‘When was this?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. This year, I think. January or February.’
Brock drained his glass. ‘Well, thanks for your help. I’d better go now. Please let me know if anything else occurs to you.’
When they reached the front door, Sophie Warrender said, ‘I hope this doesn’t sound out of place, Chief Inspector, but I gave Marion a number of my books and research notes to work on while I was away. I really will need to get them back before too long. Will that be a problem?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Tell you what, I’ll get my inspector, DI Kathy Kolla, to contact you and she can work something out.’
‘I’d be so grateful.’ She shot Brock a dazzling smile, then closed the front door.
•
That evening, in the Long Bar of the National Theatre and afterwards over supper, Brock told Suzanne Chambers about Marion and her connection to Sophie Warrender. Suzanne was as shocked and intrigued by the circumstances of Marion’s death as everyone else, but it seemed there was another reason for her interest. She had read all of Sophie Warrender’s biographies and greatly admired them, but eventually, after a couple of drinks, she admitted that what had originally drawn her to them was the discovery that Sophie was married to Suzanne’s first great love.
‘What, Dougie Warrender?’ Brock looked surprised, then laughed.
‘What’s funny?’ Suzanne stiffened.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ he said rapidly.
‘Did you see him today?’
‘I did, actually. A powerful man, bit flustered from the trip back from Corsica. They have a house there.’
‘In St Florent, yes.’
‘You know all about them, don’t you? You haven’t been stalking him, have you?’
She coloured a little. ‘Of course not. I saw her on TV once, authors talking about where they do their writing, and she mentioned the house in Corsica, and the one in Notting Hill. But I knew it already. When I was thirteen my best friend at school, Angela Crick, lived next door to the Warrenders on Lansdowne Gardens. I spent a magical summer staying with Angela while my parents were overseas, and fell madly in love with Dougie. He was older, about seventeen, very dark and brooding, my Mr Darcy. They’d just come back to England from India, where Dougie’s father had been a diplomat of some kind. It was my first big passion. His cousin was staying with him at the time, I remember, and he fell for Angela. I wonder what happened to Angela? I remember being devastated when I heard that the Warrenders were moving to New York, but they held on to the house in Notting Hill, apparently. And now you’ve been there, and have actually met them all.’
She looked wistfully into her glass. For a moment, as she had been talking about the Warrenders and the house in Lansdowne Gardens, the memories of those days had come back so vividly, the intensity of the feelings of her youth allowing her to briefly pull away the dulling blanket of years. She thought of Brock’s amused reaction to her confession about Dougie Warrender, and wondered if she would be terribly disappointed if she bumped into him again. Probably she would; they probably wouldn’t even recognise each other.
twelve
There was a mood of new beginnings on Monday morning at Queen Anne’s Gate. Detectives who had been seconded to Counter Terrorism Command had returned and were ready for new assignments. Bren and the others looked refreshed, hyped up by their spell away. They gathered in the incident room for Brock’s morning briefing, several of them clustering around Pip, whom Kathy noticed as she walked in.
The young DC came over to her and said meekly, ‘Am I forgiven?’
Kathy smiled, pleased to see the girl back on her feet. ‘It was my fault, Pip. I should never have let you go in there alone. Let’s just put it down to experience.’
‘I heard they’ve dropped charges against those guys. I can’t believe it. What about Marion? You’ll let me go on working with you on that, won’t you?’
‘Looks like there’s nothing to work on.’ Kathy told her what they’d discovered at the house in Rosslyn Court. Pip was shocked and started to protest, then fell silent with the others as Brock walked in, carrying a tall stack of files.
‘I hope you all had a good weekend,’ he began, ‘because there’s a heap of stuff to clear up now.’
She had had a good weekend, Kathy thought, though it seemed suddenly remote. Guy Hamilton had joined up with them, at Nicole’s insistence, and he’d been good company. He was a structural engineer, he’d told them, waiting to be posted back to a project in the Gulf States.
