Brock nodded and told her about the Kite sisters.
‘You think their deaths may be linked to Freyja’s work in Cambridge?’
‘Both have the appearance of tragic accidents, but I don’t like coincidences, and Gudrun hiding her identity to work at the Paddington security firm smacks of something less innocent going on. But without anything more concrete, my hands are tied.’
‘How might we help?’
‘I’d like to know if Paddington Security Services is involved in any way with the project Freyja was working on. If they are, that would make the possibility of coincidence highly unlikely.’
Russell was taking notes on her iPad. ‘I’ve heard of Penney Solutions. They’ve got a reputation as a highly successful, innovative company. Surely if there was any question of Freyja’s death being linked to their project they’d be keen to have it investigated?’
‘When we spoke to Dr Penney he seemed preoccupied with keeping their work secret. He refused to discuss what other companies they had links with. Perhaps he felt we were the wrong people to talk to, and perhaps he was right. But I imagine you have the expertise, and the levels of security, to reassure him that what he might tell you will remain confidential.’
‘Hm, maybe. But I know people in this area are very nervous of industrial espionage. You’ve discussed this with Fred Lynch, I assume?’
‘The commander is up to his neck in the Bragg wash-up, as you know, Suzy, and this is way below his radar. I really just need to know if it’s worth pursuing any further. If it is, I’ll talk to him again.’
Russell chuckled. ‘Let me sniff around. But if it comes to a direct approach to Penney Solutions, I’ll have to inform Fred.’
‘Fair enough,’ Brock said. ‘Thanks, I’m grateful.’
‘Well, maybe you can do something for me. DS Mickey Schaeffer—Fred has been impressed by his work on the Intruder task force, and Schaeffer has put out feelers to join DiSTaF. How would you rate him?’
‘Competent, hard-working, intelligent. But has he got the technical background for you?’
‘He did a computing degree.’
‘Did he?’ Brock wasn’t aware of that. ‘Well then . . . yes, he might be right up your street, although I’d be sorry to lose him. DI Kolla said you’d spoken to her about having a look at DiSTaF. You’re not going to pinch my whole team, are you?’
She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I was only thinking about those two, and Kolla, for all her operational flair, doesn’t have the IT skills I’d need.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘But she could acquire them. You wouldn’t want to hold her back, would you, Brock?’
Brock wasn’t sure what the truthful answer to that would be, so he swallowed the last of his lunch and left.
23
A couple of days later Bren Gurney knocked on Brock’s door. He had been covering Kathy’s desk while she was away, checking her mail.
‘I’ve got rid of most of the stuff, but I wasn’t sure what to do with these,’ he said, handing Brock a file.
The top item was a sheaf of papers stapled together, the cover sheet a memo from the telecommunications section which said only that they were attaching their response to Kathy’s order of the sixteenth. The second page was a copy of Kathy’s request for telephone records and respondents’ identification for a mobile phone number in the name of Vicky Hawke. The form had been stamped Non-urgent, with D.K. Payne’s signature beneath. This was followed by five pages of phone records and a list of names and addresses.
‘Ah,’ Brock said. ‘Have you had a look at this?’
‘Yeah. I assume that’s Gudrun Kite, not the real Vicky Hawke.’
‘Yes. Kathy got her mobile number from her father.’
‘Right. He’s on the list of callers, along with the company she worked for in Paddington.’
Brock scanned the names. There was the mail-holding address in Crouch End and a couple of people from the canal boats—Anne Downey, Ned Tisdell. His eye stopped at a name he didn’t recognise, Oliver Kovacs, with an address in Watford against which had been written does not exist.
‘Should I send these through to Kathy?’ Bren asked.
‘Leave them with me, Bren. I’d like Kathy to forget about work for a while.’
‘Sure.’
‘By the way, did we get anywhere with tracing the taxi that dropped her at the clinic?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. I haven’t checked. Sorry, with all the rest that’s been going on . . .’
‘Of course, and it’s probably way down the priority list.’
‘I’ll chase it up.’
