Brock introduced his secretary, who gave Starling a small smile, examining him with considerable interest.
‘It’s private here, Sammy,’ Brock said. ‘We’ll conduct a preliminary interview, then see what we can do. Take a seat.’
Starling and Bren took the chairs offered, and Brock pressed the button on a tape-recorder on the table in front of him. ‘Dot will set up the paperwork in such a way that the details of the operation are kept as confidential as possible, Sammy. But, clearly, several people will have to know and approve.
‘Now, tell me what you know about Keller. Did he write to you from prison? Threaten you in any way?’
Starling shook his head. ‘No. All I knew I read in the papers. After Stringer died, it was reported that Keller had been moved up to the maximum security block at Durham, and I heard no more about him. I put him out of my mind, forgot that he existed.’
Brock opened the file in front of him. ‘Martin Arthur Keller. Former Detective Inspector in Department SO6, Fraud Squad. Sentenced at the Old Bailey to thirteen years for perjury, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, the taking of a bribe, assault on a witness, and attempted murder. Released on April the twenty-third this year after serving eight years and six months. Now aged forty-five. He had a wife, who divorced him two years into his sentence. No children. Next of kin given as a brother, Barney Keller, painter and decorator, of Ealing, West London.’
Brock looked closely at Starling. ‘The attempted murder charge was what clinched it, wasn’t it, Sammy? And you were the intended victim.’
Starling shuddered. ‘I still can’t take the tube, Mr Brock. Just the thought of those tunnels, turning a corner and seeing him again, standing there waiting for me . . .’
‘So it’s natural that you’d immediately think of him, especially with him having just been released. But is there anything more than that?’
‘A couple of months ago I got this phone call from someone. Male voice, didn’t say who he was. Wanted to tell me that Keller was out of jail. Thought I’d like to know.’
‘Did the call seem threatening to you? Or could it have been a friend? Someone from the old days, perhaps, who’d heard that Keller was out.’
‘I don’t know. It was over in a few seconds. But I didn’t recognise the voice, and if it had been a friend, why wouldn’t they have said who they were? And the call came to my private line at home, which is ex-directory.’
‘So you felt threatened by it. What did you do?’
‘Nothing at first. I just shrugged it off. Keller had been guilty, and he’d done his time. End of story. What was it to me, now? It had all happened so long ago.’
Starling paused, blank face staring at the blank wall as if trying to picture something, and they waited for him to go on.
‘What changed your mind, then?’
‘A few days later I woke up in the middle of the night. The way you do . . . do you know what I mean?’ He looked at Brock, willing him to understand. Kathy, studying his face, felt she was beginning to read its subtle inflections, catching the swift little shadows, barely detectable, that turned the bland circle from fear to hope, amusement to sadness. ‘When you’ve pushed something you don’t want to think about to the back of your mind. And then, suddenly, you wake up, and there it is, big and real, in flashing lights? I thought about the phone call, and I began to think about Keller, and how he’d look at things.
‘Ten years ago he was a young, ambitious copper, a favourite with his bosses, Stringer and Harley, obviously heading for the top. He had a lovely wife, nice house, a bit of money in the bank. Whereas I was a man without a future, not long widowed, facing a stretch in gaol.
‘Ten years later, it’s him that’s coming out of prison. It’s him that’s lost everything, his wife, his house, his money. He has no future. And in the meantime I’ve been reborn. I’m a successful businessman. I’ve got a beautiful young wife. I live in a big house.’
Starling took a deep breath, and Kathy picked up a wheeze—a summer cold, perhaps, or hay fever, asthma. His smooth forehead was gleaming with a film of sweat, more than when he’d come in, although it was much cooler in here than outside in the street.
‘I lay awake for a long time, thinking about this. It was as if I could see into his mind—as if his thoughts were coming direct to me, through the darkness, thoughts that he’d had more than eight prison years to think. I was responsible, and he would want me to pay, no question of that. And it scared the shit out of me, I tell you.’
