‘You said just now that Sammy phoned you on the Sunday night and said Eva was going up to the flat for a few days.’
‘Yes.’ Wilkes yawned and scratched, becoming bored with this.
‘So she hadn’t actually left then.’
‘Eh? I dunno.’
‘Was going. That means she hadn’t yet gone.’
‘Oh . . .’ Vagueness filled Ronnie’s face again. ‘Well, I suppose you’re right.’
Kathy sighed and got to her feet. ‘I hope I never have to use you as a witness, Ronnie.’
He grinned. ‘That’s the general idea, innit?’
‘What do you know about Sammy’s gun?’
‘Eh?’ Ronnie’s face dropped. ‘Has he taken that bloody thing with ’im?’ The idea seemed to worry him a good deal.
‘I asked what you know about it.’
‘Some prat, someone he’d done some business with, gave it to ’im for a present, several years ago. It was the most stupid bloody gift you could imagine for Sammy. He got all keen for a while, and joined this club. He took me there once, kind of showing off. Beautiful gun, mind, almost as big as ’im. Deadly accurate, except when he used it. Watching him blazing away on the firing range was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. He hit everybody’s target ’cept his own.’
‘So he has ammunition?’
‘Jesus, I don’t know.’ He looked pale.
At the door she stopped and said, ‘What about Eva’s mobile?’
‘Eh?’ He frowned. ‘I don’t remember her having one.’
Kathy looked hard at him, but his face expressed nothing but torpor.
When she got back to her car, she made a call to headquarters to have Sammy’s phone records checked for his call to Ronnie, then headed south, driving against the incoming commuter flow, out towards the A21, the hop gardens and orchards of the Weald.
In Battle, 349A High Street turned out to be a shop, with the name Chambers Antiques over the window. Kathy watched lights come on, then someone reverse the sign hanging behind the door, from Closed to Open. She got out of the car, walked towards it and opened the door.
‘Good morning.’ A girl of about twenty seemed to be alone. She came round from behind the counter. ‘Can I help?’
The interior of the shop glittered with the reflections of glass and crystal, the glow of polished wood and leather. Quality, Kathy thought, not tourist trash. The girl had a cloth in her hand, which she had been using on one of a number of ornate grandfather clocks ticking sumptuously in the background.
‘I wondered if Mrs Chambers was in,’ Kathy said.
‘Oh, no, I’m afraid she isn’t here at the moment. Can I give her a message?’
‘Actually, it was Mr Brock I wanted.’
The girl looked at Kathy with a frown. ‘Mr Brock?’
Kathy’s hopes faded. ‘David.’
‘David?’ The other woman smiled. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘It’s rather urgent,’ Kathy went on gamely, ready to give up. ‘Very urgent, actually.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Never mind. I’ll try somewhere else.’
Kathy turned to the door and had her hand on the knob when the girl said, ‘If it’s really important, they’ve gone up to the Abbey.’
Kathy turned back, surprised. ‘The Abbey?’
‘Yes. You know, the site of the battle. They decided to go before all the tourists arrive, before it gets too busy.’
Kathy got directions and took the street towards the marketplace, and behind it the battlemented mass of the gatehouse to the Benedictine abbey, now ruined on the hilltop beyond. There was already a short queue at the entry desk, people examining the souvenirs, reading the introductory notices. She paid her fee, took the handset offered her for the commentary, and set off along the marked trail.
She came to the terrace walk, a long, gravelled ridge on which the English army had been deployed on 14 October 1066, overlooking the boggy valley to her right, across which the Norman force had struggled for the best part of that day. There were a number of small groups of people on the walk, strolling slowly from one observation point to another, pausing to listen to their audio guides. Among them she saw a family, two small children, a woman and a man. The man was kneeling, tying the shoelace of the smaller child, a girl of three or four. It was only when he straightened upright that Kathy realised it was Brock.
