Dark Mirror bak-10

by Barry Maitland

  Kathy rose to her feet. ‘Thanks for the lunch, Donald. Keep in touch while you’re in London. Let me know how you get on, and I’ll update you if we get any more information.’

  She left him pondering on the bench in the shadow of King Billie. When she got back to her office she found a note with the answer to one of the lines she’d been following up: the present owner of 43 Rosslyn Court was registered as Marion Summers, as of the twelfth of January. Kathy read the paragraph several times, her pulse quickening. How was this possible? How had a penniless student come to own an expensive house in Hampstead?

  Her request for access to Marion’s known email account had not been as successful. It was an MSN Hotmail account, and the data would have to be released by Microsoft in the USA, subject to approval by the FBI, and with all the recent terrorist investigations, delays were expected. thirteen

  S uzanne caught the tube to Notting Hill Gate, then walked briskly down the busy thoroughfare of Holland Park Avenue heading west. It was a fine morning for a walk, a breeze sending the clouds scudding overhead, the pavements damp from an early shower. After a while she turned right into the quieter streets of Notting Hill and began to zigzag to the north and west until she came to the curve of Lansdowne Gardens. It was years since she’d been there, and she was amazed at how it had changed, so much so that she almost stopped and turned back, afraid that the memories she treasured would be ruined by this actuality. It wasn’t that the buildings had been redeveloped, nothing like that-she recognised several of the more distinctive ones as she passed. Rather they had all been buffed and scrubbed and painted, extensions tastefully tucked around, gardens immaculately groomed, security discreetly visible. She remembered how it had been that summer she’d stayed with Angela, forty years before, a scruffy rundown district of old houses in decay, subdivided into bedsits and improvised flats, the warm evenings echoing with the sound of the West Indians’ reggae and the hippies’ Stones. And now look at it. The gloss of evident wealth made her feel vaguely disconcerted, as if the appearance of an old friend had been turned plastic by a particularly exacting face lift.

  As she approached the corner with Lansdowne Rise, she hesitated, catching sight of the Italianate tower and the attic windows. Oh Dougie, she thought, fancy you still being here after all this time. Talking to Brock about those days had stirred so many memories that she’d decided to steal a little time to visit the place again before returning home to Battle. But now she felt like an intruder, a thirteen-year-old once again.

  Someone was in the garden, a woman with a headscarf stooping to pick jonquils. As Suzanne stared at her, she raised her head and focused, giving a vague smile.

  ‘Good morning.’

  It was Dougie’s mother! What was her name again? Jean? Jan? Suzanne opened her mouth to say good morning in reply, and before she could stop herself said, ‘It’s Lady Warrender, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ The elderly woman frowned, straightening stiffly and looking at Suzanne more closely. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘Well yes, we have, actually. A very long time ago, in the sixties. I was a friend of Angela Crick, who used to live next door.’

  ‘Angela? Why yes, of course, I remember Angela. And you are.. .?’

  ‘Suzanne. Suzanne Chambers.’

  The frown deepened on Joan Warrender’s face and then suddenly cleared into a delighted smile, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Of course! Little Suzanne! Such a pretty girl, and-I’m not wrong, am I?-rather taken by my Dougie?’

  Suzanne felt herself blush. ‘No,’ she smiled, ‘not mistaken.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment, but I’m about ready for a cup of tea. Won’t you come in and join me, if you have the time?’

  ‘Well… I’d love to.’

  Suzanne stepped through the wrought-iron gate and followed Joan Warrender around the garden to the back of the house. At the kitchen door the older woman kicked off her wellingtons and stepped into a pair of slippers, carrying the flowers to the sink.

  ‘I was just thinking how much the neighbourhood has changed since I was here with Angela,’ Suzanne said, and Joan laughed.

  ‘Oh my goodness, when we arrived from India, we thought we’d landed in a slum. Roger bought the house from a highly misleading photograph and information sent by a local agent desperate for a sale. We weren’t here long as it happened, before Roger took the job in New York, but we hung onto the house, and look at it now.’

