Before her over-vivid imagination could drive her right out of her wits, the cab turned into the Vauxhall Bridge Road and drew up outside the tax office.
‘Here you are, love,’ said the cabbie, as Willow leaned against the seat, waiting until she had got her breath back.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ the driver said as she handed over her fare. ‘In that fire?’
‘Yes, it was.’ Willow sighed as she realised that the cabbie was a celebrity spotter rather than a murderer’s sidekick. Feeling a complete idiot, she tipped him and turned away.
A surprising amount of the building had survived. There was no glass in the windows of the top three storeys, and ugly black marks defaced the brickwork above them all, but otherwise, from the road, the walls looked solid enough. She could not see the roof, which must have been below the ornamental parapet, but she assumed that much of it had collapsed.
From where she was standing, none of the hand- or footholds that she had relied on as she climbed down the huge wall looked large enough to have supported her. It seemed astonishing that she had not fallen and smashed her skull open on the pavement Sanity-saving fury surged through her. If the fire really had been caused deliberately, she wanted the arsonist behind bars for a long time, whoever he—or she—might be.
What had been simply a calm investigation of the goings-on of a group of possibly over-zealous tax inspectors had been transformed into something urgent and personal. Willow knew nothing whatever about arson, but she had tracked down murderers before; and she could do it again.
‘Please keep back, miss,’ said a young policeman in uniform as she reached the steps. ‘You can’t come in here.’
She unclenched her teeth, held out her hands in their gauze bandages and smiled. ‘It was me who climbed out. You must have seen it in the papers.’
‘That’s as maybe, but I can’t let you in. If you left any property and it’s survived the fire it will be returned to you in due course when the experts have finished,’ said the constable looking over her head as though he was afraid the anger in her face might infect him.
‘It’s not that,’ she said humbly. ‘I had no property except notes and I suspect they all went up in flames. I just wanted to know how badly the building’s been damaged.’
‘Couldn’t say, miss.’
‘But there are people in there, aren’t there? I can hear them. Couldn’t I talk to some of them?’
‘My instructions are that no one’s to go in. It’s not safe.’ The constable was still making certain that he could not catch her eye. ‘I must ask you to move on.’
‘Very well,’ she said, resigned.
It was not his fault after all that he had been put on the steps to keep out all comers, but it was a pity that he had not let her talk to whoever was assessing the evidence inside. Somehow she would just have to persuade Blackled to pass on anything he learned.
Having hailed another taxi, she gave the address of the temporary tax office. The route took the cab almost past the door of Dowting’s and for a moment even her determination to track down the arsonist was overtaken by anxiety for Tom.
He had still been unconscious when she had been to see him the previous afternoon, but she thought she had detected a slight improvement in the colour of his skin. Her eyes closed and she whispered his name over and over again until the taxi stopped outside the half-renovated office block.
‘I could never stand that yoga stuff,’ said the cabbie as she handed over three pound coins.
‘Sorry?’
‘You know, all that “om, om” chanting you were doing. The wife did it for an evening course once and tried to make me have a go. Thought I’d look a right charlie standing on me head, chanting “om, om, om”. Does you good though, does it?’
‘Sometimes. Thanks,’ she said, taking her change and giving him a fifty-pence tip, which was really far too much for the two-pound-twenty fare. But the moment of amusement he had given her was worth at least that.
She remembered seeing a note on the desk of one of the tax officers that taxi drivers should be assessed as earning twelve-and-a-half per cent of their fares in tips, and thought of all the times she had handed over a bare ten per cent. The affronted expressions of the drivers had often annoyed her, but knowing that they might have been taxed on some much greater notional sum, she felt she ought to make some kind of reparation.
‘Thanks, love. And don’t mind me: you keep on with the “om, om”. Did the wife good, or so she says. And I must say, it did make her quite supple, know what I mean?’ He leered at her theatrically.
‘Thanks,’ said Willow again, still more amused.
Kate Moughette was sitting at her desk, staring at a piece of paper in front of her, when Willow looked into her office a few minutes later. She looked desperately worried. When Willow greeted her, Kate seemed to gather herself together and managed to produce a smile of a sort, even though her eyes did not change at all.
‘Thank goodness you’re all right,’ she said with unusual slowness. ‘Is it agony? Your hands, I mean.’
‘They’re not exactly pleasant, but not torture either. May I come in?’
‘Yes, of course. D’you want some coffee?’
‘That would be nice, if you’ve got time,’ said Willow, not wanting to waste Kate’s unusually co-operative mood. ‘Although, come to think of it, if it’s another of those machines, I’d rather have tea.’
‘It’s not,’ said Kate, still talking slowly. Willow thought that she looked awful, ill and tired, almost as though she had not slept since the fire.
‘There hasn’t been time to get one. We’ve rigged up one of those dripping machines—you know, a filter thing.’ She got up and left the office, to return a moment later with two cups of coffee.
Willow noticed that there was a long smear of greasy dust along the back of her jacket. It looked as though, unaccustomed to the dust pockets of her new office, she had leaned against one and spoiled the pearl-pink linen in a way she would never have done in the familiar surroundings of the old building.
