‘Your kid?’
‘No, no. Sammy and Brenda’s boy, Gordon. He was just a toddler.’
‘Ah. So you were really close to the family.’
‘Of course. Brenda was a good mother, but she was kept busy, looking after Sammy’s affairs. She always got herself involved in whatever he was doing. That’s why they had such a good marriage, a proper partnership.’
‘Unlike Sammy and Eva, do you mean?’
‘I never said that,’ Sally said stiffly. Kathy thought of the parallel with Marianna, both women’s lives spent rearing other women’s solitary children.
‘It must have been hard for you when Gordon died, then.’
‘Brock told you about that, did he?’
Kathy didn’t correct her, although she wondered why Brock had told her so little. She felt herself groping for the right questions.
‘It was hard all right. Brenda took it specially badly. I watched her go downhill from that year.’
‘Do you think that had something to do with her death?’ Kathy improvised.
‘Of course it did. That’s when the depression started. It was terrible watching it taking hold of her, for two long years, until she finally—Oh, at last! I thought you’d got lost, Mr Brock.’
Kathy looked up as Brock came back into the room. He slung his damp jacket on the back of the spare chair and sat down, ignoring Sally’s attempt to tease him.
‘Since when have you been in sewing-machines, Sally?’ he said, drawing a mug of black tea towards him and pouring in some milk.
‘There’s plenty around here makes their own clothes and curtains, and need a good second-hand machine, or their old one fixing up. We do a nice little business, Rudi and I, keeps us out of mischief.’
‘Rudi . . .’ Brock looked thoughtful. ‘Have we met before, Rudi? Name’s familiar.’
‘Everyone I’ve ever known was known to you, Mr Brock.’ Sally gave a little cackle.
‘Well, you always kept such interesting company. And the two of you own this business, do you?’
She nodded. ‘We make a good partnership. Rudi’s good at the mechanical side, fixing up the machines, and I do marketing and the books.’
‘Marketing?’ Brock gave a little smile, and she scowled and thrust a handbill at him, advertising their services.
‘Did Sammy help you get started—financially, I mean?’
‘No. We did it on our own.’
‘Has Sammy ever been here?’
‘No.’
‘Sally was telling me that she hasn’t seen Sammy since she left three years ago,’ Kathy added.
Brock looked as if he didn’t appreciate her interruption. ‘I see. After you’d lived under his roof for thirty years.’
‘Haven’t been invited back, have I?’ Sally sniffed.
‘Eva kicked you out, did she?’
Sally bristled. ‘I decided it was time to retire from being Sammy’s housekeeper,’ she said stiffly.
‘To take up a career in marketing.’ Brock sipped his tea. ‘That must have been a big wrench for you. After all those years.’
Sally Malone said nothing.
‘She was headstrong, was she, Sally? Wilful?’
‘Used to getting her way, yes. Well, she was a princess, wasn’t she?’
‘Sammy likes to get his own way, too. That must have led to a few arguments, eh?’
‘I never heard a cross word between them,’ Sally said carefully. ‘Not one.’
‘He was generous to her, I believe.’
‘Very. Clothes, jewellery, as much spending money as she wanted.’
‘Cash?’
‘I’d say so. Why? You think that’s what got her into trouble? Flashing it around?’
‘And you never saw them quarrel?’
‘Never. It was all lovey-dovey.’
‘What about the flat in London? Why did she go there?’
‘You’ll have to ask Sammy that,’ she replied primly. ‘They didn’t consult me. And it wasn’t long after that that I left.’
‘So when did you see her last, Sally?’
‘I told you, three years ago, when I left the Crow’s Nest. I ain’t seen either of them since.’
‘What about Marty Keller? Seen him?’
‘Gawd.’ She lowered her mug to the table, and Kathy noticed the tremble in her hand. ‘Is he involved in this?’
‘Sammy believes so.’
‘But Keller’s still inside, ain’t he?’
Brock shook his head, and Sally pressed her lips tight, face pale.
