The Marx Sisters bak-1

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Judith Naismith wouldn’t fly specially here from New York to see Meredith Winterbottom, desperate to see what she had to offer, and then just leave her and have a cup of coffee while the old lady has an afternoon nap. They would have tried to wake her up. If they had phoned and got no reply, they’d have shot straight back to make sure she hadn’t woken up and gone out.’

  ‘Agreed, although he did know about the ambulance, so he was surely there after the event as well as before. What about the fantasy?’

  ‘This amazing discovery-the Marx diaries or whatever they are. In the cold light of day the whole thing sounds so implausible. How convenient that we can’t talk to Judith Naismith-if she even exists. Sam spoke only about a man in a bow tie, and the same with Adam Kowalski. Neither mentioned a woman. If she does exist, well, some of what he said may be true, but not all of it. Perhaps he did fax her the letter, and then met her in London that first time and found out the letter might be worth something. Then he might have decided to work her into the story of his subsequent visit to Meredith in order to throw suspicion on Judith, just as he threw suspicion on Slade.’

  ‘What was he up to, then?’

  ‘If he is up to something,’ Kathy said reluctantly, ‘it surely has to be something to do with the redevelopment project. It has to be. He is, or was, the architect, after all. How extraordinary that he should be hanging around the last building in the street that Slade hasn’t been able to buy. Perhaps he’s trying to embarrass Slade. He certainly did a fair job-“have to carry her out in a box”!’ Kathy snorted. ‘I think we took him by surprise when we told him he’d been seen going into Meredith’s house, and he came up with a half-thought-out story to explain his presence there without mentioning the real reason.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I don’t know. He could have been advising her how to fight Slade through the planning process. Or trying to persuade her not to sell out, or perhaps to sell to him. I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you seem to have thought it through’-he gave a little smile-‘very objectively. So what do we do?’

  ‘After we’ve finished here, we should see Jones again. At least he should show us the letter he supposedly bought at Kowalski’s. Remember, Kowalski couldn’t even recall that it was a letter he sold him.’

  They climbed the stairs to the second floor of number 22, passing on the way the silent landing on the first floor. Kathy’s eyes were drawn to the locked door along the shadowy passage as if its panels had somehow acquired a residue of the personality whose private place had lain behind it, its paintwork now standing in for her face to the world.

  The sisters were in Peg’s flat. Through the living-room window the other side of Jerusalem Lane could be seen bathed in the afternoon sun. The room was less severe than Eleanor’s, with chintz patterned curtains and armchair covers, and a patterned pink china tea service set out on the chest of drawers opposite the gas fire. This cosy domestic scene was presided over by a dramatically colourful portrait of Lenin hanging above the Wedgwood. It was painted in a social realist style, with the great leader gazing off towards a splendid future somewhere beyond the embroidered tea cosy.

  As Bob Jones had said, there were fewer books here than in Eleanor’s room. They filled one tall bookcase in the recess to the right of the chimney breast. A number of titles published by such bodies as the Institute of Marxism-Leninism of the CPSU Central Committee were jumbled in with a few Mills amp; Boon and Barbara Cartland romances.

  There was a third person in the flat when Kathy and Brock arrived. Kathy recognized Terry and Caroline Winter’s elder daughter whom she had met briefly in her home at Chislehurst, and then seen again at the funeral. Seeing Alex Winter now beside her two aunts, Kathy recognized the same dark, intelligent eyes as Eleanor’s, the same serious set to her face and strong line to her jaw. But as yet she had none of her aunt’s self-confident dignity and upright bearing. She glowered and turned away as Kathy acknowledged her.

  The two sisters welcomed their guests warmly. Peg, a gracious hostess presiding over the proceedings as if over a vicarage tea party, produced from her small kitchenette cucumber sandwiches and thin slices of fruit cake served on Wedgwood plates, and sugar lumps offered with silverplated tongs.

  ‘We really just wanted to check that you were all right, and see if there was anything you’d thought about or remembered since we saw you last,’ Kathy said, suddenly ravenous after missing her lunch.