‘There,’ she said, handing a cup to Willow. ‘You do have milk, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes. Kate, are you all right?’
‘Perfectly,’ she said more crisply and then shrugged, adding, ‘At least as much as anyone could be, knowing that Len’s dead—and that most of the work we’ve all been doing for the past year and a bit has gone, though that’s less important, of course.’
‘Didn’t they rescue any of the files?’ asked Willow, frowning. ‘They must have done. The building didn’t look as though it had been that badly burned.’
‘They salvaged some—quite a lot of the stuff in the presses actually. And a team of paper conservators are working on some of the rest now,’ She looked at Willow, who, still not quite accustomed to the way her glasses made her see, thought that there was both anger and despair in Kate’s small dark eyes. ‘But a hell of a lot’s gone. The investigation files that had been got out for you have been almost completely destroyed.’
‘What do you mean, destroyed? The data must all be on computer somewhere. Don’t you have some kind of off-site back-up?’
‘We’re not fully computerised yet.’ Kate sounded exhausted. ‘Didn’t you know that? A lot of our stuff’s still only on paper. The staff are reconstructing what they can, and we’ve been… The Collector’s office is sending all the information they’ve got, but there are still going to be some hideous gaps. We’re going to have to write to all our taxpayers to get copies of this year’s tax returns all over again, and—’
‘But we’re only in July, months from the October deadline. Surely no one’s sent a return back yet?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Kate, frowning, ‘how many people actually read the instructions on the form to return it within thirty days. We’d had lots in, but now we’ve no record of how many. We’ll just have to write to everyone and we’re working on the letter now. It’s a nightmare. And all the investigative
work…’ Her voice died.
‘I suppose you’ll just have to dump some cases,’ said Willow, thinking about her report.
Kate shrugged. ‘We can’t do that. Not possibly. But reconstructing the information we’d already got is going to be difficult, and in some cases, you see, we’d made them handover all their papers to us, so they won’t be able to help even if they wanted to.’ She frowned again and shook her head as though to free her mind of everything in it.
‘But you don’t need to listen to all this. There’s not really much more for you to do here, is there? You’d read the Fydgett files before they were burned, and you’ve talked to everyone who dealt with her. I assume you’ll just write up your report and go.’ Kate’s voice suggested that Willow’s departure would be the only encouraging event in a disastrous week.
‘That sort of thing,’ said Willow, determined to preserve her entrée into the tax office and wishing she had insisted on seeing the missing Fydgett papers before the fire. ‘But there are still plenty of investigation files I hadn’t had time to read, which are presumably still in the presses and must be all right. I’ve seen none of Jason’s, for instance.’
‘Well, they’re hardly relevant. He’d done no work on Fydgett’s affairs for years. My predecessor made him hand the file over to Len as soon as she disputed the assessment of profits on her picture dealing. She claimed that they were Capital Gains while Jason’s view was that they were part of her business and should be taxed as income. But that aspect of her affairs was sorted out long ago. Nothing he may have done then can possibly matter now.’
That’s what you think, matey, said Willow to herself, feeling tougher. She was about to ask for more details of why Len had asked Fiona Fydgett for details of all her recent picture sales when there was a knock on the door and Cara Saks looked round it.
‘Yes, what is it?’ asked Kate, sounding brisk again.
Cara flinched. ‘You asked me to find out what’s happening about Len and the funeral and everything…’ She paused.
Willow wondered how often Cara was asked to take on tasks that ought to have been carried out by a secretary, and why she agreed to do it.
‘Well?’ Kate’s voice was sharp once more.
‘Apparently the police can’t release, you know, it—the body—until they’ve solved all sorts of problems, and Mrs Scoffer doesn’t want to wait, and so she’s having a sort of service at their local church on Thursday afternoon. She’s invited us all to tea at her house afterwards. Are we going?’
‘Yes: to the service at least. Anyone who worked closely with Len, and anyone else who wants to go. Tell them all, will you, Cara?’
‘Which church, and what time?’ asked Willow. ‘I’d like to go.’
‘You?’ said Kate, astonished. ‘You loathed him.’
‘I hardly knew him, but I feel responsible for his death.’
Both the others gaped at her.
‘If I’d thought…I mean, I ought to have found out if there was anyone else in the building before just getting out like that. If I’d been more aware of what was happening, I’d have realised he…’
‘I don’t think you should blame yourself.’ Kate shook her head again and pushed her fingers through her usually glossy dark hair, tangling it. ‘I had no idea he was there either, or I’d have chased him out long before. I can’t think what on earth he was doing in the office so late. It’s one of the things that’s been bothering me so much. Why?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Willow, reminded of her own interests. ‘Look, I oughtn’t to be holding you up like this. I’ll get out of your way. Where’s my office?’
‘I’m afraid we haven’t got any room for you at all,’ said Kate quickly. ‘We’re horribly pushed for space here. Must you be in the same building as us to write up your report? Surely not.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Willow, realising that she was not going to get anywhere by antagonising Kate, pulled forward a piece of rough paper from the pile on the desk and scribbled a row of numbers on it. ‘I’ll do what I can at home and then arrange to come back at a time that suits you. Here’s my number in case you need me.