Brock gave Kathy three files, all liaison jobs with overseas forces through Interpol, tracing fugitives believed to be in London. She wondered if this was him having a little dig at her weekend trip. Without explanation he switched Pip to work with another pair of detectives, and she shot Kathy a penitent look.
When the meeting was over Brock drew Kathy aside and handed her a note summarising his meeting with Sophie Warrender. ‘You should meet her. In fact I said you might take her to Rosslyn Court to collect books and papers that she’d lent Marion.’
There was something about the way he said this that alerted Kathy. ‘So you want me to go on with that?’
‘Loose ends,’ he said vaguely. ‘If you’ve got time.’
‘I’ll get onto it. So you’ve taken away my little helper.’
He smiled. ‘I thought you might like a break.’
Kathy returned to her desk and put a call through to Sundeep Mehta. His advice was precise. ‘The heavy metals persist in the body. If she had a history of taking arsenic, it’ll be recorded in her hair, fingernails and bones. I’ll check. But Kathy, this was a massive, lethal dose. Was she an impulsive woman?’
‘That’s not my impression, Sundeep.’
‘Well, I’ll get back to you.’
She settled down to read through the new files, and made a start in following up the most promising leads. All the same, her mind kept returning to the house in Rosslyn Court. Alex Nicholson’s comments about the absence of a computer stuck in her mind, irking her for not noticing it sooner. Eventually she rang the secretary at the university and asked her if she could think of anywhere else Marion might have kept personal possessions. Karen explained that postgraduate students were provided with individual lockers. She apologised for not thinking to mention it before. Kathy said she’d come straight over.
When she arrived Karen took her to the postgraduate students’ office, a large room with a rank of computer stations to one side and a table and whiteboard at the other. A sink and coffee-making facilities stood in the far corner, next to a bank of grey metal lockers. Karen took her master key and opened one which had Marion’s name written neatly on a label. It was completely empty.
Kathy stared at the void in disappointment, then turned to Karen. ‘Is there anywhere else Marion could have kept things?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Do you know if she had a computer of her own?’
‘Sorry, no idea. We could ask.’ They went around the room, questioning the half-dozen students working at the keyboards. No one knew.
‘How about Dr da Silva, is he here?’
‘Monday . . . he doesn’t have any lectures today.’ She looked out the window. ‘Car’s here. Maybe he’s in the library, or his office. Shall I check?’ She dialled a number on the phone on the central table and spoke a few words. ‘Yes, he’s in his office. He says to go on up. Know where it is?’
‘Yes—thanks, Karen.’
Da Silva answered her knock, swelling up a little as he showed her in, as if wanting to become larger. ‘Welcome,’ he murmured. ‘Please sit down. Any developments?’
‘Possibly. It’s a bit early to say. We found where Marion was living, in Hampstead.’ She watched his reaction closely.
‘Really? Hampstead? Where abouts, exactly?’
‘Rosslyn Court. Know it?’
‘Yes, I believe I do. I’m . . . amazed, frankly.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Where do you live, Dr da Silva?’
‘Me?’ Kathy thought there was a flush of colour in his face. ‘Not far from there, actually. I live in Hampstead Garden Suburb, just up the road.’
‘That is a coincidence.’
He gave her a little frown. ‘Was it any help, finding where she lived?’
‘Possibly. But I wanted to ask you again about Marion’s access to computers. Surely she would have had one of her own? A laptop, maybe?’
‘Well, I told you this before—I really don’t know. I can’t remember her ever bringing one to our sessions.’
‘Do you have anything of hers?’
‘Eh?’ He looked startled, drawing himself upright in his chair. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I just wondered if she might have left anything with you for safe keeping—computer disks, say, or electronic copies of her documents, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, I see. No, nothing like that. She gave me printouts of her work mostly. I’ve kept those. Once or twice she emailed drafts to me.’
‘I’ve looked in her locker downstairs.’
‘Locker?’
