‘I… I didn’t know.’
‘Yes, well perhaps you’d know what had been worrying her lately?’
‘Lately?’
‘Yes. She was worried, depressed about something. For the past three or four months, maybe longer. She’d been getting antidepressants from the doctor.’
‘I had no idea. Really, I didn’t know. She never said.’
‘Maybe you’d been putting pressure on her to sell her house.’
‘Dear God, no.’ Winter bowed his head, his hands between his knees, palms together, and began to rock back and forward.
‘Come on, Mr Winter. You wanted her to sell the house, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, yes. I wanted her to get rid of that place. It was always needing maintenance. It needs rewiring. The roof needs complete reslating. I wanted her to get a nice little place on one level she could cope with. A modern flat with central heating. Maybe nearer to us. She had got a good offer. And her solicitor told me that everyone was selling up and leaving there. She would be left there in the middle of a building site. It was crazy.’
‘And did the agent for First Properties also tell you that if she didn’t sell soon, the place might end up being unsaleable?’
Winter looked at her with a mixture of grief and despair on his face.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘he told me that.’
Winter was taken out to wait in another room while they interviewed Geraldine McArthur.
Brock got to his feet and stretched. He groaned. ‘Oh dear. I need a coffee before we get on to her. The things we have to do! I’m glad I had a decent breakfast this morning. I couldn’t have stood that on an empty stomach.’
‘You think I was too rough on him, sir?’
‘No, no. Exactly what he deserved, really. You wonder why he bothers, don’t you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, hauling himself off every Sunday afternoon to bed down with some woman whose every bump and wrinkle must be as familiar as his wife’s by this stage. I mean if he can’t even remember the next day whether she gave his dick a suck-sorry, Constable.’ The WPC in the corner smiled and stirred her coffee. ‘You can understand it at first, the excitement, the irresistible temptation, showing off in a big flashy car to some impressionable girl, but by this stage it must be getting a bit of a chore. And it’s going to cost him plenty, one way or another. Probably already has-that new kitchen, for instance.’
‘You think the wife knows?’
Brock shrugged. ‘I mean, I know I’m getting old, but where’s the point at this stage? I suppose the other woman must have her claws sunk deep into him.’ Kathy opened her mouth to object, but Brock carried on. ‘What do you reckon she’s like? Have to be a stunner, I suppose. Glamorous.’
‘That’s a bit of a stereotype, isn’t it?’ Kathy realized she sounded irritable.
‘Yes, maybe. “The other woman.” Could be an intelligent, sensible, attractive woman like… well, like you, Kathy.’ Brock ploughed on, relentless, pretending not to see the look on her face. ‘But unlikely. Why would such a woman go for a sleazy married man like Terry? Almost bound to be some glamorous, vain young thing. Hairdressing salon manageress. All hair and boobs. Let’s take a bet on it.’
Brock lost his bet. Ms Geraldine McArthur was older than Caroline Winter, and not nearly as striking. She had a wide mouth with a generous smile, and wore her dark brown hair in a plain straight bob. She was obviously very worried, but more self-possessed than Winter had been. She also had a better recollection than he had had of the detailed events of Sunday afternoon, which she related to Kathy without protest, and with some considerable, if embarrassed, dignity. Her account of the past tallied with his in every significant respect, although her version of the future seemed rather clearer than his.
‘Terry has been working out with his accountant how things can be settled with Caroline, his wife. It’s complicated, you see, with the loans outstanding for the businesses and the cars leased, and so on. It’s taking him a long time to work out just the best way to do it, so that everyone comes out of it all right. He wants to have that all worked out before he tells Caroline that he wants a divorce, to make it as painless as possible. I think he’s right about that. Only the accountant is being very slow.’
Kathy’s eyes narrowed.
‘His two girls are quite grown up now, so it shouldn’t be too hard on them. I have two boys, six and nine. My husband married again not long after we were divorced, and because he and his wife have a nice home with a garden for pets and so on, and good schools near by, we agreed that the boys would live with them. My flat isn’t really suitable. But when Terry and I get married, I shall apply for custody of the boys.’