  ‘You had an elephant’s foot for an umbrella stand in the hall, didn’t you?’

  ‘You’re right! Shockingly incorrect now, I dare say. I’m afraid it didn’t survive our various travels. Poor Hathi. He was practically a family pet in India-the elephant, I mean. Dougie was heartbroken when he died. How clever of you to remember his foot.’

  Suzanne could barely picture Dougie’s tall, rather severe-looking father. ‘Is Sir Roger here too?’

  ‘No, he passed away fifteen years ago. I have my own little apartment now. Come and see.’

  Suzanne picked up the tray of tea cups and biscuits and followed the other woman out along a passage to a small sitting room with a view over a mass of daffodils leading down to the shared private garden at the back of the house.

  ‘I have my bedroom through that door there, and my own bathroom, so I’m quite independent.’ She talked about the other members of her family. Dougie was something big in finance, his only daughter, Emily, waiting to take her place at Oxford that autumn. ‘And you may have heard of Dougie’s wife, Sophie. She’s a well-known author.’

  ‘Yes, I’m a great admirer of her books. As a matter of fact she’s the reason I happened to come by this morning. She contacted a friend of mine a couple of days ago, and he came here and when he told me about his visit it brought back memories and I was curious to see the house again after all this time.’

  ‘I see. But who was this friend of yours?’

  ‘He’s a detective, with Scotland Yard. He came to speak with Sophie about the girl who worked for her, who was poisoned.’

  ‘Oh, that was shocking.’ But Joan Warrender looked more intrigued than dismayed. ‘Did he tell you the inside story? What do they think really happened to her?’

  ‘I’m afraid he didn’t say.’

  ‘Oh, but you must find out and tell me. I’m quite fascinated.’ She gestured at the TV sitting in the far corner of the room. ‘I watch all the crime and forensic shows.’

  ‘Well,’ Suzanne said, wanting to give her something, ‘he’s obviously intrigued by the case. There seem to be some strange features, apart from the poisoning itself.’

  ‘Oh yes? Like what?’ The elderly woman was leaning forward avidly.

  Suzanne would never normally have shared Brock’s comments with anyone else, but Joan’s relish was hard to resist. ‘Why arsenic, and where did it come from? And it seems that she had money that is hard to account for.’

  ‘Yes! I remember noticing a ring one day. I asked her about it and she wouldn’t say. As for the arsenic, well, I suppose they have that sort of thing in universities, don’t they?’ She raised an eyebrow suggestively, her eyes bright and alert.

  Suzanne looked at her, trying to read the innuendo. ‘Lady Warrender,’ she said slowly, ‘what are you saying?’

  ‘Joan, dear. Call me Joan, please. I’m only stating the obvious. The fact that I saw her once in the company of a certain rather debonair older man who happened to be at the university is purely coincidental.’

  ‘Well, she was a student-perhaps he was her tutor.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I asked her afterwards. She seemed rather coy about it.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong in a student meeting with her tutor, surely?’

  ‘Getting into a taxi in Covent Garden, holding hands?’

  ‘Well… You should speak to David-Chief Inspector Brock, my friend.’

  ‘Oh no.’ The intensity of Joan’s manner suddenly evaporated and
she burst out laughing. ‘I’m no Miss Marple. It was probably perfectly innocent. I couldn’t even be sure that they were holding hands. I think I convinced myself of that to make things more interesting. Sophie would be appalled at me spreading tittle-tattle.’

  They finished their tea, and Suzanne said she would have to go. As she showed her to the door Joan said they should meet up again for lunch the next time she was in town, as long as she promised to tell her more juicy details of the Marion Summers case. As she stepped into Lansdowne Gardens, Suzanne thought how strange it had felt to be in that house again, and to meet Dougie’s mother after so many years. She felt rather surprised at herself for coming here, and a little foolish. It was a relief that Dougie hadn’t been at home, and she felt embarrassed at the thought of him catching her there, and also rather guilty regarding David. Should she tell him about her visit? Probably not-but then, he might be interested in Joan Warrender’s ‘tittle-tattle’.