‘The postgraduate students are given lockers.’
‘Are they? I didn’t know.’
‘Anyway, it was empty. Can you think of anywhere else she might have left anything?’
‘Sorry.’ He raised his hands helplessly.
‘We’re wondering if it’s possible she might have taken her own life, Dr da Silva?’
‘What, with arsenic?’ He looked genuinely astonished. ‘You’ve got to be joking, surely?’
‘Why do you say arsenic? I didn’t mention that.’
‘You certainly did to Dr Ringland. He tells me you wanted to know if she could have taken arsenic from his lab.’ He gave her a teasing smile. ‘Or indeed if I could.’
‘We have to consider every eventuality. So you don’t think it’s likely?’
He pondered, stroking his chin. ‘Well, it’s a pretty astounding notion. I wouldn’t have thought of her as the suicidal type. That would be a gruesome way to do it, surely? I mean, she wasn’t stupid. She was rather fascinated by early, tragic death, I suppose. As I mentioned to you, I felt her enthusiasms were a little . . . overripe, one might say—hysterical even.’
Kathy felt her dislike of Tony da Silva’s smugness growing, and had to warn herself not to let it cloud her judgement. ‘Do you recall anything specific in recent weeks? Anything that in retrospect might be taken as a warning, a cry for help?’
‘Not really. She did go on at length about poor old Lizzie Siddal and her death. She took an overdose of laudanum, you know. That’s opium, morphine. I suppose you’ve checked that wasn’t how Marion died?’
‘It seems it was definitely arsenic. Well, if there’s nothing else . . .’ Kathy got to her feet, noticing again the row of his Rossetti biographies. ‘I must get a copy of your book, Dr da Silva.’
‘Oh, please . . .’ He leapt to his feet and snatched one from the shelf. ‘Be my guest.’
‘Well, I must pay for it.’
‘Don’t be silly. Your first name is Kathy, yes? With a K?’
‘Yes.’
He opened the cover, took a felt pen from his desk and wrote with a great flourish, then snapped it shut and handed it to her. ‘It’s my pleasure. Oh, and, er, I loaned Marion some of my own books and papers. I suppose they’ll be at Rosslyn Court. Could I make arrangements to pop over there and pick them up?’
Kathy sensed anxiety beneath the casual question and said, ‘Not in person, Dr da Silva. At least not for some time. Perhaps if you gave me a list of the things that are yours I could take a look.’
He flushed and muttered that he’d do that.
When she got outside into the corridor, she opened the book and read his inscription: To Kathy, with enormous admiration for your work, Tony da Silva.
She wrinkled her nose, wondering what he’d written in Marion’s copy.
It occurred to her that Tina Flowers might know if Marion had a computer so she tried to phone her, but she wasn’t at Stamford Street, nor was she answering her mobile number, and Kathy returned to Queen Anne’s Gate and her paperwork. An hour later Tina rang.
‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Is there news?’
‘I just wanted to ask about Marion’s computer, Tina. What did she use?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I never saw it.’
‘What about you, do you have one?’
‘Yeah, a laptop.’
‘How did you give her the work you did for her?’
‘Mostly it was photocopies and handwritten notes, but I did email her stuff sometimes.’
‘She didn’t give you any computer disks to keep for her, did she?’
‘No. Has something happened? Have you found anything?’
Kathy hesitated, then said, ‘Did Marion say anything at all, well, odd when you spoke to her that last time, on Tuesday morning?’
‘Odd? No, I’ve gone over in my head everything she said, and she seemed normal.’
‘Not depressed, then?’
‘No, quite the opposite. She was happy. Everything was going well for her.’
‘Did you ever hear her talk about suicide?’
‘Well, yes, about the characters she was researching. I was supposed to look out for suicide references. It was on my list of key words, remember?’
‘Yes, but I mean at a more personal level. Did she ever talk about wanting to kill herself ?’
‘No, of course not. She wasn’t like that. Why do you ask?’