‘I see.’
Kathy seemed temporarily lost for words. The rustle of writing in the corner stopped, and for a moment a heavy silence hung in the room.
‘Did you ever meet Terry’s mother, Ms McArthur?’ Brock asked at last.
‘No. I would have liked to. But it didn’t seem possible. She would have been very upset to learn that Terry’s marriage was a failure. Although I think we would have got on after she’d got over the divorce. She was very fond of Terry, and she would have seen how much in love we are. I think she was a generous person.’
‘In terms of money?’
‘Yes. I don’t think she had a lot, but she was very independent, and she was always buying things for Terry and his family. Terry used to complain about her being too generous.’
‘And did Terry ever talk about getting financial assistance from his mother-for his business, or to help with the divorce, for example?’
Geraldine McArthur frowned. ‘No, he never said anything about that.’
‘Or about the possibility of her selling her house?’
‘Yes, he did talk about how unsuitable it was for her, and how she should sell it. She was quite stubborn, I understand.’
From the window of Kathy’s office, Brock looked down on the figures of Winter and his girlfriend as they emerged on to the street. They spoke briefly and then parted, walking away in opposite directions.
‘It doesn’t really settle anything, though,’ Kathy said. ‘They could have been describing the Sunday before last. Say Winter left her after an hour or so, and went to call on his mother to have another go at persuading her to sell the house. He went in to 22 and found her fast asleep on her bed. Just looking at the cantankerous old bird snoring away there, he knew she’d never change her mind. She was going to sit it out and he’d see his quarter of a million crumble to dust. He’s fuming. He goes into the kitchen for a drink of water, and he sees a plastic bag. He’s seen warnings on the TV about how easy it is to suffocate by accident with a plastic bag. He takes it back into the bedroom and discovers that they’re right, it is easy. Then he goes back to New Cross.’
‘So you see him as a villain?’ Brock smiled.
‘Damn right.’
‘And her too? I owe you a drink by the way. Not at all the scarlet woman.’
‘No. I think she’d protect him, but she wouldn’t murder. I think he returns in a state. He tells her that when he went to see his mother he found her lying dead on her bed with a plastic bag over her head. He thinks she killed herself. He says he took the bag off and put it in the kitchen bin, but then worried that he shouldn’t have. He panicked and left. He’s in a state of shock. He begs her not to contact anyone until he’s had time to think it through. He delays until he hears from his wife that his mother’s been found and the police are on the scene. Now he tells his girlfriend that he can’t admit that he was there, and anyway there’d be no point. She agrees to cover for him.’
Brock nodded. ‘Plausible.’
The pathologist’s report arrived shortly afterwards. Analyses of blood and vital organs had revealed no poisons. The moisture on the inside of the plastic bag was confirmed as Meredith Winterbottom’s saliva, and the hairs were also hers. Dr Mehta’s conclusion was as he had indicated on the phone the
previous day-cause of death unable to be determined by anatomical or toxicological analysis, but evidence compatible with asphyxia of some form. The coroner had now agreed to release the body to the family for cremation on the following day.
‘Fair enough.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘Well, I’ve had my fill of life’s tangled web for one day. I think I might go back to the Yard and play with my computer for a while. All right with you?’
‘Of course, sir. I thought we might go down to the seaside tomorrow, to visit somebody else who was in Jerusalem Lane on Sunday afternoon-Adam Kowalski, former professor of Cracow, now resident of Eastbourne.’
9
As on the previous evening, Kathy went by Jerusalem Lane on her way home. This time she saw it not as the temporarily emptied setting for the Dore etching, but rather as a piece of nineteenth-century London in the final moments of its life. Suddenly its presence appeared incredibly robust and indelible, every angle and texture an essential part of the reality of the neighbourhood, like the presence of an old and characterful relative whose imminent passing seems inconceivable.
