‘Oh…’ Sheena collapsed again onto her chair, horror on her face.
‘But,’ Kathy went on, ‘and this is the reason for my coming to speak to you, that may depend on the results of our investigation into Marion’s death.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you see, this man is naturally a person of interest to us, having been so much involved in Marion’s recent life. And if it should turn out that he was responsible for her death, well, the courts might decide to set aside that document, as amounting to the profits of a crime.’
There was silence for a moment. Then Keith said softly, ‘But is that likely? Do you suspect this man?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say, Mr Rafferty. The case is still wide open at this stage, and we’re sifting through a great deal of evidence. I just thought I should alert Mrs Rafferty to the fact that if we were to lay charges against him at some point in the future, then she should consider seeking legal advice. Three-quarters of a million pounds is a great deal of money.’
‘Aye,’ Sheena said dazedly. ‘It sure as hell is that.’ twenty-seven
B rock dropped the report into his out-tray and sat back with a sigh, rubbing both hands across his face. It was all very well giving advice and direction to Kathy and the others, but he had learned to doubt such advice when it came from senior figures who hadn’t actually touched the evidence for themselves, hadn’t heard the subtle doubt in the witness’s voice, had forgotten how contradictory and confusing the options were. Alex Nicholson’s suggestion that they might be investigating a double suicide had already occurred to him. Tina’s death seemed like a mirror image of Marion’s, following Marion’s example, perhaps even fulfilling a pact of some kind between them. Kathy had known Tina, and Brock had sensed her sympathy for the student and her scepticism of Alex’s idea, just as she had resisted from the start the possibility of Marion’s suicide. He suspected that Kathy identified with Marion’s struggle, and with Tina’s, too closely for that.
But what did he know, stuck behind his bloody desk reading other people’s reports? And then there was that disconcerting thing, the sudden appearance of Douglas Warrender on the scene, immediately after Brock had reassured Suzanne that he wasn’t involved. Had Suzanne heard something? He wanted to talk it over with her, but that would only complicate things further, and probably put her in a compromising position.
He heaved himself out of his chair and reached for his overcoat. ‘I’m going up to the British Library to see how they’re getting on,’ he said to Dot as he strode through her office.
‘The new HR Deputy Liaison Officer is coming to see you in an hour, don’t forget.’
‘Put him off. Urgent business.’
Just getting out of the office lifted his spirits. When he reached the forecourt of the library he paused and took it in once again, peaceful now, the police tapes gone, tourists mingling with students and researchers, people cheerfully drinking coffee in The Last Word cafe. He went across to the library entrance beneath the lowering roof planes, catching a glimpse of the towers and finials of St Pancras station next door. At the enquiries counter inside he showed his ID and was directed to an office in the administrative area nearby. There he found Pip Gallagher bent over a pile of books. She jumped up when he greeted her, looking guilty, like a school student caught falling asleep over her homework.
‘They’ve given me this table and they’re bringing me the books that Tina asked for in the past couple of weeks, Chief. I’m trying to make notes for Kathy.’ She gestured at a clipboard on which she had laboriously written comments beneath the titles of each volume.
‘Big job,’ Brock said.
‘Yeah.’ Pip sighed. ‘I’m not sure if I’m doing it right. Kathy wants to establish some kind of logical trail that Tina followed, leading up to the diary that undermines da Silva’s work. I’ve got the borrowing or request records for both Marion and Tina at all the libraries we know they went to-that’s the British Library here, the London Library where Marion collapsed, the National Archives at Kew, the Family Records Centre in Finsbury, and the University of London Senate House Library.’
She spread the printouts over the table, and Brock immediately understood why she was looking so glum.
‘Lot of books,’ he murmured.
‘Yes. I’ve started with Tina’s lists, putting them in date order, and starting at the beginning.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘I wondered if she might have left any notes in the books, or written anything in the margins. No luck so far. Basically I’m trying to write a short description of each book, so Kathy can get an idea of what they’re about.’
