‘How come?’
Kathy explained.
‘So you’ve actually been inside the family compound, The Glebe?’ There was a plan and an aerial photograph among the pictures on the wall.
‘Yes, strange place, like a fortified village trying to pretend it’s just an ordinary bit of posh suburbia. But I suppose that’s what they mean by a gated community.’
‘It is a bit odd. They had it purpose-built for themselves. I mean, you’d have to think there was something a bit pathological about a family wanting to stick so close together. Imagine being one of the women,marrying into a deal like that.And they do stick together. Neither Spider nor any of the boys have divorced.’
‘The only other member of the family I’ve seen is the youngest son, Ricky, when we interviewed him.’
‘Right.’Tom pointed to the pictures of the brothers.‘They’re all in their fifties now. Mark, the eldest, the big-shot businessman, travels a lot,owns a lavish holiday villa on the north coast of Jamaica and an apartment in Hong Kong. He’s married with five children and three grandchildren. Ivor, the second son, is an accountant in his own practice, which is effectively dedicated to the Roach business operations.Ricky,number three,has the luxury car dealership in Eltham, wife and four kids.
‘And then there’s the old man,Edward “Spider”Roach.He was widowed eight years ago and had a brush with cancer shortly after. Since then rarely seen in public except as a regular churchgoer, but known to be a generous donor to a variety of charitable and political organisations,including the Catholic Church,Save the Children and the Conservative Party.’
‘So what are we looking for?’ Kathy asked.
‘Points of weakness,’Tom said.‘I’m meeting Michael Grant’s researcher, Andrea, tomorrow.We’ll see what they’ve come up with.’
That evening Kathy spoke to her friend Nicole, who mentioned that they’d received a request from Brock that day, to unearth old files relating to a surveillance operation back in the early eighties.
‘What kind of operation?’ Kathy asked, curious.
‘A funeral parlour,’ Nicole said, laughing.‘Maybe he’s writing his memoirs. Anyway, how’s it going with Tom?’
‘All right. I’m just getting used to having him around the office all the time.’
‘Mm, but apart from that? You’re not seeing him tonight?’
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘He’s not being a bit slow, is he?’
Kathy changed the subject, and they agreed to try to get together the coming weekend.
EIGHTEEN
There were two reports waiting for Kathy the following morning. One had arrived by fax during the night from the police in Kingston, Jamaica, regarding her inquiry about the three victims,Walter Isaacs, Joseph Kidd and Robbie X. From the details taken from their passports when they entered the UK, the JCF had been able to identify the first two. It seemed that both had died, Isaacs in 1970 and Kidd in 1976, long before they arrived in London.
The second report was on her computer, a long string of vehicle numbers from the Rainbow Coordinator in Streatham. She poured a cup of coffee, pondered, and decided to begin with a shortlist of those that appeared more than once, on the basis that anyone visiting the Singhs would have first come, then gone. She set about comparing these with the list of numbers they’d compiled of cars known to belong to the Roach family.
Towards noon, when Brock came by, she’d found no matches. She told him what she was doing and the result from Jamaica, and he just nodded, preoccupied.
After he’d gone it occurred to her that the big point of all this wasn’t so much to prove that the Singhs had been intimidated by the Roaches-that probably wasn’t going to be possible. Rather, it was to prove that there was a continuing connection between the Roaches and the black gangsters of Cockpit Lane. She opened her notebookto the rain-wrinkled page where she’d writtenthe numbers of the cars at the park the previous day, and started comparing them with the Streatham list. Disappointingly, neither Teddy Vexx’s Peugeot nor the red BMW came up,but then,just as she was checking her watch and deciding it was time to go, one of the other numbers on her screen showed a match.It was that of a Ford Mondeo parked further up the street. A minute later she had the name, Jay Crocker, known to them as an associate of Teddy Vexx. She reached for the phone to tell Brock but found that he had left the office.