‘You were always such a cool customer, Sammy,’ Brock said quietly. ‘Never one to panic.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’ Starling took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped the sweat away from his eyelids. ‘We get old. And maybe now I got something to panic about.’
Kathy noticed that his hand had a tremor.
‘So what did you do?’
‘First I spent a lot of money upgrading the security on the house and the flat. Then I arranged to find out what Keller got up to when he came out.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘There’s a bloke I’ve used before, known him for years. Private investigator. I got him to find Keller and watch him, day and night.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘He went to Ealing, where his brother lives. Barney had rented a room for him, and given him a job with his firm, painting and decorating.’
‘Who’s this investigator of yours?’ Brock asked.
Starling hesitated. ‘He doesn’t know about the kidnapping, Mr Brock. And he doesn’t need to.’
‘Fair enough. What’s his name?’
‘Sometimes his methods are a bit . . . cost effective.’
‘Nice way of putting it, Sammy. We all approve of cost effectiveness. One of the cardinal virtues these days. What’s his name?’
‘Ronnie Wilkes.’
‘So Ronnie Wilkes did what? Searched Keller’s room while he was out painting and decorating?’ Starling nodded. ‘And found what?’
‘Nothing,’ Starling said.
‘No newspaper clippings of your wedding to Eva? No address book with your entry? No prison diary?’
‘No.’
‘And he followed Keller, and what did that produce?’
Starling shook his head gloomily. ‘He works eight or nine hours a day on his brother’s jobs, stops on the way home for a pint of beer with the other lads, buys a takeaway and goes back to his room. The light goes out at ten o’clock, regular. At the weekend he goes to the football with his brother and his brother’s kid—Chelsea supporters. On Sunday he goes to their house for a roast dinner. He sleeps a lot.’
‘All very innocent, then.’
‘It’s not natural. His room is like his prison cell. Worse than that—no radio, no TV, no pictures on the wall, no letters, no mates. He doesn’t go anywhere on his own. As far as Ronnie can tell, he’s made no contact with anyone he knew in the Met. He shows no interest in women. It’s as if, in his head, he’s still inside. Or on a mission.’
‘Let’s not get carried away, Sammy. Anything else?’
‘He has a mobile phone, so his brother can keep in touch with him on the jobs,’ Starling said cautiously. ‘Ronnie came by a record of his calls.’
‘Did he indeed? Very cost effective. Anything interesting?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘How long did Ronnie watch him?’
‘Over three weeks, then I called him off. Since then, I get him to do a random tail from time to time, and check Keller’s phone calls. There’s never been anything.’
‘Well, I don’t get it then, Sammy. What makes you so convinced . . . ?’
‘Men don’t behave like that when they get out of prison, Mr Brock. He must have arranged everything while he was inside. He has friends, people he met inside, and before that coppers who thought he got a raw deal. He fixed everything up before he was released, and now he’s behaving like a man who assumes he’s being watched. He’s so well beha
ved it isn’t human. You can see that, can’t you?’
Starling was leaning forward stiffly, trying to infect them with his conviction, but all he saw in their faces was scepticism.
‘All right,’ Brock said, after a moment. ‘Tell us about Eva’s disappearance. Was there anything, looking back now, to warn you? Any strange cars in your street? Unfamiliar faces in the neighbourhood?’
Starling shook his head. ‘They’d have stood out. It’s a very quiet spot, where we live.’
‘Are you and Eva alone in the house?’
‘Marianna lives with us. She was Eva’s nanny when she was a girl, and Eva brought her with her when we got married, as her maid.’
‘From where?’
‘Portugal. They’re Portuguese. Marianna doesn’t speak much English. Hardly a word, although she’s been here over three years now.’
‘I see. So when did you last see Eva?’
‘Last Thursday, Eva said she was going to go to the flat for the weekend. We had breakfast on the Friday morning, then I took her down to Farnham station and she caught the ten eighteen up to town. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.’
Brock looked at him with surprise. ‘You let her come up here on her own?’
Starling lowered his eyes. He tried to say something, but the sound came out as a croak. He coughed, clearing his throat, and managed, ‘Any chance of a glass of water, Mr Brock?’