‘And you started here because…?’
‘Well, Tina was attacked here, and also she spent most time here recently. She wasn’t a member of the London Library like Marion, so she has no borrowing record there, although they do remember her visiting a couple of times and having a look around. She did leave a record at the other places, but I haven’t got to them yet.’
Brock realised the size of the task Pip had taken on. It would take her weeks. ‘Hm.’ He scratched the side of his beard, looking at the lists. ‘Most of the titles look like books about Victorian history and art, don’t they? Are they all like that?’
‘Some are about poisons and criminal cases.’ She pointed at one, The Cult of the Poisoner, and another, The Arsenic Conspiracy. ‘And there are some that you can’t really tell.’ She indicated After Midnight and The Brinjal Pickle Factory, which were among the later entries on Tina’s list. ‘They could be about anything; you wouldn’t know from the titles. There’s a few like that. Why The Brinjal Pickle Factory? God knows what that’s doing here.’
Brock was intrigued. ‘Okay. Well, I might have a look at the lists while you carry on checking the books.’
Pip looked apprehensive, clearly wondering what the chief was up to, as he took off his coat and jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
He began by looking for items that cropped up most frequently, books that Marion and Tina had kept returning to. They seemed predictable enough: volumes of poetry, diaries and letters relating to the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Then he tried to relate borrowings to what they knew of the key events in Marion’s life-when she moved out of Stamford Street, when she lost the baby, and immediately before she died. It seemed that Marion had first discovered the Haverlock diary, hidden in the Havelock archive, the previous September, after which she made regular requests to see it.
At the same time she’d been checking other volumes from the Havelock archive, including the two memoirs that Pip had mentioned, After Midnight and The Brinjal Pickle Factory, both written by a Robert Harding. Marion had also searched for items from the archive at other libraries, presumably to see if there could be other copies of the Haverlock diary in existence. Her requests for ‘Haverlock’ were apparently unsuccessful, but it seemed that she had found the Harding books at both the National Archives in Kew and the London Library, and had requested them at both places. Brock wondered why. Tina must have noticed these requests, he thought, because they had been among the latest items she had been investigating. In fact, The Brinjal Pickle Factory was the last book that she had requested from the British Library, on the morning of her death.
‘Have you had a look at this Brinjal Pickle Factory book?’ Brock asked Pip.
‘Yeah, it’s like a cookbook, Chief.’ She poked around in the pile of volumes in front of her and handed him a slim hardback. Its dark green covers were faded, its pages yellowed, and when he opened it he caught the musty smell of old, unread pages. It wasn’t just a cookbook, he discovered, more a memoir by a former colonial administrator of his early years in India before the war. Skimming it, he could find no references to arsenic or the Pre-Raphaelites that might have provided some clue as to why it was on the lists.
‘How about After Midnight then?’
It turned out to be much the same. Its subtitle was A Memoir of Bengal, 1947-71.
; Brock scanned the index at the back of After Midnight, a catalogue of the great names of the early years of independent India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, from Mountbatten and Jinnah to Sheikh Mujib. There was no mention of Haverlock or Rossetti, but his eye did pick out Warrender, R. 82.
He turned to page eighty-two and found the reference: Among our staff in Calcutta at that time was Roger Warrender, later Sir Roger, newly arrived in early 1948 with his attractive young English bride, Joan. Roger had had a great war, by all accounts, serving with Wingate and the Chindits in Burma with distinction in 1943, and later in the counter-offensive against the Japanese invasion of India in 1944. He had enormous panache and energy, and the turbulent conditions in Bengal at the time of Independence soon called upon all his courage and stamina, not least when Joan fell pregnant with their first-born, Douglas, under trying conditions. They became among our longest-serving staff, both playing significant roles in our evolving relations with the ruling groups in East and West Bengal. They departed finally in 1963, to London briefly, before moving on to New York, where Roger took up a senior position with UNICEF.