  She passed Angela’s old house. They had lost touch years before, and she wondered where her school friend was now. She decided to detour by way of Portobello Road, where the two of them had spent hours together in the street market. On her way she passed a smart bookshop with a poster in the window with Sophie Warrender’s photograph, looking very sophisticated and assured. Hear Notting Hill author Sophie Warrender talk about her biographies, it said. Wednesday 10 April, 7.30 pm. Admission by ticket only. Suzanne hesitated, then went inside. fourteen

  T here were dozens of responses to her Interpol inquiries for Kathy to deal with the next morning, and it was almost lunchtime before she got to an envelope with Dr Mehta’s name in the sender box. It contained several pages of a faxed report, tagged with one of Sundeep’s compliments slips with a handwritten scrawl: Kathy, Forensics sent me this draft for my comment. What do you think? Sundeep.

  He had underlined several sentences and put question marks in the margin, just in case she needed guidance. The marked passages were: The screw-top jar found in the kitchen cupboard had previously contained sugar, traces of which were found beneath the As 2 O 3… Both the teaspoon and saucer bore coffee residue… The glass of contaminated orange juice also contained traces of sodium bicarbonate .

  A vivid mental picture came into Kathy’s mind, of the cafe in Charles Square on Saturday morning. Guy had ordered a glass of orange juice and at some point they’d all simultaneously noticed an orange moustache formed on his upper lip. Rusty had laughed and pointed it out, Guy sheepishly wiped it away, and then they were all laughing, the ice broken, suddenly all best mates. Kathy smiled to herself a little regretfully. They’d had so little time together, and now she wished she was back there with them. With Guy.

  When they had emerged in the small hours of Sunday morning from the hot smoky cellar in which Rusty’s group had been playing, a huge silver moon hung over the city and a freezing wind caught them by surprise. Guy had put his arm around Kathy and she pressed close against him, seeking warmth. They’d become separated from the others on the way back to Nicole and Kathy’s hotel, walking in companionable silence. When they reached the doorway he asked if he might call her when they got back to London, and they swapped phone numbers, writing them on the palms of their hands. Then they kissed goodnight. He was catching a different flight back and she hadn’t heard from him again. They’d had plenty to drink in the cellar, and she supposed he’d lost her number. She felt a twinge of regret.

  She shook herself. What was Sundeep getting at? She picked up the phone.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You got my notes. So?’

  ‘The things weren’t clean when she used them to mix the drink.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘I don’t follow, Sundeep. So what?’

  ‘Come on, Kathy.’ Impatient now. ‘If she was conducting some kind of experiment on herself, wouldn’t she have used fresh dishes? Wouldn’t she have stored her precious arsenic in a clean jar? Incidentally, there’s no evidence of previous arsenic ingestion in her hair or nails.’

  She saw where he was going now and felt a quickening of her heart, but pressed him. ‘Suicide then, rather than an experiment gone wrong?’

  ‘Murder, Kathy, murder! Her breakfast things were taken out of the dishwasher by someone knowing her prints and DNA would be all over them. The whole thing was staged.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘No, how can I be? It’s just a conjecture. But it makes sense to me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Marion have noticed that the plastic cap seal on the juice had been broken when she opened it in the park?’

  ‘Not necessarily, if it was screwed back on tight. Would you?’

  ‘Mm. There was no sign of a forced entry.’

  ‘Because he had a key.’

  Kathy heard the restrained excitement in his voice. ‘He?’

  ‘Yes, he.’ Sundeep’s voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. ‘Marion’s body has told me something else.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I did some more tests on her blood serum.’

  Kathy waited, then realised that he was determined to make her coax it out of him. ‘And what did you find, Sundeep?’

  ‘I found beta-human chorionic gonadotrophic hormone.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A hormone present in the blood serum of pregnant women.’

  ‘But you said she wasn’t-’

  ‘She wasn’t-but she had been. It persists in the serum for five or six weeks after the end of the pregnancy. I’d say she had a miscarriage about two weeks before she died.’

