to get her scholarship. Then, when it was confirmed, she changed her tune. My dedication in her book was… unwise. I could see that it might be misinterpreted. That’s why I took it from her room, before anyone could draw the wrong conclusions.’

  A frown crossed his face and he seemed to rouse himself, as if a bubble of his old self-esteem had risen to the surface. He looked Kathy in the eye and said, ‘Haven’t you ever fallen foolishly for the wrong person, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kathy replied. ‘But I didn’t have to kill them.’

  After they had gone, Brock said to Kathy, ‘You didn’t mention the stuff left in the kitchen.’

  ‘No, forensics removed it on the day we found her house. I hoped he might let that slip. Only the killer knows about that.’

  ‘But there is a problem, isn’t there? If he murdered Marion and planted that arsenic in her kitchen on the third of April, why did he wait until nearly a week later-after you’d told him that Marion lived at Rosslyn Court-to remove the things from her study?’

  The same thing had been bothering Kathy. ‘It would all depend on the timing,’ she said. ‘It was like Alex said, he couldn’t stage the scene in the kitchen until he was sure that she had taken the poison and that it had worked. Then he couldn’t be sure how much time he would have. He had to move fast, setting up the evidence and leaving straight away. It was only later, when he realised that he was being treated as a potential suspect, that he decided to remove any embarrassing material he could find in her house.’

  ‘Hm.’ Brock scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘So we have a number of fixes on the murderer’s movements: he visited Rosslyn Court prior to the murder, maybe on the Monday, to lace Marion’s juice with arsenic; he was in St James’s Square at lunchtime on the Tuesday to witness her having her lunch and being taken away in an ambulance; and he was in Rosslyn Court again immediately afterwards to stage the scene in the kitchen. If da Silva’s your man, there must surely be a record of him and his little red sports car on a camera somewhere. Find that and we’re in business.’

  But by the end of the day they had found nothing.

  •

  Another takeaway supper, another glass of wine, Kathy sitting brooding on her sofa, facing her own private murder wall. She was conscious of how different the two halves were. The left half, the photos of Marion’s pinboard, which initially had seemed rather chaotic and confusing, now appeared as a well-balanced composition, a tightly knit pattern built around the central figure of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, balanced on each side by the two women, Lizzie Siddal and Jane Morris and brooded over by Madeleine Smith, while the other players in their drama orbited around. By contrast Kathy’s own diagram, on the right, seemed disorganised and unresolved, images floating around an empty centre, without clear connections. She had two victims, Marion and Tina, and she put her pasta aside and rearranged them on the wall so that, like Lizzie and Madeleine, they were balanced to left and right of the centre. But there was no centre. Instead she had three suspects, Keith Rafferty, Nigel Ogilvie and Tony da Silva, rotating around a void.

  She returned to the sofa and ate some more, considering this. The three men were very different from one another, yet were tied together in various ways. They knew each other, and were connected by self-interest, circumstance and assault. Could they all have been involved in the murders of the two women? Or were they merely satellites of some other missing figure in the centre?

  The photo of Marion’s white flowers was pinned over to one side, and Kathy recalled Pip’s comment about their meaning, I shall die tomorrow, and their name, Montpellier cistus, from the south of France. And maybe Corsica. She remembered how defensive Sophie Warrender had been when asked if her husband had returned to London during their stay on the island.

  She felt edgy now, unable to settle, going over her conversation with Sophie Warrender. She had mentioned London City Airport, and how easy it was for her husband to get into his office from there.

  Kathy picked up her phone and got through to the duty officer’s desk at headquarters. In a little while she had a contact name and phone number for security at the Docklands airport, and placed the call. The man sounded bored, happy to have something to do, and she hung on while he got to work on his computer, checking private flights for the period around the weekend before Marion died.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘There were only two private flights between here and Bastia around that time-Friday the thirtieth of March and Sunday the first of April. But no Douglas Warrender on the passenger list.’