She walked to the south end of the Lane, where number 22 stood close to the junction with Marquis Street. She had thought of checking on the two sisters, but when she saw the light on in Mrs Rosenfeldt’s deli, she went there instead.
The skeletal figure of Mrs Rosenfeldt responded to the bell. She recognized Kathy and acknowledged her with a tight smile.
‘How are you, Mrs Rosenfeldt?’
‘Well enough.’
‘How about Peg and Eleanor upstairs? Have you seen them today?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve been up a couple of times. So have Mrs Stwosz and Miss Pemberton. I think they’ve had enough visitors. They’ll be better after the funeral tomorrow.’
‘Yes, well, they’re lucky to have plenty of good friends.’
‘Ah…’ Mrs Rosenfeldt clucked her tongue. ‘And what about
…’ She nodded her head up the street.
‘Sorry?’
‘Witz and Kowalski-those people in the Croatia Club. I told your Inspector about them.’
‘Yes, we’re checking on that. There are a number of things we’re looking into. When was the last time you saw Mr Kowalski?’
She shook her head. ‘Couple of weeks, I don’t know.’
‘Well,’ Kathy said, let me know if you hear of anything else we should know.’
She turned to leave, and as she pulled the door open she noticed a point of light, like a candle flame, flicker briefly in the dark corner of the synagogue, where its back butted up to the end of the terrace on the other side of Jerusalem Lane.
‘That’s funny. I thought I saw a light in the synagogue yard.’
‘That’ll be Sam,’ Mrs Rosenfeldt said. ‘Lives in a cardboard box in the corner there.’
‘We never saw him when we were going round the block talking to people.’
‘He’s not usually there during the day. He doesn’t like to be disturbed. He’s been around for six months or more. I think it’s shocking that people should have to live like that-in a cardboard box!’ She snorted. ‘More and more of them now. It’s like the thirties again. Meredith used to talk to him. And Eleanor, too. Not since Sunday, of course. They would sometimes take him food. He liked the Balaton’s goulash, poor old soul. Like the thirties again.’
Kathy bought a take-away portion of goulash at the Balaton and walked quietly back to the synagogue. She could dimly make out the pile of cardboard in the corner of the yard, behind the railings. She went through the open gates and over to the boxes, opening the lid of the goulash tub so that the smell filled the night air.
‘Sam,’ she called.
There was a snuffling sound, and then a voice.
‘Meredith? El’nor?’
‘I’m Kathy, a friend of Eleanor’s.’
Sam crawled out of his box. The flame of a gas lighter briefly illuminated his face. He looked old. A battered hat was pulled low on his forehead and a dirty white beard filled much of the rest of his face. Kathy made out a sore on the end of his nose.
‘I’ve brought you this.’
He nodded and took the container from her. Untroubled by its heat, he pushed the food quickly into his mouth with a plastic fork. Kathy let him finish, and then as he turned to crouch back into his box, she said, ‘Sam, Meredith died on Sunday.’
He stopped and turned to her. ‘Died?’
‘Yes. In the afternoon. Were you around here then? Did you see anyone visit her on Sunday afternoon?’
He crouched, lost in thought for some time. Then he spoke. ‘Bow tie.’
‘What?’
‘Man with a bow tie. Rang Mer’dith’s bell on Sunday afternoon. Went inside.’
‘Have you any idea what time it was?’
Again he pondered. ‘Sun was shining on the front of Mer’dith’s house. When he came out it wasn’t any more.’
‘You’re sure it was Sunday?’
He snorted. ‘The bells of St James was ringing.’
He turned and crawled into the box.
On her way back, Kathy checked with both Mrs Rosenfeldt and the people in the Balaton Cafe, but no one knew of anyone who wore a bow tie.
Kathy ran to the front door, reaching it before the chime of the bell had faded in the small space of her hallway. He grinned at her and threw a bouquet of flowers behind her onto the hall table. He took her in his arms.