Martin Connell rose to his feet as she approached his table. The monitor hadn’t lied about the extra pounds, and there were other subtle signs of time passing about the corners of his eyes and mouth. She saw that he was making a similar appraisal of her. Ten years had put their mark on both of them.She hoped his success hadn’t made him pompous.Whatever else he’d been, he’d never been that.
‘Great view.’ She looked out at the sweep of water.
‘I hope it wasn’t too far.’
‘No.’ She’d been glad that the place he’d suggested was some way up-river from the office. ‘I’ve heard of this place, of course. But I’ve never been here.’ Not at these prices, she thought.
‘I’m very glad you’ve come. Really, I didn’t think you would.’
The smile of course, racy and ironic like . . . well, Belmondo perhaps, or even Tom a little. She made a mental note to work that one out later.‘I’m not sure why I did.I mean,we’re not interested in each other’s private lives, are we? And we can’t talk about work. Doesn’t leave much to fill in the odd hour.’
He laughed.‘We never had any trouble filling in the odd hour, Kathy. I did mean what I said on the phone. Since Daniel . . . Okay, you’re not interested, but I got to thinking, if it had been me instead of him, what would I look back to, most of all? And what came into my mind was you-no, don’t look at me like that, it’s true.You were very important to me. And I thought how sad it would be if we never had another chance to sit together at a fine white tablecloth with a glass of wine, and talk.’
As he spoke, using that persuasive voice, Kathy realised that the differences she’d noticed in him had disappeared and he now seemed the same as he’d always been. Or perhaps he was a little more mellow, a little less obvious in making known what he wanted. He had no difficulty in finding funny, neutral things to amuse her with. The river was a cue for a story of an evening with fellow lawyers (no mention of wives) on an evening cruise, being serenaded by a famous operatic soprano, whose improvised stage at the stern had buckled under her considerable weight, almost tipping her into the river. The theme of punctured human dignity led on to a courtroom story from his early days, and then to a convoluted account of a meal with a senior Tory member of parliament (wives included this time), whose well-known habit of ending a good story with a flourish of his pocket handkerchief had come unstuck when the handkerchief, like a magician’s prop, had been followed by a pair of ladies’ black silk knickers-not, so his wife calmly observed, her own.
The food was excellent too-French new wave, he said, as if he’d read her mind about Belmondo. An hour passed in no time, then another, before he looked regretfully at his watch and called
for the bill.
‘You mentioned gossip on the phone,’ Kathy said.
‘Did I? Oh yes,there was something . . .But you were right,no shop. There is one thing I will say, though. It’s absolutely ridiculous that you’re still at the same rank as when we . . . as before. I mean, it just makes me angry, Brock keeping you tucked under his wing at DS when everybody knows you’re the best thing he’s got, far better than Gurney. I mean, he won’t be there forever, Kathy, and when he goes . . . It could be sooner than you think, they’ll move someone in, maybe already have . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s the way big organisations work, Kathy. I know. You’ve got to look out for number one.’
‘You didn’t buy me lunch to give me a lecture on ambition, Martin.What is this all about, really?’
‘I told you what it was. I realised I was mortal, and couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing you one m
ore time.’
He gave her a lift back to the West End and left her, mystified. Altruism wasn’t Martin’s style, and though he’d always been generous, there was always a motive.
Brock chose a spot towards the back of the waiting crowd and to one side, where he could see the arrivals without making himself obvious. One by one, then in a steady stream, they came around the corner, bent to their laden trolleys, eyes expectantly scanning the confusion of bobbing faces. Then she appeared.
If he’d intended it as a test of his own feelings, it would have rated as a complete success.The sight of the familiar face,the intelligent searching eyes, the determined chin, instantly dispelled all the doubts that had haunted him these last months and sent a warm surge of blind relief and affection through him. He saw with concern the fatigue in the shadows around her eyes, and began to push towards the end of the railings so that he could wrap his arms around her and tell her that it was good, so very good, that she was home at last.