  Kathy sagged. ‘Oh well. Maybe he used another name?’

  ‘Doubt it. There was only one passenger each time. But it was a woman. Flew out Friday, returned Sunday. Name of Marion Summers.’

  Kathy blinked. ‘Gotcha,’ she whispered, and took down the details of the charter company and flights. A feeling of excitement grew inside her. Poor old Sophie, she thought.

  She got to her feet and plucked the picture of the white flowers from its place on the edge of the diagram and moved it to the vacant spot in the middle. As she stepped back to consider, the sound of her buzzer jarred into her thoughts.

  ‘Kathy?’ Guy’s voice sounded tinny over the intercom. ‘Are you okay? I was passing and saw your light… Sorry, I should have phoned first. Just wanted to check everything’s all right.’

  ‘Come on up.’

  She met him at the lift and they kissed cheeks.

  ‘Sure I’m not butting in?’

  ‘’Course not.’ Seeing him again, she felt a surge of pleasure. ‘I’m really glad you came.’

  He grinned. ‘Any developments?’

  ‘Not really.’ She took his hand and led him into the flat. ‘Take off your coat. Wine?’

  He saw the half-eaten plate of curry on the sofa and said, ‘Oh, you’re in the middle of eating.’

  ‘Want some? There’s plenty more.’

  ‘Um, well… smells good. I’m starving actually. I was going to suggest…’

  She poured him a glass of wine and went to the microwave.

  ‘Bastia?’

  She turned and saw him looking at her notes beside the phone.

  ‘You planning another trip? Sorry.’ He looked sheepish. ‘None of my business. But you sound happy.’

  ‘Not a trip, no,’ she said, bringing over his plate. ‘Bastia’s where the flowers came from.’ She nodded towards the wall and he turned, puzzled, to look.

  ‘Ah, they’re in the centre now. You think that’s the key? You have a new suspect?’

  ‘I think so. I don’t have his picture, but I know who he is. He’s been hard to find. I don’t know it all yet, but I think I may be getting somewhere at last.’

  ‘Didn’t you need my program to work it out?’

  She laughed. ‘Sorry. I like having it up there on the wall where I can soak it in at odd moments, when I’m thinking of something else, so inspiration can catch me unawares.’

  ‘And it’s caught you now? That’s why you’re happy?’

  ‘It makes you feel good, when something slots into place, doesn’t it? And then you kick yourself because it was staring you in the face all along and it seems so obvious.’

  ‘So this guy doesn’t know you’re onto him?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve got some more homework to do first, then he’ll find out.’

  Guy raised his glass. ‘Well done. I’m really glad for you, Kathy.’ But he looked subdued.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘I go tomorrow. They just told me this evening. That’s why I came round. I didn’t expect you to be here, but I came anyway.’

  ‘Ah. Did they say how long you’ll be away?’

  ‘A year, maybe two. I’ll have regular
trips back home, of course.’ He sounded sad.

  ‘Well, we’d better make the most of it while you’re here, hadn’t we?’ twenty-four

  T he office was quiet the next day, Saturday. Kathy imagined Bren looking after his sick little girls, Brock visiting Suzanne down in Sussex, Pip recovering from a night out. She made herself a coffee, feeling simultaneously elated and bereft. She’d said goodbye to Guy at seven that morning, wanting to spend the day with him, but they both had things to do, and he’d said he didn’t want her to see him off at the airport.

  She called a contact at Interpol and asked for information on Marion Summers on Corsica on the weekend before she died, then began searching the police databases for information on Douglas Warrender. There was a concise biography in the current Who’s Who, with his present post listed as Managing Director of Mallory Capital, education at Oxford (BA Hons PPE 1969) and Harvard (MBA 1972), and current address at Mallory Capital, St James’s Square, London SW1.

  Towards midday she got word from Interpol that Marion had been registered for two nights in a small hotel, Les Voyagers, in the centre of Bastia.