‘Then that must be it. After all this time! Can’t they leave us alone? Poor Sammy . . .’
‘Poor Eva,’ Brock said. He turned to Kathy. ‘Anything else?’
‘I’d like to hear how Sammy and Eva got together,’ she said.
Brock glanced at his watch.
‘How did that happen, Sally?’ Kathy prompted.
‘I think he was as surprised as anyone.’ The little woman bit her lip. ‘Well, like I said, he’d lost Gordon, then Brenda, and that had changed him. He’d depended on her so much, see, all those years. He didn’t say much, but I could tell he was lost. He was a great one for believing in luck, and I think he’d decided that his luck had run out. He closed himself off, all stiff and hard. Hard as ice.
‘Then one spring, 1993 it was, he went off on business to the Continent, Portugal, all stiff-faced, complaining of his indigestion as usual. A week later he came back, and he was a different man. He’d got a bit of a tan, and there wasn’t no more talk of his tummy no more. I said, “What’s come over you, then?” And he gave me a hug, and said, “Sally, I feel as if I’ve just woken up after a long sleep. For the first time in years I can smell the roses.” Then he went out into the garden, which he’d hardly set foot in since Brenda passed away, and he wandered round, looking at the flowers. That evening I remember he cut up some apples for the deer that come down from the woods.’
‘Did he tell you it was a woman?’
She snorted. ‘He didn’t need to tell me that. He went up to town and bought himself a whole new wardrobe, and had his hair trimmed. He went to see his doctor, and joined the fitness club. Two weeks later he was off again, back to sunny Portugal, with a new set of travel luggage full of mysterious, expensive-looking little packages that he didn’t discuss with me.’
‘Just like that? And the romance went according to plan?’
‘I don’t know that it did, not at first. He came back after that second trip looking out of sorts. He didn’t seem miserable exactly, more serious, like, and determined, as if he’d realised that what he had in mind wasn’t going to be so easy as he’d first thought.’
‘But he didn’t talk to you about it? He knew, I suppose, that you wouldn’t approve, her being a teenager . . .’
Sally took a sip of her tea and pointedly didn’t reply.
‘So what did he do then?’
She pondered. ‘He went back . . . No, hang on. First he sent Ronnie Wilkes over.’
‘Wilkes?’ Kathy said.
‘Yes, you probably know him, Mr Brock. Sammy uses him to do odd jobs.’
‘What odd job did he do in Portugal?’
‘I’ve no idea. I just remember him at the house. He was around a lot then, planning things with Sammy. Then Sammy went over himself a couple of times, and next thing he told me was that he was getting married to a Portuguese princess, and I had to sound surprised—well, I was surprised about the princess bit.’
‘And you hadn’t met her? She hadn’t come over to see him here, to see his house?’
‘No. I never saw ’er until October, when they came back from their honeymoon.’
‘Did you realise that she was going to be quite so young?’
‘He’d kept good and quiet about that. When she stepped out the car I thought at first she must be a step-daughter or something. I was looking past her, looking for the wife, until Sammy told me this was her.’
Kathy smiled. ‘What was she like?’
Sally considered, then spoke carefully. ‘She was fresh and excited, like a kid. Well, she was a kid. Sammy looked embarrassed and ecstatic both at the same time. She gave me a kiss, I remember, and some presents because I hadn’t been invited to the wedding.’ Kathy noticed the way Sally’s eyes narrowed as she said this. ‘French perfume, and some small pieces of jewellery. Modern, like. Not really my taste, but the thought was there.’
‘She was young enough to be his granddaughter, Sally. It must have been very awkward for you.’
She conceded a nod. ‘We were careful with each other, so as not to cause offence. She could see, when she changed things—the curtains in the dining room that Brenda had chosen—she could see that I . . .’
‘Didn’t approve?’
‘Felt sad. It wasn’t for me to approve. But I did find it difficult. Some of the things she tossed out we’d ’ad for thirty years.’