Before or after the door is closed? she thought.
‘Happy birthday, darling, for yesterday.’
She kissed him.
‘Am I forgiven, then? Good. Let’s go to bed.’
He felt her body stiffen with sudden annoyance.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Yes, come on.’
After they made love, she lay curled against his side, smelling his expensive after-shave. Not the one I gave him, she thought to herself.
Aloud she said, ‘Are you beginning to find it a chore, coming here?’
‘Oh, come on, Kath. I explained what happened last night.’
‘Not about last night. It’s been just over six months’-she meant to say it lightly, matter of fact, but she could hear it coming out petulant-‘and I thought you must know me so well now that the excitement might have gone for you.’
‘Has it for you?’
‘No. For me it’s just as exciting as it was the first time. It always has been.’
‘Well, then.’
Trust a lawyer never to answer the question. ‘Have you had a bad day at work? You seem tense.’ He stroked her cheek.
‘Not bad, really. A bit frustrating in some ways, and I’ve found it difficult trying to lead a case with a Detective Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard breathing down my neck. I wanted to tell you about it last night.’
‘Who is it?’
‘David Brock.’
‘Oh, Brock. That’s interesting. He’s quite a big gun. You must have a pretty important case.’
‘No. Just some old lady who was probably suffocated while she was asleep. He said the Yard assigns him to odd things from time to time, and it looks as if I’m this week’s oddity.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Oh… quite sexy, really. If you go for older men.’
‘I meant to work with.’
‘He seems very relaxed, almost detached. Not what I expected at all.’
‘Maybe they’re assessing you for promotion, or a transfer. Inspector Kolla of the Yard. I like it.’
‘Piss off.’
‘He led the hunt for Gregory North recently, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. Everyone we’ve questioned seems to know about it. One suspect today got him to give him his autograph for his son.’
‘Did he talk about the North case at all?’
‘Only briefly. Said it wasn’t over yet.’
‘Really? I wonder what he meant by that? North escaped to some place in South America, didn’t he? Where they can’t extradite him.’<
br />
‘I don’t know. He said something about having a surprise in store for North. Let’s have a glass of wine. I’ve opened a bottle of the special Italian red for your birthday. You remember the Barolo?’
Kathy’s lips moved seductively up his shoulder to his neck. But she could feel the tenseness in his arm around her. If he’s looking at his watch I’ll bloody kill him.
‘I have to go, love. I’m sorry. Let’s have a glass while I get dressed.’
‘You’ve only just arrived.’
‘Don’t say it like that, Kath. I told you what the score was tonight.’
Kathy stomped out to the kitchen and returned with the two glasses of wine. She sat, naked, on the end of the bed and watched him as he did up his shirt buttons, pulled on his trousers.
‘You ought to get Brock to talk about the North case. It’s very interesting.’
‘Bugger the North case.’
‘No, really. Try to find out what kind of surprise they’ve got lined up for him. Maybe they’ve got around the extradition thing.’
‘Why are you interested? He’s not a client, is he?’
‘Of course not.’
The extra-special-super-charming smile, the one kept in reserve for new judges, not to be used too often in case it gets shop-soiled.
‘Just professional curiosity. It’s an opportunity for you to see how the big league works. But suit yourself, anyway. Oh God, I must fly.’
‘Flap, flap.’
‘Come on, darling, this isn’t like you.’
He took her in his arms again, kissed her gently on the mouth. ‘I do love you, you know that.’
‘I love you too,’ she whispered. ‘I really do.’ And then he was gone.
10
Kathy felt good the next morning as she drove over to Scotland Yard to pick up Brock for their trip to the coast, as if she were escaping from school for the day. But before they set off there was one chore to be done. She parked at the north end of Jerusalem Lane and the two of them walked over to the camera shop on the corner. Fluorescent pink posters stuck to the grubby shop front announced a closing-down sale.
‘Mr Witz?’
The Marx Sisters bak-1 Page 8