  ‘I’d better go.’ Alex Winter jumped up abruptly and began to pull on a quilted anorak. Turning to Kathy she said with sudden vehemence, ‘You should ask them who’s been trying to throw them out on the street!’

  ‘Alex, dear…’ Eleanor rose to her feet. ‘There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘Has someone been bothering you, Miss Harper?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Yes. My father!’ Alex blazed. ‘Less than an hour after cremating his mother he was trying to bully her sisters into leaving their homes!’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It was something he said in passing when we were driving back to Chislehurst after the funeral, Sergeant,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean to sound quite so forceful. He was upset after the service. We all were.’

  ‘Isn’t that just about the most repulsive thing you’ve ever heard?’ Alex glared for a moment at Kathy, then turned to her great-aunts and quickly hugged each of them and ran out.

  ‘She has the inflexible and unforgiving morality which only the young can afford,’ Eleanor smiled after her. ‘She is in her second year at LSE. Doing very well. I would like her to become a little less intense, though.’

  ‘She is a fighter, dear.’ Peg nodded with satisfaction and offered Kathy some cake. ‘Meredith made it,’ she murmured.

  ‘And Alex is quite right about her father,’ Eleanor added sternly. ‘I would never have offended Meredith by saying it to her face, but her son is a parasite.’ Kathy was surprised at the feeling with which the elderly lady spat out the word. ‘He preys upon the vanity of women quite ruthlessly.’

  ‘You did tell her to her face, Eleanor, dear. Don’t you remember?’ Peg corrected her sister with a sweet smile. She turned to Kathy and added, ‘She usually tells people exactly what she thinks. As a matter of fact, we were having a discussion about you, Sergeant, just as you rang the doorbell.’

  ‘Oh dear, am I a parasite too?’ Kathy laughed.

  ‘No, you are part of the repressive apparatus of the ruling class, my dear, with which it maintains its grip upon the means of production and distribution and alienates the proletariat, naturally,’ said Peg, beaming at her.

  ‘My sister is teasing you, Sergeant,’ Eleanor said. ‘You mustn’t take offence, although what she says is of course quite true.’

  ‘I don’t take offence, Miss Harper,’ Kathy replied. ‘I have an uncle who shares your views exactly. He has told me more than once that I am a class renegade and a carbuncle on the backside of the workers.’ Kathy watched their faces carefully, but neither sister gave any sign of recognition of the phrase.

  ‘How splendid!’ Peg cried. ‘We should meet your uncle. I’m sure we would get on so well.’

  ‘He’s not in London, I’m glad to say. He lives in what he likes to think of as the Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire.’

  ‘Oh, but I expect he’s proud of you really, and very fond of you.’

  ‘I’m not too sure about that, Mrs Blythe.’

  ‘Peg, dear. Please call me Peg. Eleanor and I were talking about you because I pointed out to her how splendidly well organized you are in the police force. So efficient.’

  Eleanor gave a snort. ‘My sister has a misplaced admiration for good order, Sergeant,’ she said stiffly. ‘She refuses to accept that the workers, once freed from one form of tyranny’-and she indicated Brock with a dismissive wave of her hand-‘might prefer to avoid being saddled with another.’

  ‘The role of the Party, and in particular the Central Committee, is one of the princi
pal disagreements we have,’ Peg interpreted in a confidential tone. ‘Eleanor is such an idealist. A utopian, in fact.’

  ‘Peg! I will not be called such a thing!’ She half rose out of her chair, and then, seeing Peg’s delight at having goaded her so successfully, subsided and resumed her dignified, straight-backed posture with a sniff.

  ‘Mrs Blythe, concerning your nephew,’ Kathy said, ‘he has admitted to us that he tried to persuade your sister to sell this house. Did she discuss this with you? You must have talked about it, surely?’

  ‘Yes, she mentioned it, but only to say that she wouldn’t entertain the idea. Although she indulged the boy, I believe it was the one thing she wasn’t prepared to do for him.’

  ‘Did she mention other people trying to persuade her?’