  ‘A miscarriage or an abortion?’

  ‘Well, it could be that too, yes.’

  ‘Can you tell how long she would have been pregnant?’

  ‘I think not long, since there were no other visible signs. I’d guess no more than two months.’

  They were silent for a moment, then he said, ‘You’ll look into it?’

  ‘Yes, Sundeep, I’ll look into it.’

  She hung up, pushing the Interpol files to one side. The house, she thought, she had to find out about the house. Then she remembered Brock asking her to take Sophie Warrender there. There had been something loaded in the way Brock had made the suggestion, as if he felt the author could help Kathy in some way. So she dialled the Notting Hill number and arranged to meet Sophie Warrender at Rosslyn Court in half an hour. Then another thought occurred to her. Marion had gone to great lengths to keep the compartments of her life separate. Maybe it was time they were brought together. She rang Tina’s mobile.

  ‘Yes?’ The girl sounded breathless, as if she was walking fast.

  ‘It’s Kathy Kolla, Tina.’

  ‘Oh. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m about to go to the house where Marion was living. I’m meeting the woman she had that other job with. I wondered if you’d like to come along? I can collect you if you’re not too busy.’

  The line was silent for moment, the heavy breathing stilled. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You won’t miss a lecture or something?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On Waterloo Bridge.’

  ‘Walk over to the Strand and I’ll pick you up there in ten minutes.’

  Kathy hung up, wondering if she was doing the right thing.

  •

  Tina was standing at the kerb, clad in a T-shirt and short skirt, stamping her feet and shivering in the cool breeze, despite the sun. She slid in beside Kathy and immediately wanted to know about the house and the Warrenders, then reverted to silence. Kathy didn’t push her.

  Sophie Warrender was waiting by the front gate of number forty-three, a younger woman by her side, both wearing winter coats. Kathy parked behind their Mercedes and introduced herself and Tina.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing my daughter Emily,’ Sophie said. ‘I may need a hand carrying the books.’

  ‘Did you know Marion, Emily?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Yes, I liked her a lot.’ The girl lowered h
er eyes, sounding shy or withdrawn.

  ‘They were good friends,’ Sophie said. ‘Marion helped Emily with her A-level schoolwork a couple of times, and you helped her too, didn’t you, darling? Indexing or something, on her computer. Emily’s waiting to go up to Oxford in the autumn,’ she explained. ‘I’ve had her helping me with my researches too.’

  ‘What sort of computer did Marion have, Emily?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘A laptop, but I don’t know if it was hers. She wasn’t very used to it.’

  ‘And did you and Tina never meet?’

  Both shook their heads, eyeing each other with interest.

  Sophie was looking up at the front of the house. ‘This is quite charming, isn’t it? But expensive to rent in this part of town, surely. Was she sharing with a group?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Really? How could she afford it? I paid her very little really.’

  ‘Good question. You got any ideas, Tina?’

  Tina shot Kathy a dark look, muttered, ‘No.’

  Kathy led the way to the front door, and took them through the downstairs rooms. The other women all seemed astonished by the newness and quality of the fittings.

  ‘It’s very tidy, isn’t it?’ Sophie said.

  ‘Wasn’t Marion usually tidy?’ Kathy asked.

  Sophie said, ‘Oh yes, I think so. Always very organised.’

  Tina nodded. ‘You should have seen her room at Stamford Street. She couldn’t believe the mess the rest of us lived in.’

  Sophie gazed around Marion’s orderly work room, then went over to the table. ‘It’s all here-my notes, the books, the photocopies we spoke about, and the work she’s been doing this past month.’ She flicked through pages of typescript. ‘Everything I asked. It’s almost as if…’ Sophie hesitated, and glanced at Tina.

  ‘Go on,’ Kathy said.

  ‘Well, I’m probably imagining it, but it’s almost as if she’d tidied everything up, knowing…’ Her voice faded.

  ‘Knowing she was leaving for good?’ Kathy prompted.

  Sophie nodded.