‘Your so-called lady friend. Is she an undercover officer too?’
‘Mrs Warrender, please. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Suzanne Chambers, she said she was. Just two days after I speak to you she turns up at my house and invites herself in and interrogates my elderly mother-in-law, mainly about my husband. Then two days later-yesterday evening-she turns up again at a reading I was giving in our local bookshop. Again she insinuates herself into my mother-in-law’s company, using her to interview my husband, who was also there. She claimed they’d once been teenage friends, though my husband says he can’t remember her. Are you claiming you don’t know about this woman?’
‘I do know a Suzanne Chambers,’ Brock said slowly. ‘But I’m sure she wasn’t in London yesterday.’
‘Look,’ Sophie snapped, ‘this has got to stop, do you hear me? Do you seriously suspect my husband of wrongdoing? Because if you do, I’m getting straight on to our lawyers.’
‘No, no, I’m sure we don’t. I really think there’s been some misunderstanding here. Suzanne Chambers certainly doesn’t work for the Metropolitan Police or any other security agency, and has not discussed with me any contact she may have had with you, which I’m sure was not in any way sinister. I’ll certainly speak to her about it. As for DI Kolla, the Marion Summers case is still ongoing, and she was trying to tidy up loose ends. I’m sorry if her approach seemed offensive. I’m sure it wasn’t intended to be, and I’ll speak to her too.’ He stopped himself, wondering why he was bending over backwards like this. It was the revelation about Suzanne, of course. He remembered her slightly dreamy comments after the National Theatre, about Douglas Warrender being her first great love. What on earth was she playing at?
‘I’d appreciate that,’ Sophie Warrender said, sounding somewhat calmer. ‘And anyway, I thought the Marion business was cleared up. Didn’t you decide she’d committed suicide?’
‘The forensic evidence leaves some room for doubt. We need to explore all the options for the coroner.’
‘You still think it possible that someone murdered her?’
‘There are unexplained gaps in our information. The identity of the father of the child she lost two weeks before her death, for example.’
‘Yes, Inspector Kolla mentioned that when we met at Marion’s house. I had no idea.’
‘You said you weren’t aware of a boyfriend, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. To be honest I imagined her as completely celibate. Stupid of me.’
‘Well, she guarded her privacy rather closely, it seems. I’m sorry we seem to have been at cross-purposes, Mrs Warrender. Leave it with me.’
He rang off and dialled Kathy’s number. ‘Kathy? Brock. What are you doing at the moment?’
What she was actually doing was trying to check on private flights between London City and Bastia at the beginning of the month. What she told Brock was, ‘I’m working on the Interpol cases.’
‘I’ve just had Mrs Warrender on the line, complaining about your visit.’
‘She did seem a bit stressed today. What was the problem?’
‘She said you implied that her husband was involved in Marion’s death.’
‘No, I didn’t do that. Interesting that she chose to see it that way though.’
‘I thought we’d agreed that you were going to concentrate on Interpol?’
‘Yes. It was just a loose end. A book went missing from Marion’s house after I took Sophie Warrender over there. I just needed to check she didn’t have it.’
Brock frowned. ‘Kathy…’ He sighed. ‘Just leave her alone, will you?’
Then he added, ‘You haven’t spoken to Suzanne recently by any chance, have you?’
‘No, not for ages. Why, is she all right?’
‘Yes. I just thought… Never mind.’
Brock rang off and dialled Suzanne’s mobile.
‘Yes? Oh, David! I’m serving a customer. Can I ring you back?’
‘Quick as you can.’ He put the phone down, thinking that her voice had sounded odd, almost guilty.
She rang back after a moment. ‘Hello. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, but Sophie Warrender isn’t.’ He told her about the phone call.