Later that afternoon Brock was checking through his in-tray and came upon the fire brigade report into the fire on Ned Tisdell’s boat. He scanned it, then read it again more carefully. He was consumed by an uncomfortable sense of things left unresolved, and decided to pay another visit to the Paddington canal basin. When he got there he noticed changes as he stood on the bridge over the canal and looked down on the row of narrowboats, several of which were unfamiliar. Gudrun Kite’s empty Grace was still there, and next to it the Stapletons’ Roaming Free, from whose flue stack a column of white smoke curled up into the evening air. As he descended to the towpath and drew closer to the boats he saw light gleaming from the windows of Roaming Free and heard a sudden gust of laughter. He stepped up onto the stern and knocked on the door.
‘Hello?’ Howard Stapleton opened the door and stuck his head out, recognising Brock. ‘Ah, Chief Inspector!’
‘Is this an awkward time, Mr Stapleton?’
‘No, no, not at all. Come on in.’
Brock followed him down the steps and into the warm body of the boat, seeing Molly Stapleton up ahead, sitting with a young woman he didn’t recognise, both holding glasses of wine.
‘We’re just having a glass of wine with Debbie,’ Howard Stapleton said. ‘You know Debbie Rowland, from Jonquil, two boats along? And this is her little boy, Ethan. This is a very important Scotland Yard detective, Ethan. Say hello.’
A small boy got up from the floor where he’d been playing with a model car and stood to lopsided attention in front of Brock, offering his hand to shake. Brock took it and introduced himself, getting the impression from the cheerful grins on the adults’ faces and the empty bottle on the galley bench top that the party had been going for a while.
‘I’m interrupting you,’ Brock said.
‘Not at all.’ Stapleton checked his watch. ‘Are you off duty? Join us in a glass.’
Brock smiled. He wanted them to relax, and said, ‘You’re right, I am off duty. I was just passing and saw your lights on. So, yes, a glass of wine would be very welcome.’
‘We’re debating about heading up to Manchester for the winter,’ Molly Stapleton said. ‘I have a sister up there, so if the canals freeze over we’ll have an alternative refuge for Christmas.’
‘I hadn’t thought of the risk of getting frozen in,’ Brock said, taking the glass Howard offered him.
‘Oh yes, you have to plan for the winter. You don’t want to get trapped out in the fens or somewhere,’ Molly said. ‘Is this about Ned Tisdell’s boat catching fire? We read about it in the paper. We couldn’t believe it.’
‘The local police think it was vandals,’ Brock said.
‘Dear heavens, have things got as bad as that? Maybe we should head north.’
‘But you’re looking into Vicky’s death, aren’t you?’ Debbie Rowland asked. ‘Have there been any developments?’
‘No. A report has gone to the coroner and, subject to his findings, the case is closed. Accidental death. No doubt there will be recommendations about the safety of those heaters.’
‘That was so tragic.’ Debbie spoke with a wistful look at her glass, which Howard was topping up.
‘Did you know Vicky well?’ Brock asked. ‘I should say Gudrun, since that was her real name.’
‘Yes, that was really weird, wasn’t it? I thought I knew her quite wel
l—we all did—and yet we had no idea she was using a false name. But I always thought it was a bit strange that she was so cluey about computers, yet she was working in marketing. I mean, I’m a website designer and I’ve done a few courses, but she was way beyond that. She helped me once when I had a problem; she could do the most amazing things.’
‘Did she say much about her job?’
‘Only that she hated her boss and would like to bankrupt him.’ Her jaw dropped. ‘Oh my god, she wasn’t doing anything like that, was she? Sabotaging him or something?’
‘Not as far as we know.’ He sipped his wine and smiled at Howard Stapleton. ‘Nice drop.’ He didn’t want this to sound like an interrogation, although he was thinking that Debbie Rowland was someone they should have spoken to before now. ‘I get the feeling that she was making a break from whatever problems she’d had in the past,’ Brock said, ‘and was glad to make new friends like you three, in the boating world.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Debbie agreed, wistful again. It seemed to be her default mood.
‘And Anne Downey and Ned Tisdell,’ Brock added.
‘Oh yes, she was really close to them.’
‘Was she?’ Howard looked surprised and slightly put out.