‘Found something, sir?’ Pip said.
‘Call me Brock, Pip, for goodness’ sake.’ He showed her the page. ‘Looks like Marion was doing a bit of homework.’ He took the book and the lists of borrowings over to a nearby photocopier and worked for a while, then returned them to Pip’s table.
‘I’ll let you get on,’ he said, and strolled off, humming to himself, leaving Pip with a puzzled frown on her face.
•
Kathy looked flustered, negotiating with her Action Manager and someone from head office over a file of time sheets. From the doorway Brock could see that it wasn’t going well. He called over, ‘Kathy, can you spare a moment?’ She looked relieved, and left the others to it.
‘I just paid a visit to Pip at the British Library,’ Brock said.
‘Oh?’ She looked surprised. ‘Any luck?’
‘She’s plodding on. But maybe you can tell me something about this
…’ He spread out the photocopies he’d made. ‘These two books are in the Havelock archive, along with the Haverlock diary, and Marion also requested them at Kew and the London Library.’ He’d highlighted the entries with a coloured marker. ‘They’re about India. But when I looked in the index of one of them, After Midnight, I found a reference to the Warrenders. Here.’ He handed Kathy the copied page which she read.
‘Reading up about her boyfriend’s family history,’ she suggested.
‘Yes, only she discovered this book last September, see? And Douglas Warrender told you he didn’t meet Marion until October, didn’t he?’
‘But she was working for Sophie Warrender, so the name would still have been of interest to her.’
‘Mm, yes. Why look for the same book in three different libraries, though?’
Kathy said, ‘I didn’t realise that Douglas’s father was with UNICEF in New York. I wonder if he was involved with the well-drilling program in Bengal, where he’d been working all those years. Dr da Silva’s friend, Colin Ringland, told me about it. It’s his area of research. It’s funny, isn’t it, how they all seem to be interconnected.’
Brock thought. ‘Perhaps we need to shake them up a bit, open up some of these connections.’
‘Yes, I agree.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
He watched her go back to her desk and thought, She’s up to something. He knew her well enough after all this time.
•
Kathy didn’t have much longer to wait. As she sat down with a fresh cup of coffee her mobile phone rang, the number she’d given Sheena Rafferty. It was Keith, sounding all the more shifty for trying to appear guileless.
‘Yeah, erm, look… I was thinking about what you were saying to Sheena the other night, and it made me put two and two together, like.’
‘And what did you come up with?’
‘Eh? Well, some things began to make sense. You were talking about Warrender, right?’
‘Was I?’
‘Well, I know he was Marion’s squeeze. I think I may be able to help you with your inquiries.’
‘That’s very public spirited of you, Mr Rafferty. You’d better come in and see us.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Mr Warrender has got friends all over the place. I just want a little chat, somewhere neutral. You know the Swan in Lambeth?’
‘Okay, but I’ll have a colleague with me.’
‘No, don’t do that. Just you and me, okay? Make it five, tonight.’
•
The pub was dimly lit and almost deserted, the air sour with stale beer. The publican didn’t look up as she came in, both he and a customer at the bar engrossed in their newspapers. She spotted Rafferty sitting at a small table in a far dark corner with a pint of bitter in front of him and, to her surprise, Nigel Ogilvie at his side, sipping anxiously at a Bloody Mary. Kathy went over to the pair.
‘Wanna drink?’ Rafferty said nonchalantly.
‘Not from you I don’t,’ Kathy replied. She sat on a stool facing them and took a tape recorder out of her coat pocket.
Rafferty waggled a finger at it, frowning as if at her bad manners. ‘This is for your ears only, darling. I don’t want my words floating around CID and God knows where else.’
Kathy placed it on the table but didn’t switch it on. ‘All right. What’s the story?’ She looked pointedly at Ogilvie, who flinched and busied himself with a cocktail stirrer in his glass. The left side of his face was still puffy and discoloured from the incident in the library and he seemed to have lost weight inside his raincoat, which was buckled up as if for a rapid exit.