The other child, a boy of perhaps eight, said something that made the woman laugh. She turned towards Brock, the sun on her face. Brock gestured to the boy, making big sweeping arcs with his hand, explaining the theory of trajectories. The boy listened carefully, then made him repeat part of it, enchanted by the notion that, through an empty sky, there are two alternative routes by which an arrow may arrive at precisely the same point. In this case, as he went on to demonstrate with his finger, in a manner that made the little girl go ‘Yuck,’ the eye of an English king.
Kathy held back, watching them, uncertain what to do. They appeared so enclosed in each other’s company, like any ideal nuclear family, if somewhat extended in their age range. Grandparents and grandchildren, perhaps. She frowned and turned away. Maybe later, she thought, she might catch him alone.
She retraced her steps, back to the end of the terrace walk, heading towards the entrance, when the phone in her shoulder-bag started ringing. She got it out and heard Brock’s voice. ‘I’m not sure that stalking is your forte, Kathy. Are you alone?’
‘Hell,’ she muttered. ‘Yes . . . yes, Brock.’
‘Well, if you’ve got this far, you’d better come and tell me what you’ve got to say.’
She turned back and found him sitting alone on a bench halfway along the terrace walk.
He was dressed in a light summer shirt and slacks, exactly like the tourist he was supposed to be, and seemed completely untroubled. He grinned at the slightly sheepish look on her face as she approached, and patted the seat beside him. ‘Well, then?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I tried every way to get a message to you.’ She sat down.
‘That’s all right. I should have known that there was no way to elude Detective Kolla. Although I can’t for the life of me think how you did manage to find me. It couldn’t have been Dot?’
‘She was most unhelpful.’
‘Good. She was meant to be. Well, then, this message.’
Kathy described McLarren’s interview with Starling, his disappearance, and his gun. ‘McLarren made it sound as if you were directly responsible for Eva’s death. Sammy seemed devastated. I think he may be trying to find you, Brock. I think you’re in danger.’
‘Mmm . . .’ Brock considered this. ‘Well, he won’t find me . . . Unless he’s had the sense to tag along behind you, that is. He couldn’t have done that, could he?’
Kathy blushed. ‘No! No, of course not. I was very careful.’
‘I hope so, Kathy. I’d hate to think that other innocent people were being put in danger.’ He looked over his left shoulder towards the sound of a child’s laughter among the ruined walls of the monks’ dormitory, brooding over the old battlefield.
‘Why don’t I arrange protection?’
‘Kathy,’ he said gently. ‘Do me a favour. Let me arrange things my own way. Please.’
She bit her lip. ‘Sorry.’
‘And what was the other thing?’
‘The other thing?’
‘That you wanted to see me about.’ He considered her gravely as she met his eye.
‘I . . . No, that was it, really.’
‘You didn’t want to ask me about my decision to kick you over to SO6?’
‘Well, yes, I did, actually. I found that . . . quite hard to swallow, without explanation.’
Brock sighed. ‘Yes. It was seeing what they’d done to Eva that really decided me, although I’d been uneasy from the beginning. You have to understand how it was the first time, with Sammy and Keller and the others. You know about Superintendent Tom Harley, do you? How he died?’
‘Yes.’
Brock gazed out over the meadow, as if he might catch sight of the ghosts of ancient armies. ‘That was one of the worst things I’ve had to work through. I’m not saying that Sammy deliberately framed him, but Sammy is a fighter— when it comes to the crunch, he’ll use whatever he’s got to hand, and Tom Harley’s suicide certainly got him off the hook. Seeing Sammy again last week, grinning hopefully at me as if we were old pals setting out on a great new adventure, brought it all back. I wanted none of it.’
He sighed again and returned his attention to Kathy. ‘And, as things developed, I liked it less and less. I could see things turning out badly, and I wanted you out of it. What they did to Eva, the business with the Canada Cover . . . These people are playing very rough. So I thought I would move you somewhere safer. When I became aware of Jock McLarren’s interest, I thought that he might do very well. You would be removed, but still could keep a useful eye on the fringe. I didn’t realise how quickly things would develop.’
‘But couldn’t you have explained all that?’ Kathy protested. ‘Couldn’t you have taken me into your confidence a little?’
