The Marx Sisters bak-1

by Barry Maitland

  Brock peered through the glass panel in the door of the detention room. Beneath a bright fluorescent light a uniformed policeman sat impassively at a bare table with arms folded. Opposite him stood Judith Naismith. She leant over the table, one hand propping herself up, the other resting on her hip. Although only a murmur could be heard through the door, she was clearly haranguing him. She had straight, shoulder-length ash-blonde hair, and was of similar build to Kathy, slim and of medium height, but her body was more angular, her gestures more explosive. When they went inside, Brock noticed her sharp and humourless eyes, and decided that Dr Naismith was going to be a formidable customer.

  He introduced Kathy and himself.

  ‘What exactly is the problem here?’ she demanded, folding her arms. ‘You do realize I’ve missed my flight?’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, but we’re investigating the murders of two women which have occurred recently in central London, and we believe you may be able to help us with our inquiries. We only just learned of your whereabouts, and under the circumstances it seemed the only course open to us.’

  He gave her a conciliatory smile and began to take off his coat. Her face had given no flicker of response to the mention of murders. Brock indicated to the uniformed man that he could go, and took his place at the table. Kathy waited by the door.

  ‘Please.’ Brock indicated the chair opposite him. ‘Sit down, Dr Naismith, and we can sort this out.’

  She stared at him for a moment without moving and then turned to Kathy. ‘I hope you people are within your rights.’ She looked at Kathy slowly from head to foot, then back to her face again. Her stare was rude, intended to intimidate. Kathy returned it calmly, not showing the embarrassment which, to her annoyance, she began to feel.

  Brock reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his notebook and Judith Naismith’s passport. ‘Come and sit down, Dr Naismith,’ he repeated absently, flicking through the pages of the passport. She still made no move, and he began to write in his notebook. Finally she sat down abruptly in the chair, half turned away from Brock with one arm hooked on the chair back, her legs crossed, in an attitude which suggested great self-control in the face of outrageous provocation.

  ‘Why are you leaving now, Dr Naismith? I understand you were planning to stay longer.’

  She slowly turned her head towards him. ‘What business, exactly, is that of yours?’ She enunciated the words slowly, as if to someone with limited understanding.

  Brock stared at her for a moment.

  ‘We’d like you to tell us about all of your recent contacts with Miss Eleanor Harper, of 22 Jerusalem Lane, WC2. Let’s begin with the last time you actually saw her.’

  There was silence for a moment before she said, with the same exaggerated patience, ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘No, you’re not, Dr…’

  ‘Am I then free to go?’

  ‘Are you saying that you refuse to co-operate with us?’

  ‘Am I free to go?’

  Brock sighed, closed up her passport and placed it back in his inside jacket pocket. ‘Where will you be staying in London?’

  ‘I’d like my passport, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. You won’t be able to leave the country until you’ve answered my questions.’ She looked at him with surprise as he got to his feet and pulled on his coat. ‘If I were you, I’d get myself a good solicitor, Dr Naismith,’ he said, and headed for the door.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do!’ she called after him, but they were gone before she finished the sentence.

  On the way back into central London, Brock, irritated, searched through an address book in his pocket and then made a transatlantic call. The voice at the other end sounded clearer than on a local number.

  ‘Good to hear you, David. Are you coming over?’

  ‘Not this time, Nigel. I need a bit of information quickly, and I thought you might possibly be able to help. It’s about an academic at Princeton.’

  ‘If I can. What discipline?’

  ‘Economic history.’

  ‘Oh yes? We have a Search Committee in place at the moment for a senior position in that department here. I could say I’m inquiring for them.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds good. I just want to get some background on the woman. She’s a British subject, been over there for thirteen or fourteen years, since doing a doctorate at Cambridge. Name, Judith Naismith.’ He spelled it, and, after some perfunctory small talk about the weather and each other’s health, rang off.

  ‘FBI?’ Kathy asked.

  Brock shook his head. ‘No. Friend from the army. Went over there twenty years ago. Professor in the Midwest now.’ He lapsed into silence and said nothing more on the journey back.