  Kathy was suddenly ravenous, hungrier than she’d felt for ages, and was thinking about lunch when her mobile phone rang. Hoping that it was Guy, she answered eagerly. ‘Hello?’

  The person at the other end paused, then spoke in a soft voice that she didn’t recognise. ‘Detective Inspector Kolla?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Douglas Warrender. I believe we should meet.’

  Kathy stiffened in her chair. ‘Concerning what?’

  The man gave a little grunt of amusement, then said, ‘My wife tells me that you were asking about my relationship with Marion Summers. She-my wife-gave me your number.’

  ‘I can set up an appointment for you to come in and make a statement, Mr Warrender.’

  ‘No, not that. I’d rather meet you off the record, an informal chat, to explain a few things.’ The words were mildly stressed, but Kathy picked up the tone of command in the voice. ‘I think it might save you a lot of time and effort,’ he added.

  ‘Where did you have in mind?’

  ‘I’m presently sitting on a bench in St James’s Park, just a short walk from your office. It’s a pleasant morning, quite warm. You might like to join me. Say in ten minutes?’

  Kathy rang off, wondering how he knew she was at work that morning, or how he expected them to recognise each other. But he did, rising to his feet at the same moment that she recognised the face she’d found on the internet. It didn’t really do him justice, she realised, as she walked across the grass towards the bench beneath a spreading plane tree; the image on the web had been rather bland, but in life he seemed forceful and intelligent, regarding her with shrewd, calculating eyes. Kathy wondered if Marion had seen some echo of Rossetti in him.

  He held out his hand, and they sat.

  ‘You have a recorder?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s up to you, but I shall speak more freely if this conversation is not recorded.’ He seemed quite open, rather relaxed.

  Kathy held his eyes for a moment, then nodded and took the machine out of her pocket and laid it on the seat between them. He reached forward and switched it off.

  ‘Thank you. You’re interested to know if Marion had a lover, I understand. She did. It was me.’ He paused. ‘You’re not surprised, I see.’

  Kathy said nothing, and he went on.

  ‘We first became interested in each other last October. It was a stormy day, I remember, a Saturday, the wind lashing the trees. She had come to our house for a work session with my wife, and Sophie was late getting home from whatever she was doing. Marion and I had a coffee and began to talk, and very quickly we both realised that we found something compelling in each other. I rang her the next day and asked if she’d have lunch with me, and that was how it began.’

  Kathy watched him, trying to imagine herself as Marion, becoming interested. She noticed the fleshy cheeks, the wings of grey hair behind the ears, groomed to look casually unselfconscious. Maybe it was unfair, comparing him to Guy, but he wasn’t her idea of compelling . But he must have represented something that Marion wanted-or had it only been about money?

  ‘We became lovers. But it was grubby, inconvenient. Brief meetings in hotel rooms soon lose their charm, and her student friends interrogated her when she went back to her flat. Also there was a problem with her tutor and her stepfather, both pestering her. So I bought her somewhere more agreeable, a refuge, where we could be ourselves, together. You’ve been there, I understand, with Sophie.’

  The raised eyebrow was almost teasing, Kathy thought, with the implication, You took my wife to see my mistress’s love-nest.

  ‘It cost you three-quarters of a million,’ Kathy said.

  ‘Mm? Yes. So?’

  ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  He looked amused. ‘Well, I was very attached to her. But… do they give you a Christmas bonus, Inspector? No? Well, that represented less than half of mine last year. A small price to pay for a true passion, a meeting of souls.’

  ‘Aren’t you bothered that her mother and stepfather will get it now, your Christmas bonus?’

  He looked more serious suddenly. ‘Marion signed a document, making it over to me in the event of her death. It was her idea. She didn’t like the thought of the Raffertys getting their hands on it any more than I did. Of course we didn’t imagine it would ever have to be invoked. The money was nothing. She meant much more to me than that, Kathy. Let’s be frank.’

