With No One As Witness

by Elizabeth George

  Griff Strong, on the other hand, understood that only too well. He would do what it took to preserve his position in the organisation, and if that meant making ostensibly reluctant allegations of sexual harassment from a female superior who couldn’t keep her hands off his delectable albeit married and oh-so-hesitant body, then that was what he would do. So what Neil Greenham planted in the minds of the board of trustees and what Jack Veness watered, Griff would cultivate. He’d wear that blasted fisherman’s sweater for the interview, as well. If he told himself anything, he would list the reasons why they’d come to a situation of every man for himself. Arabella and Tatiana would top that list. “Rike, you know I’ve got personal responsibilities. You always knew that.”

  The only person Ulrike could come up with who might speak up in support of her was Robbie Kilfoyle, and that was merely because as a volunteer and not a paid employee, he’d have to be careful when interviewed. He’d have to walk a fine line of neutrality because he’d have no other way to protect his future and move himself along in the direction he wanted, which was paid employment. He couldn’t want to deliver sandwiches for the rest of his life, could he? But he had to be positioned, had Rob. He had to see himself as a player on her team and no one else’s.

  She went in search of him. It was late in the day. She didn’t check the time, but the darkness outside and the emptiness of the building told her it was long after six and probably closer to eight. Robbie often worked later into the evenings, putting things back in order. There was a good chance he was still in the back somewhere, but if he wasn’t, she was determined to track him down.

  He was nowhere in the building, however. The kit room was compulsively neat—something to compliment Rob on when she saw him, Ulrike thought—and surgery could have been performed in the practice kitchen so tidy was it. The computer lab had been seen to as well, as had the assessment meeting room. Rob’s careful marks were evident everywhere.

  Rational thought told Ulrike to wait till the next afternoon to speak to Robbie. He would turn up round half past two as always, and she could thank him and forge a bond with him then. But anxiety suggested she start forging straightaway, so she looked up Rob’s phone number and rang his house. If he wasn’t there, she reckoned, she could leave a message with his dad.

  But the double ringing went on and on. Ulrike listened to it for a good two minutes before she rang off and went on to plan B.

  She was, of course, flying by the seat of her jeans, and she knew it. But the part of her that was saying, Relax, go home, have a bath, drink some wine, you can do all this tomorrow was outshouted by the part of her exclaiming that time was flying and the machinations of her enemies were well under way. Besides, her stomach had been riding above her lungs, it seemed, for most of the day. She was never going to be able to breathe, eat, or sleep with ease till she did something to alter that.

  And anyway, she was a doer, wasn’t she? She’d never sat round and waited to see how events unfolded.

  In this instance, that meant corralling Rob Kilfoyle so he’d be ready to take her part. The only way she could see to do that was to get on her bicycle and find him.

  It took the A to Z to accomplish the first part of the plan, since she had no clue where Granville Square was once she had Rob’s address in hand. She found it tucked to the east of King’s Cross Road. This was a definite plus. She would merely have to work her way up to Blackfriars Bridge, cross the river, and head north. It was simple, and its simplicity told her the journey to Granville Square was meant to be.

  She saw it was later than she’d thought once she was outside and aboard her bicycle. The commuter traffic had long since thinned out, so the trip up Farringdon Street—even in the vicinity of Ludgate Circus—wasn’t as white knuckling as she’d expected.

  She made good time to Granville Square, a four-sided terrace of simple Georgian town houses in various states of disrepair and renovation, typical of so many neighbourhoods in London. In the centre of the square was the ubiquitous patch of nature, this one not locked off, barred, and otherwise kept private to all but paying residents of the nearby houses, but rather open to anyone who wanted to walk, read, play with a dog, or watch children romp in the miniature playground along one side. Rob Kilfoyle’s house faced the middle of this playground. It was dark as a tomb, but Ulrike parked her bike by the railing and went up the steps anyway. He could be in the back, and now that she’d come, she wasn’t about to leave without making an attempt to roust him out of there if he was within.