‘After I saw you,’ Rafferty said, ‘I got to thinking about one or two things.’ He leaned forward to interpose himself between Kathy and Ogilvie, who shrank further into his coat. ‘About arsenic, for instance.’
‘What about it?’
‘A month ago I was in my local and got chatting to this bloke. He bought me a drink and asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a driver for a fireworks company, and eventually, when we’d had a few, he asked if I could get hold of fireworks cheap for some friends of his. He said they built their own rockets, for a hobby. He mentioned the sort of stuff they’d be interested in-black powder mainly, but other chemicals too. He mentioned arsenic.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘No, not really. I thought he might be a cop, trying to set me up. They do that you know.’ Rafferty smirked. ‘He had that look about him. But you never know.’ He reached for his pint, gulped, smacked his lips.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I said I could find out, but I’d need some money up front, my search fee. I asked for a fifty and settled for a pony. He said there was a deadline-some competition they were going in for-and we agreed to meet the next night at the pub. I thought about it and decided not to get involved. The next evening I parked the van outside the pub and took a couple of pictures of him when he arrived. Insurance, in case he got difficult; I thought I could ask around about him.’
Rafferty opened his wallet and took out two photographs. The first showed a man illuminated from a streetlight overhead, his features mostly in shadow, the second in profile in the pub doorway, both blurry. Kathy didn’t recognise him.
‘Anyway, when I told him I couldn’t help him, he didn’t make a fuss.’
‘So when was this, exactly?’
‘Four weeks ago? About that.’
Two weeks before Marion died. By then she and Douglas Warrender knew about the baby.
‘Did you find out who he was?’
‘Didn’t try. Said his name was Benny, that’s all I know.’
‘You met a man in a pub who maybe wanted to buy arsenic? Is that it?’
‘Hang on. After you called round the other night, I thought about it again. Who was this bloke? Who were his friends? And I also thought about that other thing I was supposed to have don
e, beating up old Nigel here. So I went to see him.’ He clapped an arm around the unhappy Ogilvie. ‘Go on, Nigel, tell the inspector.’
‘Well…’ Ogilvie briefly met Kathy’s eyes, then took a keen interest in his cocktail stirrer again. ‘What I told you about the attack on me in the London Library, it wasn’t the whole truth. I mean, I didn’t know who the man was, but I did know why he was there. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid. He warned me, you see, in no uncertain terms, to tell no one. He even said that he’d hurt Mother. But I wanted to tell you, and when Keith came to see me… well, it wasn’t just my word against a total stranger anymore.
‘You see, when Marion collapsed, in the confusion, I picked up a computer memory stick I noticed lying on the floor, meaning to hand it in. Only I forgot about it till later, and then I thought I should open it, just to see whose it was, so that I could return it to them. I soon realised that it had belonged to Marion, and that it contained private correspondence with a lover. I’m afraid-I didn’t mean to, you understand-I read enough to get his name, “Dougie”, or Douglas Warrender, and the fact that he lived in the Notting Hill area and had an office very close to the library.’
Kathy listened without comment to this tale, probably larded with half-truths and omissions to make it flow, and imagined how greedily Ogilvie would have pored over every detail of Marion’s correspondence.
‘So I contacted him direct, in order to return it to him.’
‘For a price.’
‘Certainly not!’ Ogilvie puffed up in outrage. ‘Although I did feel that his reaction was one of suspicion, rather than simple gratitude. In fact I became quite wary, and insisted that he come to the library to pick it up, where I felt safe. I told him to come to the front counter at midday, where I would meet him. However, at a quarter to, when I was still in the book stacks, I was approached by a man I’d never seen before, who said he’d been sent by Mr Warrender. But far from offering me thanks, this man was threatening and abusive, and when I objected he became actually violent. He hit me several times and threw me down the stairs, before he left with the memory stick.’
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