Only she wasn’t pushing a trolley,and then he saw her face light up, not at him, but at someone on the far side of the crowd. Then he saw two children break out of the crush and run forward into her arms. Suzanne’s grandchildren, he realised, followed by a smiling woman he didn’t recognise. He watched Suzanne embrace her too, then turn to make a gesture of introduction to the man pushing the trolley behind her. He shook hands all round, grinning broadly; a tall man, tanned and good-looking, fitter and younger than Brock. The crowd shifted and surged and Brock lost sight of them, then he saw them off to the side, talking together in an excited cluster before moving together towards the exit doors, the woman explaining with hand signs where her car was parked.
He stood for a while, a fixed point in the swirling mass, letting the bitter sick feeling subside, then he followed them out into the chilly afternoon.
Kathy made her way to the office of the Streatham Rainbow Coordinator, who set her up in front of a monitor to watch the tapes of the junction at the end of the Singhs’ street. There was a gap of half an hour between the two appearances of the Mondeo, the second timed just a few minutes after the elder Singh had made the online plane bookings for his son and daughter-in-law. In both clips it was apparent that there were two occupants in the vehicle, bulky men who seemed to fill the car’s interior.
On the way back to Queen Anne’s Gate,Kathy got a phone call from Tom. He sounded rushed and there was a lot of background noise, as if he was in a train station.
‘How’s it going, Kathy?’
‘Fine, I’m just heading back. I found one or two-’
‘Great, me too. Look, I’ve only got a minute . . . Oh, got to go. See you later.’
‘Where-?’ But he was gone.
Back at the office, Kathy tapped on Brock’s door. He was at his desk, bent over a file, one of a stack of faded buff folders of a type she hadn’t seen in years.
She sat down and told him what she’d learned and he listened in silence.
‘So Michael Grant is right,’she said.‘We can show a connection between Roach and suspected drug dealers in Cockpit Lane. Should we tell Trident?’
‘Not yet,’ Brock murmured. He seemed still absorbed in whatever he’d been reading.‘What other checks can you make on Vexx and his crew?’
‘Phone records, and I could speak to the lad, George Murray, try to find out why he was spying on us.’
Brock nodded.‘Yes, do that.’
‘What’s Tom up to, do you know?’
‘He’s been spending time with Grant’s research officer. Apparently they’ve got quite a lot of stuff-press cuttings, company information, things like that. But he’s not sure if any of it will help us.’
She turned and left, thinking how tired and preoccupied he looked.
There was a pile of material on Kathy’s desk relating to two other cases she’d put on hold. Now they needed urgent attention, a file report and preparation for a court appearance at the impending trial for another murder case, and several phone calls and a briefing document to the CPS in relation to a serial rapist.She sat down and worked through till almost nine before she headed home, picking up some Chinese on the way.
She was sitting on her sofa in front of the TV when she jerked upright, conscious of having fallen asleep. The empty plate was on the coffee table in front of her, a subtitled movie playing on the screen. Then a rap on the door. She assumed that was what had woken her. She got up stiffly and looked through the spy hole to see Tom’s face grinning back at her.
‘Saw your light on from the street,’ he said, bringing a gust of cold outdoors and other smells in with him. There was a bottle in his hand and his voice sounded loud and cheerful. He gave her a kiss.‘Someone let me through the front door.’
‘Oh . . . I fell asleep in front of the box.What time is it?’
“ ’Round Midnight”.You know that one? Thelonious Monk. Classic.’ He was searching for glasses, humming to himself.
She checked her watch. It was just after three. ‘You sound happy.Where have you been?’
‘Working, working. We never sleep.’ That seemed to be the cue for another melody while he worked on the cork, filled the glasses and collapsed on the sofa.
‘Phew, I’m bushed. Cheers.’
She joined him. She hadn’t seen the shirt before, purple silk with a dark pattern of some kind. Not a work shirt. He smelled of cigarette smoke, and something else.
‘Cheers. Did you drive here?’
He looked penitent.‘’Fraid so.Shouldn’t have.Won’t be able to drive home after this. Can I stay here?’
‘Of course.’