‘Oh dear. But honestly, she’s making a mountain out of a molehill. I decided to detour to Notting Hill on Monday on the way home because of our conversation. It’s changed so much, so smart and rich, when it used to be practically a slum. Anyway, her mother-in-law, Lady Warrender, was in the garden, and we got chatting and she invited me in. I hadn’t planned it. Then I saw a notice for Sophie Warrender’s talk in a local bookshop. I wanted to hear her speak, but I didn’t think I’d make it, otherwise I’d have mentioned it to you. But at the last minute I decided to dash up, hear the talk and dash back. I had no idea that Lady Warrender would be there, or Dougie, who she insisted on introducing me to. Honestly, David, it wasn’t important.’
She’d lain awake the previous night rehearsing this, and she thought it sounded all right, except that she’d said ‘honestly’ twice, which she knew he regarded as a sure indicator that someone was lying through their teeth. And his response sounded heavy and sad, as if he was very disappointed, and of course the whole thing had been clumsy and stupid.
‘Suzanne, this is an ongoing murder investigation. Like it or not, you are associated with me. You can’t just go calling on witnesses at a time like this.’
He sounded exasperated, as if he’d never imagined he’d have to explain such a thing to her. Which of course he didn’t, except that she had a life too, and she hadn’t exactly engineered this. She wanted to promise to have nothing more to do with the Warrenders, but she couldn’t quite do that. When she’d got home last night she’d looked up her old friend Angela Crick on friendsreunited. co. uk, and found her details listed with other old pupils of St Mary’s Grammar School for Girls. And that morning, during a lull at the shop, she’d emailed her and they’d arranged to meet. They could hardly do that without talking about Dougie Warrender.
•
Kathy, too, was reluctant to let this go. She felt annoyed. Brock wasn’t usually like this, checking her every move. And she wondered why Sophie Warrender had been so defensive. It was all very well Brock telling her to get on with something else, but her mind had ideas of its own. She turned over the note about the American university and was checking the international code when Brock rang her again.
‘Tina Flowers,’ he said. ‘That’s Marion’s friend, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forget what I said. Drop what you’re doing. There’s a car outside for us.’ twenty
L ily Cribb was a mature-aged Open University student, and was feeling quite numb. Perhaps you should expect this sort of thing to happen when you come up to town, she’d told herself, but still, she hadn’t felt as shaken since her dad had dropped dead outside the pub.
She had been sitting at one of the desks in the Humanities Reading Room. The desk was rather splendid, made of oak with an inlaid green leather top and lit by a specially designed reading lamp, and it was still hardly marked by use. Despite its craftsmanship, Lily hadn’t quite come to terms with the newness of the building and its fittings; she harboured a secret prejudice that really great libraries like this should be old and venerable, like the circular domed reading room of the old British Museum library which this building had replaced. She would admit, though, that the new structure was quite magnificent. She thought the main entrance hall with its wave-like ceiling very grand, rising up to the glass cube in which the King’s Library was housed, and she did admire the care that had been taken over every detail, like the little light on the built-in console in front of her, which had begun flashing to tell her that the book she had requested was now available at the desk. She remembered the thrill of anticipation that flashing light provoked; the book was a memoir of life in East Anglia in the closing years of the nineteenth century, which she had managed to track down with some diffi
culty, and which she hoped would give her some crucial insights into the social impacts of the Great Eastern Railway, which was the subject of her thesis. The thought of what she might discover was so exciting, in fact, that she’d thought she’d better visit the loo first.
There she encountered more thoughtful design, with a nice balance of functionality and restrained elegance which she noted approvingly. Her eye travelled around the room, checking the basins and taps, the lighting, the tiles, wondering if she could learn something for her own bathroom makeover, which was germinating in her imagination. Her eye stopped at the door of one of the toilet cubicles, beneath which a shoeless woman’s foot was jammed.
A heart attack? A drug addict, even here? She tapped on the door. ‘Hello? Are you all right?’ Silly question. She thought she heard a faint moan, but the door was locked, so she hurried out to get help.