Brock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Would that have been better? If I’d said, “Kathy, things are getting a bit rough around here, I think I’m about to be accused of theft, women are getting their heads cut off, and I want you to clear off somewhere a bit safer, out of the firing line,” you would have said, “Yes, fine, whatever you say, Brock.” Would you?’
Kathy chewed her lip but didn’t reply.
‘Now, with Bren it wouldn’t have been a problem,’ Brock continued. ‘Tell Bren to bugger off to Barbados, and he packs his bag without a murmur. But you? Did you get him to help you find me, by the way?’
Kathy shook her head. ‘I tried. He told me to leave you alone, like Dot.’
‘Exactly! Everybody tells you to leave me alone, so what do you do? You track me down into the depths of darkest Sussex.’ He snorted and added, ‘Like Lassie.’
‘Lassie?’ Kathy flared.
‘All right,’ Brock relented. ‘Not Lassie.’ He smirked, and they both began to laugh.
When this passed, Kathy became serious again and said, ‘Why does McLarren hate you, Brock? He seems to relish every chance to put you down.’
‘I really don’t know. I’ve never done anything to him, as far as I know. There’s poison in this. The whole thing is poisoned.’
‘Poor Eva,’ Kathy whispered.
‘Yes. Poor Eva. This is not a game.’
‘That’s what Peter White said last night.’
‘Have you been talking to him again?’
‘He rang me. He’s desperate to help. Wanted to know what he could do.’
Brock groaned. ‘Sorry. I should never have told you to see him. It was part guilt, because I’ve never kept in touch, but I shouldn’t have put it on to you. He was always a pain when you wanted a short answer—always wanting to give you more and more. Sometimes it was worthwhile, I suppose.’
‘I think now he’s just very sad and lonely. He needs something to think about, to be involved in.’
‘And the last thing you need is to be his social worker.’
Kathy shrugged. ‘I’d better let you get back to your, er, friends,’ she said.
‘Yes. My, er, friends have probably had enough history by now,’ Brock said drily. ‘If they haven’t been bumped off by a lone sniper.’
‘If it’s any consolation, Sammy’s a very bad shot, apparently.’
When she got back to her car, Kathy put a call through to the local police at Farnham, then headed north. When she reached the M25 she turned west, towards Surrey.
Sylvester’s area was surprisingly large and dispersed, and it took Kathy the best part of an hour, driving slowly round the suburban streets and rural lanes around Farnham, before she finally spotted the electric milk float parked at the kerb. A big, ruddy-faced man was engrossed in his account book, trying to reconcile the figures with the fact that he’d run out of gold-topped dairy full cream before he rightfully should.
‘Sylvester, is it?’
‘Hello there,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Who wants him?’
Kathy showed him her ID.
‘Ah, thought I’d hear from you lot again,’ he said, putting down his book.
‘What can you tell me?’
‘Well, now, it was that report on the radio, the police asking for information from anyone who had seen Mrs Starling any time after Thursday morning, the third of July, when she had gone up to London.’
Kathy nodded. After Ronnie Wilkes, Sylvester made a gratifyingly confident and precise witness.
‘But I didn’t see how that could be, on account of the strawberry yoghurt.’
‘The strawberry yoghurt?’
‘That’s right. Mrs Starling has a passion for it. Always has it for breakfast. And the point was, they didn’t stop it till the following Tuesday, see? So she must have been there till then.’
‘I see. Maybe they just forgot to cancel it.’
‘Oh, no. They put out a fresh order each morning, see? Marianna does it. She writes it on an old envelope or the like, and sticks it in the neck of one of the empties. Her English isn’t so hot, so she uses a code—M for milk, Y for yoghurt, DC for double cream, and so on. Last Monday week, for example . . .’ He opened his book again and turned the pages back to 7 July, checking his record, ‘. . . here we are. It would have been, “2M, 1Y”.’
‘You know them, then? Mrs Starling and Marianna?’
‘Oh, yes, and Mr S. We often say hello.’