  Eleanor thought. ‘No, I don’t think so. She didn’t really talk to us a great deal about those sorts of things. I’m afraid we weren’t of much use to her in practical matters.’

  ‘She did say once that she suspected people were trying to trap her, or cheat her. Do you remember, Eleanor?’ Peg added.

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘Sometimes, in the last months, she seemed a little confused. I think, seeing the Kowalskis leaving unsettled her more than she realized.’

  ‘Did she ever mention the name Bob Jones, or Judith Naismith?’

  Both sisters shook their heads.

  ‘Have you ever seen a man who wears a bow tie calling around here?’

  Again a negative.

  ‘And did Meredith ever talk to you about selling books or papers to anyone, to make a little money?’

  ‘Well now,’ Eleanor thought, ‘I recall some while ago, she did speak about getting rid of Terry’s old children’s books. I don’t know if she ever did.’

  ‘Did she, or do you, own any old original documents-handwritten papers, letters or essays-which were left to you by your mother?’

  ‘We have old birth certificates and things like that. And family photographs. We did go through Meredith’s papers-on Monday, I think it was-to make sure she hadn’t left any instructions about her funeral arrangements. But I don’t remember anything like what you describe.’

  As they got to their feet, Brock said casually to Eleanor, ‘Do you know of a writer called Proudhon, Miss Harper?’

  ‘Of course, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Only I was advised to read him by someone recently.’

  ‘Were you? I should have thought you’d be better off going straight to Marx. But perhaps you would find something in him. It was Proudhon, after all, who argued that without robbery and murder, property cannot exist.’

  ‘Really? Well, yes, that does sound appropriate. Do you have any of his books?’

  ‘I have an old copy of Confessions, I believe, although it’s some time since I’ve looked at it. I’d lend it to you, except that it used to belong to our grandmother, and I wouldn’t like to lose it.’

  ‘Of course. Well, thank you very much for the tea. The cake was quite delicious. Now we’d better get back to the tedious job of repressing and alienating the proletariat, if you don’t mind.’

  Peg chuckled, and Eleanor looked sternly disapproving.

  15

  They couldn’t get any reply when they rang Bob Jones’s office, and when there was no answer from his home number in Paddington either, they decided to drive over there.

  Regent Gardens was in effect an elongated square, with two long rows of cream-stuccoed terraces facing each other across a central grass strip. A series of columned porticos projected forward from the terraces to form entrance porches. Their front doors were approached across steps built over the moat which provided light to the basement rooms. In 1815 these terraces were among the most soughtafter of the new residential developments springing up to the west of Regent’s Park. Each portico provided a fashionable Doric address (noble, severe and indomitable, in keeping with the mood after the victory of Waterloo) for a family of the merchants and minor branches of nobility who moved in to speculate on rising property prices, and were soon to be disappointed by the crash which followed. Now each portico sheltered an untidy panel of door buzzers, intercoms and name cards, the steps accommodated ranks of empty milk bottles, and the narrow roads which ran along the front of the terraces were jammed with cars and motor bikes parked on meters.

  Bob Jones’s flat was on the ground floor. The front door to the building was slightly ajar, and Brock and Kathy went in, pushing past a padlocked bicycle just inside. At the far end of the hall a flight of stairs rose beneath an unshaded bulb, and two tall panelled doors faced each other halfway down the length of the hall. The one on the right was open.

  Or, rather, it was hanging from the jamb, its frame broken and smashed as by a sledge-hammer. They stepped over splintered wood and looked inside. The place had been trashed. Furniture was tipped over, table legs smashed, cushions ripped. Across the far wall of the room a message had been sprayed in black letters a metre high. FUCK YOU YUPPIE PIG. In the centre of the room, sitting on the floor among the debris, was Bob Jones.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Kathy asked.

  He looked up, slightly dazed. ‘Hello… Look what they’ve done to my books, the bastards.’ All around him were architectural books, their backs broken, pages ripped. ‘They were about the only things I took with me when Helen and I split up. I thought I’d start afresh, but I couldn’t bear to let go of my books. And now they’re gone, too.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He took a deep breath and struggled to his feet. Kathy gave him a hand.