  Kathy flinched at his use of her first name, and she saw him register this. ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s it, really. She moved into Rosslyn Court in January, and I visited her there whenever I could. It was a wonderful haven for me, away from the pressures of work and the strains at home.’

  ‘What about Sophie?’

  ‘Ah…’ He spread his hands, his face taking on a look of philosophical detachment. ‘Sophie is a marvellous woman, terrific author, very focused on her work and at the same time a great mother-but she doesn’t really need me, not any more. Nor I her.’

  ‘Did she know about Marion?’

  ‘I believe she did wonder if there might be someone else. But she never brought it up, and I felt that she had simply decided to close her mind to that possibility. I’m certain she didn’t think it was Marion. I suspected that the month in Corsica was a kind of test. She was insistent on it, and I felt I was under observation, to see how I’d react.’

  ‘And how did you react?’

  ‘By the book. On the surface we were a perfect couple, making friends with other holidaying couples at the local restaurants, entertaining neighbours around the pool. But I was in touch with London, and missed Marion dreadfully. When she told me she’d lost her baby, I was devastated. She was distraught. I felt so helpless…’

  He frowned, as if this was an unfamiliar and disturbing sensation.

  ‘I did fly back to London to see her for just one day-there was a board meeting I told Sophie I had to attend. Marion was very low, and I arranged for her to see a doctor friend. Then later I flew her out to Bastia. It was the weekend before she died. She seemed in better spirits. I spent as much time with her as I could. We drove into the hills and she picked the wild flowers. It was the last time I saw her.’

  For a moment Kathy caught a vivid glimpse of Marion, in despair, giving herself up to the arrangements this strong man was making for her.

  ‘What about the baby?’ Kathy asked. ‘Were you planning to leave Sophie and start a new family?’

  ‘Yes.’ He said it decisively, but there had been a small initial hesitation.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Well, that may rather depend on you, Inspector. My first reaction, when I heard the terrible news, was to tell everyone the truth about us. I was in shock-I suppose I still am. I wanted to declare to the world that this was the woman I loved. But as time has passed I have come to appreciate ho
w much other people would be hurt by that truth. And Marion is dead, so what would be the point? I was intimately involved with Marion Summers, but I had absolutely nothing to do with her death. I want to convince you of that. I have been completely frank with you, told you things that my wife does not know. I am in your power. You can tell Sophie, or not. Please think carefully before you decide.’

  ‘Hm.’ Kathy looked down at a squirrel loping across the grass, its tail tracing graceful loops through the air. She kicked her shoe against the ground, nagged by the feeling that she had missed something-maybe some words or intonations that had seemed out of place-but she had been concentrating so hard on catching every nuance that she’d barely had time to register them before she’d had to move on. She wished now that she had insisted on recording him. She shrugged off the thought and said, ‘Tell me about Keith Rafferty.’

  •

  Brock was not spending his Saturday morning with Suzanne in Battle, though he was thinking about her. It was his first day without a call from the office in weeks, and he was feeling restless and at a loose end. He had gone to the Bishop’s Mitre in the High Street near his home for a pint and a pie lunch while he read the paper, but the news was depressing and he was troubled by the way he’d left things unresolved with Suzanne. He should have been more, well, balanced about her sudden determination to dig into her own past. The fact was, if he cared to admit it, he had been jealous of Dougie Warrender, and Suzanne’s barely disguised eagerness to meet up again with her first big crush. He had even gone so far as to get a profile of the man from an expert in corporate affairs in the Fraud Squad. A formidable operator, was the word, and very wealthy. ‘He had some disagreement with his father when he was at Oxford,’ he’d been told, ‘and the old man cut off his allowance for a while, so he paid his way by playing poker with the rich kids. Disarmingly straightforward, when you meet him, but don’t let that fool you. Many have, to their regret.’

  He turned away from the chatter of conversation at the bar and took out his phone. Suzanne’s answering machine came on, and he left a message.

  •

  ‘A scoundrel, well, you must know that.’ He seemed amused by her question.