  She knocked but gained no reply. She rang the bell. She tried to peer in the front windows, but she had to resign herself to the admission that other than affording her exercise, the ride across town to this borderland between St. Pancras and Islington had been wasted.

  “He isn’t home, our Rob,” a female voice declared behind her. “No surprise in that, though, poor lad.”

  Ulrike turned from the door. A woman was watching her from the pavement. She was shaped like a barrel, with a similarly shaped, wheezing English bulldog on a lead. Ulrike went back down the steps to join her.

  “D’you happen to know where he is?” She introduced herself as Rob’s employer.

  “You that sandwich woman?” The woman said she was, “Sylvia Puccini. Missus. No relation by the way, if you’re musical. Live three doors down. Known our Rob since he was a toddler.”

  “I’m Robbie’s other employer,” Ulrike said. “At Colossus.”

  “Didn’t know he had another employer,” Mrs. Puccini said, eyeing her carefully. “Where’d you say?”

  “Colossus. We’re an outreach programme for youth at risk. Robbie’s not strictly an employee, I suppose. He volunteers in the afternoons. After he does his sandwich round. But we consider him one of us all the same.”

  “Never mentioned it to me.”

  “You’re close to him?”

  “Why d’you ask?”

  Mrs. Puccini sounded suspicious, and Ulrike could sense that they might easily head into Mary Alice Atkins-Ward territory if she pursued this route. She smiled and said, “No particular reason. I thought you might be since you’ve known him so long. Like a second mum or something.”

  “Hmm. Yes. Poor Charlene. God rest her dear tormented soul. Alzheimer’s, but Rob would have told you that, I expect. She went off early winter last year, poor thing. Didn’t know her own son from shoe leather at the end. Didn’t know anyone, if it comes down to it. And then his dad. He hasn’t had an easy time of it for the last few years, our Rob.”

  Ulrike frowned. “His dad?”

  “Dropped like a stone. Last September, this was. Setting off to work like always and drops like a hundredweight. Falls straight down the Gwynne Place Steps right over there.” She indicated the southwest end of the square. “Dead before he ever hit the ground.”

  “Dead?” Ulrike asked. “I didn’t know Rob’s dad was also…He’s dead? You’re sure?”

  In the light of a streetlamp, Mrs. Puccini cast her a look that indicated how bizarre she thought the question was. “If he’s not, luv, we all stood round and watched someone else get sent off to be cremated. And that’s not very likely, is it?”

  No, Ulrike had to agree, it certainly wasn’t. She said, “I suppose it’s just that…You see, Rob’s never mentioned his dad passing away.” On the very much contrary, she added to herself.

  “Well, he wouldn’t, I expect. I can’t say Rob’d ever be the sort to go shopping for pity, no matter how bad he felt about his dad’s passing. Vic was one who didn’t ever tolerate whingers, and you know what they say: as the sapling’s bent. But make no mistake about it, my dear. That boy felt deeply when he found himself alone.”

  “There are no other relations?”

  “Oh, there’s a sister somewhere, a lot older than Rob, but she took off years ago and didn’t show up to either funeral. Married, kids, Australia or who knows where. Far as I know, she’s not been in touch since she was eighteen.” Mrs. Puccini gazed at Ulrike more sharply the
n, as if evaluating her. When she next spoke, it was apparent why. “On the other hand, dear, between you, me, and Trixie here”—she indicated the dog with a shake of the lead, which the animal apparently took as a sign to resume her walk because she lumbered to her feet from where she’d been squatting gustily at Mrs. Puccini’s ankles—“he wasn’t a very nice bloke, that Victor.”

  “Rob’s father.”

  “As ever was. A real shocker when he went like that, true, but not a lot of hearts were breaking at the thought of it in this neighbourhood, if you must know.”