‘But all the same, maybe one of the others wanted some strawberry yoghurt.’
‘No, no, no!’ Sylvester dismissed the idea. ‘People have their little ways. Marianna and Mr S hate strawberry yoghurt, think it’s muck. We’ve had conversations about it. About Mrs S’s tastes in dairy products.’
‘Is that a fact? Did you speak to any of them around that time—on the Monday or Tuesday, for example?’
‘I’ve been trying to recall that, but I can’t say I did.’
Kathy thought. ‘The order on the Monday morning included yoghurt, but I suppose she could have left on the Sunday evening, after Marianna had put out the order, and they forgot to change it.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose that’s possible. But I don’t see how it could have been before that.’
‘Thanks very much, Sylvester. You’ve been very helpful.’ Kathy stood still for a moment, a wood pigeon cooing in the branches of a great oak, bees droning from a cascade of golden honeysuckle, sunlight dappling on a dusty lane. ‘Don’t want to swap jobs, do you?’
Sylvester chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw the paperwork, my dear, really you wouldn’t.’ Then he added, ‘That Marianna. I reckon I saw her once with a black eye.’
‘Really?’
‘Might be nothing, mind you.’
It wasn’t far to Poachers’ Ease. Kathy stopped on the grass verge opposite the Fitzpatricks’ cottage and walked across to the gate. The click and squeak brought the usual response from the Labradors, who escorted her enthusiastically up the path, although Kathy had difficulty looking Henrietta in the eye. Toby Fitzpatrick opened the front door. The sense of unease that she had noticed earlier seemed to have intensified. He looked grey, his smile tight and shallow, his voice tentative. If it is a marital thing, Kathy thought, it’s more than a one-off row. And she thought of Peter White’s information, and the look on Fitzpatrick’s face when he had seen her by the pool. Did he spy on Eva in her pool, she wondered. Did he have a thing about her?
‘Helen’s out at the moment,’ he said, peering round the half-open door at her. ‘She’ll be back in an hour.’
‘I’d like to speak to you, Mr Fitzpatrick.’
‘Oh.’ He frowned, then reluctantly opened the door. ‘Come in, then.’
He didn’t invite her to sit down, and they stood awkwardly in the space just inside the house.
‘I wanted to check one lit
tle detail in what you and your wife told us, Mr Fitzpatrick. About when Eva left to go up to London, remember? You told us that she went on the Thursday, which would be the third. Are you absolutely sure about that?’
‘Oh.’ Fitzpatrick swallowed. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘How did you know? Did you see her leave?’
‘Er, probably not, no. I suppose . . . I suppose Sammy told us.’ He rubbed a hand across his face.
‘Are you feeling all right? You don’t look very well.’
‘I’m all right. Was that all?’
‘When would Sammy have told you this, about Eva leaving on Thursday?’
‘Oh, God, I don’t know, I—Oh, yes!’ he said. ‘He told Helen on the Sunday, when she and the other two went to play tennis. Didn’t she tell you that?’
Kathy nodded. ‘What about the Sunday evening? Where were you then?’
‘What?’ Fitzpatrick passed his hand over his face again, and Kathy thought he looked as if he were on the point of collapse.
‘Please, sit down,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry . . . I don’t feel well. Maybe you should go.’
‘Shall I get a doctor?’
‘No, I just need to lie down.’
‘I’ll get you a glass of water.’
Kathy hurried through to the kitchen and found a glass, which she ran under the tap. The two glass vases she had noticed the first time she had come here were standing on the draining board beside the sink, one of them filled with flowers from the cottage garden, the other empty and turned upside down after being rinsed. It still had a small adhesive label on the base, Made in Finland.
When she returned to the front room with the glass of water, Toby Fitzpatrick seemed both more collected and more wan. He smiled faintly at her from the depths of the armchair and said, in a feeble voice, ‘I’m so sorry. I have a slight heart condition . . . nothing serious, but I sometimes have a bit of a turn. I just need to stay calm for a while, then everything’s all right.’
The Chalon Heads Page 26