Bren nodded and left the room.
‘Since I started getting worried about Keller, I hadn’t let Eva out of my sight,’ Starling said hoarsely. ‘I wouldn’t let her leave the house to go down to Farnham, or take a walk in the woods round where we live. And it was driving her crazy.’
Bren returned with a glass of water, which Starling gulped awkwardly, almost choking. He brought out his handkerchief again and wiped his mouth and eyes.
‘Eva is a fanatic about movies, Mr Brock,’ he went on. ‘Especially Spanish and South American movies—Brazil, Argentina, Mexico . . . There are certain cinemas in London she’s found that show the stuff she likes. At first I used to go with her. Only I couldn’t make much sense of it. My Spanish and Portuguese aren’t much better than Marianna’s English. I’d lose my place with the subtitles, and fall asleep, and Eva would have to wake me up, to stop me snoring.’
He took another sip of water, more cautiously this time.
‘So, once she knew her way around, I let her go up to the flat on her own. I opened an account at an Italian restaurant round the corner where she could eat, and she’d have two, three days at a time, doing a bit of shopping, and pigging out on foreign movies. Seriously, she could spend whole days, from waking up in the morning to going to bed at night, sitting in the dark in some movie house, weeping and laughing . . .’
‘On her own? No Marianna, or friends?’
‘Marianna doesn’t like the city, and there’s only one bedroom in the flat. Eva’s got no friends in town apart from my friends, people my age. I’ve phoned round them all— none of them have heard from her.’
‘What about the phone, Sammy? Don’t you keep in touch with her?’
‘Yes, of course, normally. But sometimes she gets so wrapped up in the films, and just forgets to answer messages. She’s not good with answering-machines, things like that. She doesn’t even have a mobile—says she can never remember the buttons to press to turn it on or recover messages. And I never like to make her feel I’m checking on her.
‘It wasn’t until after the weekend that I started to worry. By Tuesday evening, when I still couldn’t raise her, I decided to go up to the flat myself the next day. Then, Wednesday morning, the first letter arrived. Those words, “Where is she, Sammy?”’ He rubbed his fingers across his mouth. ‘It was an accusation. She was missing, and I hadn’t known . . . How long had she been gone?’
‘The first letter was postmarked Tuesday morning,’ Brock said. ‘Show them to Bren, will you, Sammy?’
He passed them over to Bren, who took the two letters out of their envelopes, the same questions forming in his mind that Kathy had asked. ‘These are old stamps, aren’t they?’ he began.
Brock said, ‘Yes, tell us about the stamps, Sammy. It didn’t seem to make much sense earlier.’
‘It’s quite simple really. I’m a philatelist.’
Kathy saw Bren’s face go blank with disbelief.
Starling shrugged. ‘I collect postage stamps for a hobby. In my own way, I suppose I’m as fanatical about old stamps as Eva is about movies.’
The others received this with a heavy silence.
‘How long have you had this particular hobby, Sammy?’ Brock asked finally.
‘I started when I was a kid, then I forgot about it for a long time. I suppose I got into it again about the time Brenda died. It gave me something to take my mind off that and other things.’
‘It’s a tax dodge, is that it?’ Bren suggested, a light dawning on his face. ‘Some way of investing dodgy cash. Is that right?’
‘No.’ Starling looked offended. ‘It’s not a dodge. I suppose you could call it a form of investment.’
‘You deal in stamps?’ Brock asked.
‘I buy, and occasionally I sell, always through reputable dealers, Mr Brock. All above board.’
‘You haven’t been cheating one of these reputable dealers, have you?’
‘No!’ Starling said firmly, his hands formed into fists, the thin scars on the fingers of the left hand gleaming pale. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Then what on earth is the point of sending you those stamps?’ Brock said, waving a hand at the two notes.
‘It’s personal, isn’t it?’ Starling replied. ‘It’s telling me that whoever sent those notes knows me, knows everything about me—my habits, my interests, my private life. And it’s telling me that, whatever they want, the stakes are going to be high, right?’