  Ulrike heard this, but she was still attempting to process the first bit of information: that Robbie Kilfoyle’s dad was in fact dead. She was comparing this to what Rob had told her recently…Sky Television, wasn’t it? Something called Sail Away? All she said to Mrs. Puccini was, “I do wish he’d told me. It helps to talk.”

  “Oh, I expect he’s talking.” Unaccountably, Mrs. Puccini nodded once again towards the Gwynne Place Steps. “There’s always a friendly ear when you’re paying for it.”

  “Paying?” Friendly ears and paying suggested one of two things: prostitution, which seemed about as much Rob’s style as armed robbery, or psychotherapy, which seemed equally unlikely.

  Mrs. Puccini appeared to know what she was thinking because she gave a hoot of laughter before she explained. “The hotel,” she said. “At the base of the steps. He goes to the bar there most nights. I expect that’s where he is right now.”

  This proved to be the case when Ulrike bade Mrs. Puccini and Trixie good night and headed across the square and down the steps. She found that they led to an unassuming and unmistakably postwar tower block, heavily given over to chocolate-coloured bricks and minimal exterior decoration. Inside, however, it boasted a lobby done up in faux art deco, its walls hung with paintings depicting well-heeled men and women lounging and partying between the two world wars. At one end of this lobby, a door marked the entrance to the Othello Bar. It seemed strange to Ulrike that Robbie—or anyone from the neighbourhood—would choose a hotel rather than a nearby pub in which to do his drinking, but she decided that the Othello Bar had one quality to recommend it, at least on this night: There was virtually no one present. If Robbie wished to bend the sympathetic ear of the barman, that individual was entirely available. There were seats at the bar to boot, another feature making the Othello perhaps more welcoming than the corner pub.

  Robbie Kilfoyle was at one of these seats. Two of the tables were occupied by businessmen working at laptops with their lagers before them; one other table was taken up by three women whose enormous bums, white trainers, and choice of drink at this time of night—white wine—suggested they were American tourists. Otherwise the bar was empty. Thirties music played from speakers in the ceiling.

  Ulrike slid onto the stool next to Robbie. He glanced her way once, then again when the sight of her registered with him. His eyes widened.

  “Hi,” she said. “One of your neighbours said you might be here.”

  He said, “Ulrike!,” and looked round her as if to see if she was accompanied by someone. He was wearing a snug black jersey, she noted, which emphasised his physique in a way that his usual neatly ironed white shirt had never done. Lessons from Griff? she wondered. He had quite a nice body.

  The barman heard Rob exclaim and came to take her order. She said she’d have a brandy, and when he fetched it for her, she told Rob that Mrs. Puccini had suggested she look for him here. “She said you’d been coming here regularly since your dad died,” Ulrike added.

  Robbie looked away and then back at her. He didn’t attempt to obfuscate, and Ulrike had to admire him for that. He said, “I didn’t like to tell you about it. That he’d died. I couldn’t think of a way to tell you. It seemed like it would’ve been…” He thought about it, it appeared, as he turned his pint of lager between his hands. “It would have been like asking for special treatment. Like hoping someone’d feel sorry for me and give me something as a result.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Ulrike asked. “I hope nothing anyone’s done at Colossus would make you feel you had no friends to confide in.”

  “No, no,” he said. “I don’t think that. I s’pose I just wasn’t ready to talk about it.”

  “Are you now?” This was, she saw, an opportunity to forge the loyalty bond with Robbie. While she had bigger concerns than the death of a man that had taken place months ago—a man she had never even met—she wanted Robbie to know that he had a friend at Colossus and that friend was sitting right next to him in the Othello Bar.

  “Am I ready to talk about it?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Painful?”

  A glance in her direction. “Why d’you say that?”

  She shrugged. “It seems obvious. You apparently had a close relationship with him. You lived together, after all. You must have spent a great deal of time together. I remember your telling me about how the two of you watched tele—” She stopped, the words cut off by the realisation. She twirled her brandy glass slowly and made herself finish. “You watched television with him. You did say you watched television with him.”