  21

  During the night, while Brock and Gurney continued their questioning of Terry Winter, unseasonable freezing winds from the north and east displaced the damp, mild westerlies of the previous days, and a bitter change set in. Waking early on the morning of Friday 3 April, the third day of the investigation into Eleanor Harper’s death, Kathy shuddered to see that the view from her window of the distant street lights was obliterated by swirling snow. She breakfasted hurriedly on tea and toast, hauled on her long coat, scarf, gloves and woollen hat, and made for the lift.

  There was just one policewoman in the office at Jerusalem Lane, minding the phones. She said that Winter had been charged, but she didn’t know what with. Copies of statements were on their way over from the Yard, as well as a report from the Metropolitan Police Forensic Science Laboratory at Lambeth Road over the river, on the hammer found in the building site, but neither had yet arrived.

  Impatient and edgy, Kathy pulled her outer layers back on and stepped out into the cold dawn of Jerusalem Lane once more. Flurries of snow were gusting through the high chain-link fence which topped the plywood panels of the construction site. Here and there it collected in small drifts. She walked rapidly back up to the north end, head down, and ran across Welbeck Street to the news vendor on the corner. The man had moved his plastic tarpaulin round to the east side of his stall, and Kathy huddled in its shelter. As she searched in her bag for money to pay for the early-morning editions, a red Mercedes sports car pulled over to the kerb on the other side of the street. The interior lit up for a moment as the passenger opened his door, and Kathy saw the driver, a woman, lean over and give him a kiss. He was a big man, who took a moment to haul himself out of the low car, as if his shoulder were giving him trouble. Just before he pulled the collar of his coat up and turned to hurry down Jerusalem Lane, Kathy recognized Brock’s bearded face.

  The laboratory report arrived shortly after Kathy returned to the incident centre. It confirmed that the hammer was the one used to strike Eleanor’s forehead in the moments immediately after her death. It was a ballhammer, with a rounded head, as used by plumbers. Its shape and size were consistent with the indentations in Eleanor’s skull, and scratches on its surface matched impressions found on the plastic bag.

  Kathy and another officer returned to Winter’s house in Chislehurst to speak to his wife, Caroline. She seemed to find their questions faintly amusing, as if they had no bearing on her own life. She was unable to recall ever having seen the hammer before. Her husband, she said, was not a great handyman.

  ‘Scissors and a comb are about the only tools he’s any good with,’ she informed the young detective constable with a look that made him blush. ‘The last time hammers were mentioned in this house was when one of the builders putting in the new kitchen complained he’d lost one. I can’t remember which, though. One of the older men. I didn’t pay much attention.’

  It was mid-morning by the time Kathy returned to Jerusalem Lane. Bren Gurney was sitting over a mug of tea in the back room, looking exhausted. He told her that Winter’s attempts to account for his movements had been a farce. It had been impossible to confirm his whereabouts for any of the incidents that had occurred at the sisters’ house,
and in the case of the business with the mask, a neighbour had actually seen him leave his Peckham flat an hour before it occurred, although he claimed he had remained at home all night. Peg couldn’t be certain that the mask was the one used to frighten Eleanor, since only her sister had seen it, but confirmed that it was just as she had described it.

  Despite all this, Winter had refused to admit to anything. Gurney seethed with frustration, and not only with Winter. He was convinced the man was guilty. He had the clearest motive, weak or non-existent alibis, and he was telling lies, at first with a certain amount of assurance, like someone unused to having his lies disbelieved, and then increasingly, as the night wore on, out of sheer desperation. Yet Brock had seemed oddly reluctant to act, and it was only towards 4 in the morning that he had finally agreed that Winter should be charged with a number of offences relating to the incidents at 22 Jerusalem Lane between November and March. These included threatening behaviour and causing malicious damage, but not yet murder.

  Gurney sighed and ran a hand across his chin. ‘I’d better get myself a shave.’

  ‘Haven’t you had any sleep?’ Kathy asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘I hung around to process the charges, then to wait for Winter’s solicitor. Brock got an hour or two shut-eye, I guess.’