I’ve put the fax number as well. I’ll ring you when I need to talk. Okay? Goodbye.’
Kate merely nodded and Cara said nothing. As Willow left them, she caught sight of Jason, leaning back in a chair and gazing up at the ceiling with an extraordinarily, satisfied expression on his face. She stopped beside his desk, wondering whether it was only her antipathy that made her think it might have been he who had torched the building. Regretfully she decided that it was. No one who had just caused so much damage, let alone killed a colleague, would be fool enough to look so obviously pleased with himself. On the other hand, he was quite clever enough to know that, and undoubtedly subtle enough to try a double-bluff if he thought he could get away with it.
‘Morning, Willow,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘That was an impressive piece of PR, wasn’t it? On the front pages of most of the broadsheets and all of the tabloids. Who’d have thought a bestselling novelist could possibly be concealed behind the serious “Miss King” we’d all learned to know and… What a tasty story!’ He laughed and waited for a comment, but Willow was still enough in control of herself to avoid giving him any satisfaction. She waited to see what he would do next, although she was not sanguine enough to believe he would betray himself.
‘It’s lucky for you that Len died, isn’t it?’ said Jason, trying a bit too hard to get a rise out of her. ‘The story wouldn’t have run on beyond the first day if it hadn’t been for his barbecued corpse.’
‘It must take a peculiar set of values to find humour in a death like his,’ said Willow, hoping to see him squirm. She was disappointed. He looked at her as blankly as though they were playing poker. ‘I gather that you used to handle Fiona Fydgett’s case until the picture-dealing conflict came up. I’d like to talk to you about it and her.’
He looked surprised, but before he could say anything there was a shout from the far end of the building.
‘Jason! I need you.’
Both he and Willow looked round to see Kate beckoning.
‘Hurry up.’
He looked at Willow, smiled provocatively, and said: ‘When the boss lady calls, all must obey. I’m going to be all tied up for the rest of today and tomorrow; then there’s Len’s service, but I could see you the day after that, if you like.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Willow, unable to believe he could be that busy, but determined not to join in his games by arguing with him. She had plenty of other people to see and things to do. He could wait. And the more background information she had before she questioned him seriously, the more effective she was likely to be.
Leaving the building, she decided to visit Tom while she was on the right side of the river. When she got to his room, she saw a nurse by his bed, changing the bag attached to his catheter. The nurse looked up and smiled before hooking the bag on to its frame at the side of his bed.
‘I’ll leave you to it. He’s doing all right, you know.’
‘Thank you,’ said Willow.
When she was alone with Tom, she leaned forward until her forehead was lying on his arm. At the touch of his skin on hers all the old mess of feelings swirled around in her: all the love, longing, anxiety, anger and resentment.
The resentment made her so ashamed that she tried to persuade herself that it did not exist.
After a while she sat up, remembering something Tom had said to her one wet afternoon soon after their marriage.
‘If I’ve learned one thing, Will,’ he had announced after an unhappy misunderstanding that had taken them days to sort out, ‘it’s that pretending not to feel doesn’t work. If you push all your uncomfortable emotions down below the surface they’ll only start to rot everything else. I think you need to recognise them for what they are, get them into perspective and then forget about them.’
She thought about it for a long time, almost hearing his voic
e again.
‘All right,’ she said at last, watching his still face, ‘I will admit to all the vile feelings if you really want, and I’ll stop trying to push them down, but I’m going to need help.’
He did not answer, of course, just lay there with the machines breathing for him and dripping some fluids into him and pulling others out.
She could not help thinking of their last breakfast together, when it had seemed as though there was almost perfect communication between them. At that moment she had felt remarkably safe: with him, with herself and with all the feelings that she had resisted for so long. Looking at him now, it struck her that Tom might not have shared that safety. He had said be was superstitious and she had taken that to mean that he did not want to tempt fate with too much complacency about their emotional life. But what if there had been something else worrying him? For the first time it struck her that he might have been afraid of violence or even death.
Could he, she asked herself, have known something about the work he was planning to do that day that had frightened him? Had he had some kind of premonition of what would happen?
Theoretically she had always known that he, like every other police officer in London, was at risk. But she had never thought much about it. In her experience, it was officers on the beat or responding to incidents who were in serious danger. Senior detectives like Tom were much less likely to come face to face with violent thugs carrying guns.
Her insensitivity to his possible fear seemed monstrous and she longed for him to wake so that she could put things right. Suddenly that seemed much more important than any of her own needs.
Chapter Ten
‘Serena Fydgett rang,’ said Mrs Rusham as soon as Willow looked into the kitchen on her return. There was a delectable, sharp smell of herbs and shallots being cooked in a reduction of wine vinegar.
‘She sounded upset,’ Mrs Rusham went on. ‘I told her that you were at the office, but she said she’d rung there and they didn’t know where you were.’
Rotten Apples Page 12