  “And we did,” he replied. “My dad was a bugger and a half on good days, but he never went after anyone when the telly was on. I think it hypnotised him. So whenever we were alone together—especially after Mum finally went into hospital—I turned on the telly to keep him off my back. Force of habit when I was talking to you about watching the telly with him, I guess. That’s all we ever really did together.” He drained his beer. “Why’d you come?” he asked.

  Why had she come? Suddenly, it seemed rather unimportant. She sifted through topics to find one that was simultaneously believable and innocuous. She said, “Actually, to thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “You do so much round Colossus. Sometimes you don’t get acknowledged enough.”

  “You came round here for that?” Robbie sounded incredulous, as any reasonable person might.

  Ulrike knew the ground was treacherous here, so she decided that opting for the truth was wise. “More than that, really. I’m being…well…investigated, Rob. So I’m sorting out who my friends are. You must have heard.”

  “What? Who your friends are?”

  “That I’m being investigated.”

  “I know the cops’ve been round.”

  “Not that investigation.”

  “Then what?”

  “The board of trustees are looking into my performance as director of Colossus. You must have known they came round today.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why must I have known? I’m pond scum over there. Least important and last informed.”

  He said it casually, but she could tell he was…what? Frustrated? Bitter? Angry? Why hadn’t she seen this before? And what was she supposed to do about it now, other than apologise, make a vague promise about things changing round Colossus, and go on her way?

  She said, “I’m going to try to change that, Rob.”

  “If I take your part in the coming conflict.”

  “I’m not saying—”

  “It’s okay.” He shoved his pint glass away, shaking his head when the barman offered him another. He settled his bill and hers and said, “I understand it’s a game. I get the politics of everything. I’m not stupid.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest you were.”

  “No offence’s been taken. You’re doing what you have to do.” He slid off his stool. “How’d you get here?” he asked. “You didn’t bike over, did you?”

  She told him she had done. She finished off her brandy and said, “So I’d better set off.”

  He said, “It’s late. I’ll take you home.”

  “Take me? I thought you cycled as well.”

  “To work,” he said. “Otherwise, no. I got Dad’s van off him when he died in the summer. Poor sod. He bought himself a camper for his pension year
s and dropped dead the next week. Never even had a chance to use it. Come on. We can fit your bike inside. I’ve done it before.”

  “Thanks, but that’s really not necessary. It puts you to trouble, and—”

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s not any trouble.” He took her arm. He said, “’Night, Dan,” to the barman and he guided Ulrike not to the door through which she’d come but towards a corridor. This led, she found, to the toilets and, beyond them, to the kitchen, which he entered. Only a single cook remained, and he said, “Rob,” with a nod of hello as they passed through. She saw there was another exit here, an escape route for the kitchen workers should a fire start, and this was the door that Robbie chose. It took them to a narrow carpark behind the hotel, canyoned on one side by the building itself and on the other side by a slope at the top of which was Granville Square. In a far dark corner of the carpark, a van stood waiting. It looked old and harmless, with rust spots pitting the faded white lettering on its side.

  “My bike,” Ulrike began.

  “Up in the square? We’ll sort that out. Get in. We’ll drive round to pick it up.”

  She looked round the carpark. It was dimly lit and otherwise deserted. She looked at Robbie. He shot her a smile. She thought of Colossus and how hard she’d worked and how much would fall into ruin if she was made to hand it over to someone else. Someone like Neil. Someone like Griff. Anyone, in fact.

  Some things needed a leap of faith, she decided. This was one of them.

  At the van, Robbie opened the door for her. She climbed inside. He shut the door. She felt for the seat belt but couldn’t find it anywhere above her shoulder. When Robbie joined her and saw her searching, he started the van up and said, “Oh, sorry. That’s a bit tricky. It’s lower than you’d expect. I’ve got a torch here somewhere. Let me give you some light.”