‘Yes. I think Ned was a bit of a lost soul, like her, a bit damaged, you know? And Anne was like a mother figure to her. Vicky told me her own mother had died—was that true?’
‘Yes, a couple of years ago. Did she speak about her father?’
‘She said he was remote and unapproachable.’
‘We haven’t heard from Ned or Anne since they left,’ Howard said.
‘I could have a pretty good guess where Ned is,’ Debbie said.
‘Really?’ Brock said.
‘If he’s lost his boat and doesn’t have anywhere to stay, he’ll probably have gone to Anne for help.’
Molly Stapleton leaned forward and said with a mischievous look, ‘They weren’t an item, were they, Debbie?’
Howard looked shocked. ‘What! No, of course not. Anne would never have been interested in someone like Ned.’
But Debbie said, ‘You know, I did wonder about that. She was very protective towards him, wasn’t she, and they were kind of secretive, the two of them.’
‘But Ned wasn’t . . .’ Howard groped for the word.
‘A perfect gentleman like you, darling?’ his wife said sarcastically. ‘Perhaps Anne preferred something a bit less predictable.’
Howard choked. ‘Well, he was that all right.’
‘And where would Anne be now, I wonder?’ Brock said to Debbie.
‘Could be anywhere,’ Molly said.
‘No,’ Debbie said, ‘I bet she’s still in London. When I asked her where she was moving on to next she said she’d be staying in London for a while; she had unfinished business, she said. You should check with British Waterways or the Environment Agency, although there are lots of private moorings—sorry, I’m teaching my grandmother to suck eggs, aren’t I? I mean that’s what you do every day, isn’t it, finding people?’ Debbie thought a moment. ‘There was one place she mentioned once, when we were talking about places to stay. She said it was a quiet spot, where you could usually rely on a mooring. Over in the East End—Hackney Wick, near the Olympics site.’
Brock nodded. ‘I believe Gudrun—Vicky—had a friend called Oliver Kovacs. Know anything about him?’
Howard said, ‘Oh, you mean Ollie, over on the other bank, the houseboat from hell. Ollie Kovacs is the mad old bloke who lives there.’ He pointed out through the side window to the ramshackle structure across the water. ‘Hardly a friend of Vicky’s though, surely. He’s as likely to throw something at you as speak to you.’
‘I did see her over there once,’ Debbie said. ‘I meant to ask her about it. It gives me the creeps, that place. I’ll bet it’s got rats.’
Brock thanked them and got up to leave. At the door Howard Stapleton pointed to the riverside restaurant further down the far bank. ‘Ned Tisdell worked over there. Maybe they have a contact number for him. Ask for Ricci, the owner.’
Brock returned to the road bridge over the canal and crossed to the street running above the other bank. On one side were rows of expensive Georgian terrace houses, with sparkling paintwork and security cameras at the front doors, while on the canal side leafless trees spread their branches over the houseboats attached to the bank. He walked to the restaurant where a sign proclaimed Ricci’s in stylish red neon. The lights were on but there were no diners yet at the tables as he pushed open the door and took in a deep breath of Italian cooking. A young man with a shaved head and haughty poise came to ask him if he had a reservation.
‘Is Ricci in?’
‘Who shall I say?’
Brock showed him his police ID and the waiter raised a vaguely scandalised eyebrow, as if ready to protest his innocence. ‘Hang on.’
Ricci Ragonetti, as he introduced himself, was a short, plump man with a brisk manner. ‘Detective Chief Inspector? This must be something important.’
‘I’m wanting to speak to Ned Tisdell. I’m told he worked for you, and I wondered if you could tell me where I might find him.’
‘Ah, about his boat, is it? That’s a bad business. We’ve had some cases of break-and-enter and vandalism along the canal, but setting fire to property is beyond a joke. Yes, Ned worked here off and on for a couple of months. He had a talent in the kitchen—vegetarian food of course, he’s a vegan, and his pasta puttanesca was something special. But he was difficult, a bad timekeeper, sometimes turning up late or leaving early because he had other business to attend to. Then, two weeks ago, he didn’t show up at all. His boat was gone, and that was that.’
‘No idea where he might be now?’
Ricci shook his head.
‘What was this other business he was involved in?’