  ‘They came back again, didn’t they?’

  ‘Who?’

  He shrugged. ‘The first time was about six months ago. I came home and someone had broken the lock and taken my CD player and the video. So I replaced them with the insurance, and put better locks on the door. Three months later they came again. That time they broke the locks open with a jemmy and took the new stuff I’d just got. So I replaced it again and put locking bolts in the door and a steel angle in the jamb. So this time they didn’t bother with the locks, they just smashed the door in on the hinge side and did this.’

  ‘Have they stolen the electrical equipment again?’

  He looked around. ‘Looks like it. Perhaps it’s a regular three-month thing. They’ve probably got computer files of people who’ve been done over, with dates of when they’re due for another check-up, like the dentist.’

  ‘Were they this violent before?’

  ‘No, not at all. The only damage in the past has been to the door. Maybe they got annoyed at having to work so hard to get in.’

  ‘We’d better call the local CID from the car,’ Kathy said. ‘Your phone seems to be out of action.’

  ‘What’s the point? They’ll never catch them. Last time I told them about the gang of kids that terrorizes the street-ten and eleven-year-olds-throwing stones through the windows, smashing milk bottles, slashing tyres, that sort of thing. The policeman told me I should get an air gun and shoot pellets at them. I ask you.’

  Kathy looked around. The flat was one large room, once the main reception room of the house, and tall enough for Bob to have inserted a sleeping deck across one end, with a galley kitchen and bathroom tucked in beneath it. Access to the upper deck was by a stair almost as steep as a ladder. The furnishings were spartan-canvas blinds rolled at the windows, photographic studio lights, industrial book-shelving, a few pieces of cheap Habitat furniture.

  ‘Where’s the letter you told us about?’ she asked.

  ‘I put it back in its frame. It was hanging over there.’

  They looked in the corner he indicated, then among the wreckage, but found no sign of it.

  Kathy went out to the car to call for the local police while Jones made coffee and Brock righted some chairs and cleared a space. When they sat down, Kathy spoke.

  ‘They’ll be here in a bit. Meantime, perhaps you could help us with the reason we came round here, Mr Jones. We were a little uncertain about a co
uple of points in your statement yesterday. Could we just go over a bit of it again?’

  He sighed. ‘Which bit?’

  ‘The bit about finding Meredith Winterbottom asleep. Describe for us again exactly what happened when you arrived at Jerusalem Lane last Sunday.’

  ‘Oh, that bit.’ Jones seemed suddenly flat, defeated. He sighed again, lowered his head and began to recount what had happened-ringing the doorbell, going upstairs, entering Meredith’s flat, Judith looking round the bedroom door and seeing Meredith asleep, him going upstairs to check the sisters. Then he stopped.

  ‘Go on,’ Kathy prodded.

  He lifted his head and looked at her, then at Brock.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’

  Kathy got a tingling sensation along her spine.

  ‘Tell us.’

  ‘She wasn’t asleep. She was dead. When I got down from knocking on the sisters’ doors Judith met me in the passage. She seemed shocked, and didn’t say anything at first. I asked what was wrong, and then she told me that she’d tried to wake Mrs Winterbottom, and she couldn’t. She said she must have had a stroke or a heart attack or something. I said I’d ring for an ambulance, but then…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She said there wasn’t any point, and, anyway, she couldn’t afford any delay which might make her miss her plane. She asked if I could wait until after her flight before telling anyone. Then she said that as she had come all this way, she wanted to search the flat to check if Mrs Winterbottom had brought anything for her. I didn’t like the idea of that at all. I said, suppose the sisters come back, how would it look? So she asked me to go down to the front door and if anyone came in to act as if I was on my way out for help.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That’s what I did. No one came. After five minutes or so I became impatient and called out to her. I started to go upstairs again, but she came running out and we left. She said she’d found nothing.’

  ‘Was she carrying anything?’

  ‘Her bag. A shoulder bag. A bit bigger than yours.’

  ‘Then what?’