‘We’ve found where she was living, Tina—a house in Hampstead. She never mentioned that?’
‘No.’
‘Inside we found evidence that she mixed her own drink that day, lacing it with arsenic.’
‘No!’ Tina’s voice choked off abruptly, and Kathy heard the sound of a gasp or sob. Then she came back on. ‘No, I don’t believe it. She’d never do that. You’ve made a mistake.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ The girl’s voice was suddenly hot with angry protest. ‘That’s the easy way out, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Blame Marion, she can’t answer for herself. Nobody else gets upset.’
Kathy waited a couple of beats, then said, ‘That’s not how we work, Tina.’
‘She would never have killed herself.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She was too smart. She had her life together. Despite . . .’
‘Despite what? Who?’
Tina didn’t answer at first, her breathing harsh down the line. Then, ‘If you won’t find out what happened, I will,’ and she hung up.
Kathy turned back to her files, trying to concentrate, and was immediately interrupted by another phone call—it was a man’s voice, a Scot.
‘It’s Donald Fotheringham, Inspector. We spoke on the telephone last Wednesday, if you remember, when you called Bessie Wardlaw, Marion Summer’s auntie.’
The minister, Kathy recalled. ‘Ah yes, Mr Fotheringham. How is Mrs Wardlaw?’
‘Awfy frail, I’m afraid, and quite distraught over Marion’s death. It’s been in the Sunday Post, you know, and the Glasgow Herald. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Here?’
‘Aye, here in London. I came down on the sleeper. Bessie asked me to try to find out what really happened. She wanted me to speak to you in person. I hope that will be possible.’
‘Yes, yes of course. Where abouts are you, exactly?’
‘I’ve got myself a wee room in a hotel near Euston. I can hop on a bus and be with you any time you say. Maybe I could buy you lunch. Would it be too dreadful to suggest a sandwich in St James’s Square?’
Beneath the sombre tones, Kathy thought she detected a little quiver of eagerness in the minister’s voice, as if he was finding his mission rather exciting.
&
nbsp; ‘That’ll be just fine. One o’clock?’
•
She spotted him straight away, a tall, rather gaunt figure standing alone beside the equestrian statue. He wasn’t wearing a dog collar, but she had the sense of a stranger in a strange land, taking it all in.
She introduced herself and he transferred a plastic bag to his left hand and they shook.
‘Good of you to see me,’ he said. ‘So this is the place . . .’
Kathy pointed to a bench. ‘That’s where she had lunch, and over there is the library where she collapsed afterwards.’ She pointed to the frontage of the London Library, shouldered into the corner of the square by its grander neighbours.
‘Ironic.’ He nodded at the figure on the prancing horse. ‘She told me once she hated King Billie. She hated the Orange lodges. I believe her father was a member of the number one lodge down in Kilwinning.’
They walked over to the bench and sat down. It was in full sun and felt warm, as if someone had just been sitting there. Kathy was surprised at how much more foliage there was on the trees after less than a week.
‘He left Marion and her mother when she was young, didn’t he?’ Kathy asked.
‘Aye, so Bessie told me. Marion was two. It shaped her life, I suppose, growing up with no father, and a mother whose parenting skills were . . . somewhat lacking, shall we say?’
‘Yes, I’ve met Sheena.’
‘How is she? Bessie wanted me to ask.’
‘Well enough. Works in a supermarket in Ealing. She still seems devoted to Keith Rafferty. Do you know him?’ She showed Fotheringham his picture.
‘No, I don’t believe he ever came up to Scotland. Tell me, that looks like one of those official police photos. Does he have a record?’
‘He does.’
‘Ah. Bessie suspected as much. Sheena was a bit evasive about her husband’s background.’ He seemed about to say more, then changed his mind and reached into his carrier bag. ‘I got one smoked salmon sandwich and a vegetarian one. And two different cans of pop. Please take your pick. I’m happy with either.’
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