‘I got the impression it was some kind of club. He talked about having to go to a meeting. But he wasn’t what you’d call a great communicator, our Ned.’
Brock thanked him. ‘That smells good; wish I could stay.’
‘Hey, wait there.’
Ricci bustled away then returned with a carrier bag in which Brock saw a plastic tub. ‘What’s this?’
‘We do frozen meals for special customers, and this is one of Ned’s dishes—tofu and spinach cannelloni. You try it. You’ll see what I mean about his cooking.’
It seemed that everyone along the canal wanted to offer him their hospitality.
‘I shouldn’t accept it, but I will,’ Brock said. ‘Many thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. Have you spoken to old Ollie?’
‘No—should I?’
‘Ollie Kovacs, bit of a hermit, lives in a tumble-down houseboat just along from here. Ned quite often called in there after work, took him leftovers. It’s possible Ned may still be in touch with him.’
‘Thanks, I’ll try him.’
‘Be careful, though, he hates coppers.’
When he got back onto the street Brock took out his phone and called Kathy’s number. She sounded cheerful, saying she’d spent the day helping Suzanne in her antiques shop while her assistant Ginny was off. ‘It was a relief just to be doing something useful, and good to feel tired after being on my feet all day. We’re in the kitchen now, preparing dinner. So how are things with you?’
He told her about the list of Gudrun Kite’s phone calls and his detour to the canal after work. ‘It seems both Gudrun Kite and Ned Tisdell used to visit a character living in a houseboat on the other side of the canal by the name of Oliver or Ollie Kovacs. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘I remember Howard Stapleton pointing out a ruined houseboat.’
‘That’s the one, I think. I’m on my way there now. So he wasn’t interviewed?’
‘He may have been door-knocked, but I doubt it. The investigation, such as it was, never got that far. Can I help?’
‘No, you enjoy your dinner.’
He exchanged a few words with Suzan
ne, busy with making something complicated and Moroccan, then rang off and continued to a gate in the railings with a small, almost illegible sign reading O.K. tied to it with a clumsy twist of wire, and, in the uncertain light from the street-lamp, cautiously followed a broken flight of brick steps down the canal bank to Ollie Kovacs’ houseboat. At least, that was what he assumed it was, although in the shadowy darkness it looked more like a pile of abandoned tarpaulins. When he reached the foot of the bank, however, with the sound of lapping water coming from somewhere close to his feet, he was able to make out a glimmer of light coming from around the frame of an old door half hidden beneath a flap of canvas. There was also a tremor of sound coming from the door, the faint anguished wail of a trumpet, something he recognised. He paused, then had it—Miles Davis of course, one of the early albums.
The sound immediately cut off when he rapped on the door. There followed a long wait before the door opened a little way and the head of an elderly man peered out, blinking suspiciously through horn-rimmed glasses.
‘Miles Ahead, I think,’ Brock said mildly. ‘Am I right?’
The eyes stared at him for a long moment. They reminded him of the child Ethan’s large, innocent eyes. As he grew accustomed to the light Brock made out a straggly grey beard, a huge bald dome of a head and bushy eyebrows. The eyes moved down to examine Brock’s clothes and fixed on the plastic bag with Ricci’s logo.
‘What’s that?’ The voice was a growl, but beneath the two syllables Brock felt he detected education.
‘It’s Ned’s tofu and spinach cannelloni.’
‘Ah . . .’ The bushy eyebrows rose. ‘What do you want?’
‘A few words.’
‘About?’
‘Ned. You’re Ollie, am I right? I’m Brock. Just a few minutes of your time, Ollie. Ned would like you to have the cannelloni.’
As if he’d uttered a password, he watched Ollie step back and, stooping to get through the low door, Brock moved inside, into what seemed to be an improvised lean-to tilted precariously against the side of a very old wooden shed, with small square windows and elaborate faded lettering along its exposed side. In the dim light of a single dangling bulb, he saw that the lean-to was filled with a chaotic jumble of old junk—obsolete machinery, paint pots, plastic baskets of clothing and blankets—and among it all he made out a mattress on a brass bedstead and a wicker basket from which a large old grey dog was observing him balefully.
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