‘After that it all happened so fast,’ she told Brock, who was sitting opposite her, listening patiently. She felt he was a sympathetic interrogator, a still centre in the middle of the panic her discovery had provoked. ‘As soon as they opened the door I realised who it was.’
‘You knew her?’
‘Tina? Oh yes, I’ve met her here before. The first time she was lost-it was her first visit and she didn’t know her way around. She looked so young and bewildered I felt sorry for her. She was looking for the India Office Records, I remember, and though I hadn’t the faintest idea where they were, I did know how to set about finding them. After that we bumped into each other a few times. She was doing a research project for her university course-cultural studies, whatever that means.’
‘Did you ever see her talking to anyone else?’
‘Let me think… Yes, I did see her one day in the cafe in the forecourt-what they call the “piazza”-at the front of the library. She was with several other people. I took them to be university students too, but I’m afraid I can’t remember anything about them.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Cribb. I’ll give you my card in case you think of anything else, no matter how trivial.’
His benign smile was like a blessing, she felt, but his eyes were very sharp.
•
Kathy was outside the main entrance of the library, in the forecourt Lily Cribb had described, by the cafe ominously called The Last Word. ‘One of the waitresses remembers Tina being here about an hour ago, at that table over there, and thinks she saw someone standing talking to her. A man, she thinks, but she’s not sure. No one else seems to remember anything, and there are no cameras covering the area where she was sitting.’
Brock looked around. The day was overcast, a sharp, cold wind whipping the people hurrying across the piazza. They were wearing scarves and hats, collars turned up against the chill. If Tina was poisoned here her attacker would have been captured on a camera somewhere nearby, but it might be impossible to get an image of their face. ‘Where have they taken Tina?’
‘UCH,’ Kathy said, remembering that it was the same hospital they’d taken Nigel Ogilvie to. ‘At least we were able to tell them to look for arsenic poisoning.’
Behind them uniformed officers were trying to take statements and answer questions as people milled around in confusion, their routines disturbed by the dramatic arrival of ambulance and police cars. Brock drew Kathy aside.
‘Look, this changes things, Kathy. We now have a pattern-two women students in the same university department, until recently living in the same building. Maybe we’ve been sidetracked by the mysteries of Marion’s life. Maybe it’s more straightforward-another student, perhaps? Or someone who works at the student flats?’
Kathy thought about Andy Blake, the science student who had known them both. Had she accepted his story too readily? Or the disapproving Jummai? She said, ‘I had my money on their tutor, Dr da Silva.’
‘Hm. I think this is beginning to look like what Sundeep first feared, a serial psychopath who likes watching women die painful deaths in public view. Surely da Silva wouldn’t be so stupid as to pick his own students. Do we have his picture?’
‘I can get one sent over. So, I’m back on the case?’ Kathy said.
‘I don’t think you were ever off it,’ he replied dryly.
•
As Kathy moved away she saw Donald Fotheringham waving to her from a knot of people standing with the uniformed police. She went over.
‘Donald. You’re here too? Were you with Tina?’
‘Aye.’ He was pale, quivering with agitation. ‘Emily and I were with her over there, having lunch with her at the cafe. We left her on her own. I walked up the road to Euston station to find out about getting a train back to Glasgow. As I was coming back I saw the ambulance leaving the library. I never imagined it might be for her. What happened for pity’s sake? Nobody seems to be able to tell me.’
‘She collapsed, Donald. It looks very much like what happened to Marion.’
‘Oh, dear Lord.’
‘Show me where you were sitting.’
They went over to the cafe, surrounded now by police tape. A scene-of-crime team was unpacking their gear, a detective talking to a couple of waitresses.
Donald pointed out the place where they’d sat, the same table the waitress had said, and tried to recall the people at nearby tables without much success.
‘I’ll show you some pictures later, Donald. Can you tell me what Tina had to eat and drink?’
‘Well, the sandwich I bought her-turkey breast salad, it was. And a black coffee. She already had a bottle of water she was drinking from.’