We’d had, Kathy thought. She sensed Brock becoming impatient, and she told him that she was finished. She wondered what they could have hoped to get from Sally. An admission that Eva visited her on her trips up to London? It seemed unlikely.
They returned to the front of the shop. The rain had subsided to a light shower, the sun struggling to glimmer through breaks in the cloud cover.
‘Let us know if you see any sign of Keller, or anything else unusual, Sally.’
‘I’ll keep the carving knife handy, Mr Brock.’
‘A security alarm would be better. And a mobile phone.’
‘I’ve got those too, don’t you worry.’
They drove for a while in silence, then Kathy said, ‘What did Brenda Starling die of, Brock? Keller said something about Sammy’s wives being accident-prone? What did he mean?’
Brock didn’t reply for a whole block. Then he stirred in his seat and sat more upright, as if he’d come to a decision about something.
‘She killed herself, Kathy,’ he growled. Another block passed before he went on. ‘She walked down to Farnham station one summer evening, while Sammy was playing with his stamps, and laid her head on the track.’
‘God . . .’ A woman with a pram stepped out on to a pedestrian crossing ahead of them and Kathy forced her concentration back to the road, so that at first she didn’t register what he said next. Then she pulled to a stop and asked him to repeat it.
‘I said, her head was destroyed.’
Five minutes later he stunned her a second time. She had crossed Westminster Bridge and manoeuvred through the traffic streams gyrating around Parliament Square, and then spotted a likely parking space on the approach to Queen Anne’s Gate when he said, ‘I think it would be best if you came off this case, Kathy.’
‘What?’ She was so surprised that she responded as if it were a joke. ‘I thought you needed my unique blend of female rationality . . .’
‘I made a mistake,’ he interrupted quietly, and she realised that he wasn’t joking.
She gripped the wheel tightly as she reverse parked, waiting for more, but none came. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
He frowned at his hands, balled into fists on his lap. ‘Nothing like that. it’s just a matter of judgement. I haven’t been . . .’ he searched for the right word ‘. . . comfortable, about you working on this case, from the beginning. Let’s just leave it at that. I think you’d be more suited to some other area.’ He turned away from her, looking out of the side window.
She flushed. More suited to some other area? She repeated his words in her head a couple of times, trying to extract some additional meaning from them. ‘You have another case you want me to switch to?’
‘Another area,’ he repeated. ‘SO6 have been looking for bright young women.’
‘Fraud Squad! Brock, I—’
‘It’s not a debate, Kathy,’ he said, opening the door. ‘I’ve already arranged it. You’re to report to Superintendent McLarren in the morning.’
11
A Parting of Ways
As she followed him along the twisting corridor through the offices at Queen Anne’s Gate Kathy felt numb. She’d never been sacked before, and the building heightened her sense of displacement. It was so unlike the usual police office building, so particular to Brock and his team, that its eccentricity emphasised the sudden fact that apparently she no longer had a place here. She knew Brock meant it when he had said it wasn’t a matter for debate—she’d seen him do this once before, to another DS who’d let him down. The man had vanished without a word to anyone, his desk swept clear of its neat rows of family photographs. But he had deserved it: he had made a mistake. What mistake had she made?
Bren and Leon Desai were waiting outside Brock’s room, talking quietly together. They continued their conversation as Brock unlocked his door, strode in and threw his wet jacket aside over a chair. They hardly acknowledged Kathy hanging back.
‘What’s the story, then, Leon?’ Brock said, sitting heavily behind his desk and waving them to chairs. He rubbed a hand across his face, as if trying to wipe something away. ‘You’ve got some results already?’
Desai seemed even calmer and more collected than usual. Kathy envied him his composure as she tried to decide, as feeling returned gradually to her, whether she felt more anger or despair.
‘We’re hopeful that the cardboard box will tell us something. It seems to be a distinctive type. They’re looking into that now.’
‘Yes? That all? What about the courier envelope?’