‘Wonderful.’ He put his glass down with a bump that splashed wine across the table, then laid his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes.‘You are wonderful, you know that, don’t you?’
Kathy got up to wipe the spilled wine.‘What was that all about this afternoon, your phone call?’ she asked, but there was no reply and when she turned back he was asleep. She looked down at him for a moment, at the self-absorbed concentration on his sleeping face, and wondered if she really knew him at all. She spread a spare blanket over him and went to bed.
When she got up in the morning he was still there, curled up beneath the blanket. He woke to the sounds of her making coffee and toast, and sat up with a groan, rubbing his face. She handed him an orange juice and he said he was sorry.
‘What happened?’ she asked.‘Where had you been?’
‘Oh . . . I met somebody, had a few drinks. Sorry.Was it very late? Did I wake you up?’
‘Don’t worry. How’s your head?’
‘Nothing a shower won’t fix. Thanks, Kathy.’ He checked his watch with bleary eyes and jumped to his feet. ‘Hell, I’d better move.’
He had a fast shower,pulled his old clothes back on again,kissed her and ran out the door while she was still making breakfast. As she sat at the window munching her toast she contemplated the smell on his jacket. Cigarette smoke, curry and something else, something familiar.She got up and shook out the crumpled blanket on the sofa and a small white handkerchief fell to the floor.It didn’t look like a man’s handkerchief. She picked it up and was aware of that scent again . . . J’Adore, that was it. J’Adore perfume, she was almost sure. She wondered what perfume Michael Grant’s research officer-what was her name? Andrea-wore.
She went to the window and looked down at the car park.
Tom’s Subaru was parked at an odd angle in the corner. She watched him get in, reverse and head for the street, and as he accelerated away she noticed a dark green car take off after him. She reached for the phone and dialled his number.
‘Yes?’
‘Tom . . .’ She looked down at the handkerchief in her hand, then tossed it aside.‘Is there a green Mondeo on your tail?’
‘What? Hang on . . . No, Kathy, don’t think so.’
‘All right. See you later.’
NINETEEN
The following day Kathy was caught up in one of her other cases, her court appearance sche
duled and rescheduled in a frustrating series of delays.While she waited she thought about Brown Bread. Her Rainbow success, identifying the Mondeo, had been a small victory, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. The whole business of Rainbow surveillance had previously seemed rather dumb and unsavoury policing, but now she could appreciate its possibilities. Before long the net would be so extensive that they would probably be able to say where any given vehicle was at any particular time and, with the new facial recognition technology, any given person, too. She smiled grimly to herself at the thought of giving the coordinator Tom’s car number and asking where it was at one o’clock the previous night.What was he playing at? Come to that, what was Brock up to? The whole investigation felt directionless and remote.
When the Crown solicitor finally told her in the afternoon that she wouldn’t be called until the following day, she decided to take the long way back to the office.She made her way down to the Old Kent Road, across Blackheath and onto the Dover road, noticing several cameras along the busy route,but not at the point where she turned off to Shooters Hill. When she reached the golf club she turned into the car park and switched off the engine. There had been a spate of car thefts in recent months as well as two burglaries of the clubhouse bar, and Kathy was interested to see cameras covering the building, the car park and, of greatest interest, the entrance gates.
She got out of the car and walked around the clubhouse, seeing no one. The paraphernalia of golf carts and little flags and greens and fairways brought back the memory of an illicit weekend in Norfolk with Martin Connell, long ago. She’d forgotten about the game of golf they’d played, his instructions and guiding hand. The recollection was intense and bittersweet.
The course was deserted, the open ground enfolded by dark woods. She walked up the first fairway and then cut through a belt of dripping trees to emerge on the edge of the returning eighteenth. On its far side she could see the roofs and windows of The Glebe above its encircling wall. Some of the upper rooms had large picture windows, glinting in the reflected light of the low red sun, and balconies, so that their occupants could enjoy views out over the parkland and woods and the stream that had been turned into a picturesque water hazard across the final fairway.
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