Brock looked doubtful. ‘Who knows about this interest of yours, then? It’s not in your police file, as far as I recall.’
‘It’s not a secret exactly. The dealers, a few friends . . .’
‘Not public knowledge, though.’
‘Not public, no.’
‘All right, now we’re going to need to make up a list of all of the people you and Eva come in contact with in the normal run of things. Who does your garden, who services your car, who cleans your windows, everyone. Then we’ll start checking them all.’
‘Discreetly, please, Mr Brock,’ Sammy begged. ‘What if one of them is involved, and takes fright?’
‘Of course, Sammy. Very discreetly. None of them will know, I promise you.’
Kathy, who had said nothing until this point, spoke. ‘Eva knows all about your stamps, of course, Mr Starling. Just as you know about her private interests.’
Starling didn’t respond to this, not even looking at Kathy, as if her words had floated by his head without registering.
‘Could they be your own stamps?’ she went on. ‘From your own collection?’
He frowned, as if hearing her for the first time. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘No, they’re not mine.’
‘Mr Melville said that you specialise in that particular type—what were they called?’
‘Chalon Heads, yes.’
‘So you have many Chalon Heads in your collection?’
‘Yes.’
‘These ones?’
‘I have my own versions of them, yes.’
‘But these aren’t them? You checked that?’
Starling wiped his face again with his handkerchief. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I did check that.’
3
A Life of Starling
The men were framed in the grid of scaffolding like counters on a snakes-and-ladders board, each working on a different square, transforming the gable of the building from faded green to deep red. Bren gazed at them each in turn through the binoculars. Keller was the one with the shaved head and the least splattered white overalls. He was older than the others, and making slower progre
ss, less fluid in his movements. More single-minded in his labour, too, ignoring them when they shouted comments to each other, or whistled at a girl walking past along the street.
‘They’ve been on this job now for four days,’ Ronnie Wilkes said. ‘Sammy gave me a bell Wednesday afternoon, but I couldn’t get on to it till this morning. I asked at the corner shop over there, and they told me they set the scaffolding up Monday. They had to do a bit of patching first.’
He picked his nose and lit a cigarette. As an afterthought he offered one to Bren, who declined, thinking about what his wife would say about the stink of smoke in his clothes. He wound the window down another inch and blue fumes drifted past his eyes and out into the hot afternoon air. At least it smothered the sour smell of Wilkes’s sweat, which had been filling the car. Bren wondered if the other man wasn’t getting a bit too old, a bit too flabby for this game.
‘Have you got a written record of the times you were watching Keller?’ Bren asked.
‘Nah,’ Wilkes shook his head dismissively. ‘I’d just phone up Sammy at the end of each day and give him a verbal report. That’s all he needed.’
‘Did he give any particular reason for wanting you to watch Keller on Wednesday?’
‘Nothing special. But he’s been doing that for the last couple of months. He thinks Keller’s got it in for him. Is that why you’re here?’
‘You’ve seen nothing?’
‘Not a bloody thing. It’s been the most boring job I’ve ever had.’
Towards five the painters packed it in. Bren watched them come down the ladders loaded up with their cans and brushes, which they locked away with their overalls in a small shed at the base of the wall. The other three lit up cigarettes, but not Keller, and they all piled into a battered old Capri, Keller folding himself awkwardly into the back.
Bren tailed them to the Red Lion, a utilitarian corner pub half a mile away. They went in at the door facing one street, he through the other, and he watched them between the racks and bottles of the bar. They sat at a table together but, as on the site, Keller seemed detached from them. While they chatted and laughed, he read an Evening Standard, less out of interest, it seemed, than as a way of avoiding involvement in their conversations. It was exactly as Starling had told them, except that Keller was drinking fruit juice rather than beer. Bren wondered why he bothered to come to the pub with the others. Starling would say that they were there as background, a camouflage of normality while Keller plotted mayhem. Or perhaps it was the only way he could get a lift home.
The Chalon Heads Page 3