  ‘Did he go home?’

  ‘Doubt it. He lives down by Dulwich. Probably put his head down at the Yard.’

  ‘Does he have a sister?’

  ‘Yes. Out in Buckinghamshire somewhere, I think. Why?’ He looked curiously at Kathy.

  ‘Oh, when I was buying the papers this morning I saw him arrive. A woman brought him, in a red Merc sports.’

  A little smile creased Gurney’s tired eyes. ‘Don’t suppose you got the number?’

  Kathy reached across and wrote on the pad in front of him. Gurney tore off the sheet and left the office. Half an hour later he strolled back in again, washed, shaved and considerably more cheerful. Without a word he placed a note in front of Kathy. On it was written the name Mrs Suzanne Chambers, a telephone number and an address in Belgravia, barely two hundred yards from Scotland Yard.

  At that moment Brock appeared in the doorway behind them. ‘You two want to bring me up to date?’ he said, and then, seeing the note in Kathy’s hand and the smile on her face, ‘Good news?’

  She shook her head quickly. ‘Nothing, really.’ She stuffed the note into the pocket of her trousers and followed the two men up the stairs.

  It was only when they were seated that Kathy saw that Brock was as tired as Gurney. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he suppressed a yawn as Gurney spoke.

  ‘Winter will appear this afternoon,’ he said. ‘We’re opposing bail, of course, but I don’t think the court will wear it. Especially not with the solicitor he’s got himself.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Two of them. A little old guy called Hepple.’

  ‘The sisters’ solicitor?’ Brock said, sitting up sharply. ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘Yeah. He was really enjoying himself. I must say I could have done without his jolly repartee this morning. But his mate’s the bad news. Apparently Hepple isn’t representing Winter, he just came along to introduce him to this brief that he’d found for him. Your old friend Martin Connell, Brock.’

  Kathy froze. She didn’t hear the next part of their conversation, but as their voices began to register again she was suddenly filled with an enormous sense of gratitude to Brock-first because he studiously avoided looking at her, and then because it was clear that Gurney knew nothing about her connection with Connell. Her hand closed around the message in her pocket, and she screwed it into a tight little ball.

  ‘But how the hell did either Hepple or Connell come in on this?’ Brock thumped his fist on the arm of his chair.

  ‘And how can Winter afford him?’ Gurney added, shaking his head. ‘The only good thing is that we know for sure that anyone Connell represents has got to be seriously guilty. Otherwise it’s all bad. Christ’-he rubbed his forehead wearily-‘he even knew about me getting into Winter’s office at Peckham without a search warrant. He let it drop that he was going to pin me on unlawful entry.’

  Brock swore, pulled himself to his feet and strode over to the window. He stood there for a minute, staring at the snowflakes swirling outside, then walked slowly back to his seat.

  ‘I spoke to the lab just now,’ he said. ‘It looks as if the plastic bag used on Eleanor was the same type as in one of those packets you brought back from Winter’s house yesterday, Kathy. But it’s a common type, in every supermarket, and Winter’s prints weren’t on the packet we picked up, which isn’t to say that he didn’t take another one. It’s not the same type as was used on Meredith, which came from a packet in her own kitchen. So we’ll have to pursue the hammer as another way of tying Winter in.’

  Kathy reported her conversation that morning with Caroline Winter, and that they were in the process of tracing the kitchen contractor whose plumber might have lost a hammer at the Winters’ home.

  Brock nodded. ‘Now, about the first murder. We’d better have another word with the woman who provided Winter’s alibi then. What was her name?’

  ‘Geraldine McArthur.’

  ‘Yes. In view of their falling out, she might be less keen to protect him now.’

  He paused, rubbing his eyes. ‘Bren, go home and get some rest, will you? I cannot stand people falling asleep when I’m talking to them.’

  Gurney shook himself and protested that he was only thinking with his eyes closed. Then, seeing Brock’s expression, he got to his feet.

  ‘Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a couple of hours, chief.’

  ‘See you later.’