‘Okay.’ Kathy called over one of the SOCOs and passed this on. ‘Now, what about Emily? Do you know where she is?’
‘She said she was going back home. We’d spent the morning helping Tina with her researches, and I said I’d buy them both lunch before she left.’
‘You weren’t aware of anyone watching you this morning?’
‘Good heavens, no. Is that what you think, that he was watching us all the time?’
‘I just don’t know, Donald. Do you have a mobile number for Emily?’
‘Yes… here.’
Kathy tried it, but got through to a recorded voice inviting her to leave a message. She asked Emily to get back to her as soon as possible.
‘Do you feel all right, Donald?’ she asked. ‘No nausea, stomach pains?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘We’ll get a medic to have a look at you. And Emily seemed okay when she left?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘How long ago was that?’
Donald looked at his watch. ‘About an hour and a half ago. I should go to the hospital to be with Tina. She has no family in London.’
‘We’ll go together. I’ve just got a couple of things to do. Why don’t you take a seat over there and see if you can remember anything else?’
She went back and had another word with Brock, then rang Sundeep Mehta’s number at the mortuary, knowing he wouldn’t answer his mobile if he was working on an autopsy. After a moment he came to the phone. She told him what had happened and heard his sharp intake of breath.
‘Where is she, Kathy?’
‘UCH.’
‘I’ll get over there straight away.’
Kathy dug in her pocket for her notebook and found Sophie Warrender’s number. The phone was answered by her secretary Rhonda, who sounded almost as if she were expecting Kathy’s call. She put her through, and the now familiar voice said stiffly, ‘Sophie Warrender here. What do you want?’
‘I’m trying to contact your daughter Emily, Mrs Warrender. Do you know…?’
‘Yes, she said you’d tried to ring her. I told her not to respond. I’ve spoken to your superior, and neither I nor any of my family have anything to say to you.’
‘She’s safely at home, then, is she?’
‘Safely? What are you talking about?’
‘There’s been an incident, this time at the British Library, around the time Emily was there today. I wanted to ma
ke sure she was all right.’
‘Incident?’
‘Another poisoning. Are you sure that Emily isn’t showing any signs of nausea or stomach ache?’
‘My God! I’ll get her to a doctor straight away.’
‘Good idea. Then I’ll need to come over to speak to her. It is very important.’
Kathy returned to Donald Fotheringham, sitting beneath the statue of Isaac Newton in the centre of the forecourt, like a spindly caricature of the massive bronze that loomed above him, both crouching forward on their seats, brooding on their problems. A paramedic was packing a bag at his feet and nodded to Kathy as she came over, saying that Donald was in the clear.
She led him to the car waiting outside on Euston Road, and they drove the short distance to the new blocks of University College Hospital. At the accident and emergency department they were told that Tina was in a coma, and they took a seat in a quiet corner to wait.
‘You said you were going to speak to Bessie about a wealthy relative leaving Marion some money,’ Kathy said.
‘Oh aye, I asked her. As I thought, she’d never heard of such a thing. That really doesn’t ring true, Kathy-is it all right if I call you that?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, Bessie’s theory, and mine too if I’m honest, is that Marion had found a sugar daddy. She was a bonny lass, no doubt about it.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. A sugar daddy who wants to remain anonymous.’
‘Aye, well, Tina had her own ideas about that.’
‘Go on.’
Donald Fotheringham hesitated, seeming torn between an innate love of gossip and a deadly sense of rectitude. ‘She seemed to have the idea that Marion’s tutor, Dr da Silva, was the fly in the ointment.’
‘Really. Did she have any evidence of that?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘So what was this work you were doing? You said you were following up Marion’s borrowing list.’
‘Aye, that’s right. Tina was convinced there was something hidden there that would lead her to Marion’s killer.’
‘But how? Did she give you any idea?’
‘No, she said I had to keep an open mind. I must say it all seemed a bit far-fetched to me. How could Marion’s studies of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood cause any problems today?’
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