Desai hesitated. He drew himself more upright in his chair, an attaché case across his knee, and said, ‘Yes, the envelope. It was brought into the company’s dispatch centre at Lambeth at eight this morning by a man, but we can’t get a useful description. As you know, the envelope contained the Canada Cover and a note, cut into four pieces—the former, not the latter.’
The latter, Kathy thought, feeling a niggle of resentment now against Desai and his immaculate English. My career just collapsed without warning, and he’s distinguishing between the former and the latter.
Desai opened the case and took out two photographs, which he handed to Brock.
‘As you can see, the note is like the others.’
Brock read its message out loud:
‘THIS MADE ME VERY
ANGRY SAMMY.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.
‘We think he’s referring to the Canada Cover.’
Brock frowned, staring at the second photograph. ‘Yes, but why? He’s making a protest against money? I don’t understand. Why does a million-pound stamp make him very angry?’
Desai cleared his throat. ‘It seems that it isn’t the right stamp.’
‘Eh?’
‘The fellows in the lab believe that that cover isn’t the one that was auctioned yesterday.’
‘A forgery, you mean? Sammy gave them a copy?’
Desai nodded. ‘Actually, they believe that cover is the copy that the lab made for us.’
Brock sat forward in his chair and stared intently at him for a moment before he said, very deliberately, ‘That’s not possible, is it, Leon?’
Desai lowered his eyes but didn’t reply. The room was very silent.
Eventually Bren said, ‘Hang on. I thought you blokes told me yesterday that we didn’t use that lab copy?’
Desai stayed silent. He sat apparently unperturbed, eyes lowered. Then Kathy noticed the tip of a pink tongue appear briefly between his brown lips, and for the first time wondered how composed he really was.
‘Kathy? You were there, weren’t you?’ Bren asked her, but she continued watching Desai and said nothing. She remembered clearly Brock putting the envelope containing the laboratory copy cover into his jacket pocket after they had decided not to use it. It was the same jacket now lying, wet, across the chair in the corner. She wondered where Desai was going with this.
‘Leon,’ Brock said at last, an edge to his voice, ‘why don’t you tell Bren what’s on your mind? You’re the one playing detective.’
‘The lab fellows are quite convinced that this is their copy,’ he replied, voice calm and evenly modulated. ‘They have a list of fifteen points of identification. If necessary we could get Dr Waverley, Cabot’s expert, to confirm it. He worked on the copy too.’ He met Brock’s eyes. ‘That’s really all that I have, Brock. How it could have happened . . . I’ve no idea. But I thought you should know.’
‘In front of witnesses, Leon?’ Brock asked softly.
Desai met his eyes and said carefully, ‘The two fellows from SO10 were at the lab when the document people came up with this. They seemed extremely interested. I thought we . . . you should be careful.’
Brock considered him thoughtfully. ‘I see. Thank you, Leon. Gallows and Heath, eh? Who invited them, I wonder? I thought they’d packed up and moved on.’
‘I don’t know that anyone invited them,’ Desai said. ‘I have the impression that they are very unhappy about what happened yesterday. They seem to be digging around.’
‘I can confirm that,’ Bren added. ‘Central File Office were on to us this morning for a file on Sammy Starling that we’re holding. SO10 had requested it, apparently.’
‘And they asked me more questions this morning about how I came to be at the Canonbury flat when Starling returned there from Heathrow,’ Desai said. ‘At the lab I got the impression they weren’t too impressed that I was working on a Sunday. They seemed to expect to have the place to themselves.’
Brock scratched his beard, thinking, then got slowly to his feet and walked over to the window. The rainclouds had cleared, leaving the city sodden under the low evening sun. ‘I came back here after Sammy and Kathy left for Farnham yesterday afternoon,’ he said softly, as if to himself. ‘I took the envelope with the copy cover out of my jacket pocket and put it in the safe over there.’ He pointed to a dark-green government-issue safe standing in a corner of the room. It was the size of a small two-drawer filing cabinet, and an unstable-looking heap of documents stood on top of it. ‘As far as I know, it’s still there.’
The Chalon Heads Page 18