  When he had gone, Brock said quietly, ‘Bren is convinced we can pin everything on Winter. I’m not so sure. So, what are the alternatives?’

  ‘We’ve just got the results of the check Bren organized on that list of names from the developer’s office and the others involved in the building project. Only one with a criminal record. Guess who?’

  ‘Bob Jones?’ Brock asked wearily.

  ‘No, of course not.’ She smiled. ‘Danny Finn. They call him their Project Manager.’

  Brock nodded. ‘Well, we’d better have a word with him. See if you can find out where he is.’

  Kathy phoned First City Properties, who told her he was on site. She rang the site office, but when she put the phone down she looked both puzzled and worried. ‘They say he left. He had an appointment-at the Bedford Hotel.’

  ‘But that’s where we put Peg Blythe, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who knew where she was?’

  ‘Nobody. Nobody knew.’

  ‘What the hell is going on around here!’ Brock was on his feet, reaching for his coat.

  Kathy quickly punched the hotel telephone number, spoke a few words and returned the receiver. ‘He arrived there ten minutes ago. Peg has just phoned down and ordered coffee and chocolate biscuits, for two.’

  Brock shook his head in disbelief. ‘Let’s go and join them, then. What did Finn have on his record, Kathy? Is he a thief?’

  ‘One charge of theft as a juvenile. Since then GBH, resisting arrest, and, most recently, about ten years ago, assault. A charge of attempted murder was dropped.’

  She ran after Brock as he thundered down the wooden stairs.

  Peg answered Kathy’s knock, looking fresh and with her morale restored. She was wearing a burgundy knitted suit with flowery blouse and pearls, her white hair carefully coiffed, and she welcomed them with a delighted smile, as if they were old friends she hadn’t seen in years.

  ‘How lovely of you both to come and see me again. And in such terrible weather! You’re just in time for morning coffee to warm you up.’

  ‘We just wanted to check how you were, Mrs Blythe. Are you alone?’ Kathy was looking over the top of her head into the room.

  ‘Peg, dear, please.’ She put a neatly manicured, arthritic hand o
n Kathy’s arm and spoke in a confiding whisper. Kathy bent her head to hear, and smelled her lavender cologne. ‘I have another visitor, a dear friend of mine that I invited to visit me.’ She looked at Kathy with a twinkle in her eye and patted her arm. ‘Come in and meet him.’

  Seated in an armchair was a wiry little man of about fifty, with a badly broken nose. In one hand he held a teacup raised to his lips, and in the other the saucer upon which was perched a chocolate biscuit. He put these encumbrances carefully down on the coffee table in front of him and rose to his feet.

  ‘Danny, I’d like you to meet the charming police officers I was telling you about. Kathy and…’-she hesitated-‘Chief Inspector Brock. This is Mr Danny Finn.’

  Finn put out his hand. ‘How d’ye do. Peg’s been telling me about ye. Come away and sit down.’ He turned to Peg. ‘Peg, hen, I’ll be on my way. Ye’ll have things to discuss with the officers, an’ I need tae be gettin’ back anyhow.’

  ‘Actually it was you we really wanted to see, Mr Finn,’ Kathy said coolly.

  Finn looked at her carefully. ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘But you will take a cup of coffee, won’t you?’ Peg lifted the phone. ‘Now I remember you take black, Inspector,’ she said flirtatiously, ‘but what about you, Kathy, dear?’

  ‘No, really, Mrs Blythe, we won’t stop for coffee,’ Brock said.

  ‘Of course, you’re so busy. Well, do please sit down for a moment. Danny here has been such a help. I find it so useful to talk things over with him. He’s been giving me advice on security for when I return to my flat. He feels I need better window locks. What do you think, Inspector?’

  Brock grunted, ‘Very likely. We’ll get a Crime Prevention Officer to call again. But you mustn’t be thinking of that until we find who was responsible for the death of your sisters. Surely you must understand that.’

  ‘I do so appreciate your concern, Inspector. Have you no clues at all?’

  ‘We believe that Mr Winter was responsible for the acts of vandalism and the attempts to frighten you and your sister in the past five months. We charged him this morning.’