Barry Maitland - The Marx Sisters

‘Who is it?’

‘David Brock.’

‘Oh, Brock. That’s interesting. He’s quite a big gun. You must have a pretty important case.’

‘No. Just some old lady who was probably suffocated while she was asleep. He said the Yard assigns him to odd things from time to time, and it looks as if I’m this week’s oddity.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Oh… quite sexy, really. If you go for older men.’

‘I meant to work with.’

‘He seems very relaxed, almost detached. Not what I expected at all.’

‘Maybe they’re assessing you for promotion, or a transfer. Inspector Kolla of the Yard. I like it.’

‘Piss off.’

‘He led the hunt for Gregory North recently, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. Everyone we’ve questioned seems to know about it. One suspect today got him to give him his autograph for his son.’

‘Did he talk about the North case at all?’

‘Only briefly. Said it wasn’t over yet.’

‘Really? I wonder what he meant by that? North escaped to some place in South America, didn’t he? Where they can’t extradite him.’

‘I don’t know. He said something about having a surprise in store for North. Let’s have a glass of wine. I’ve opened a bottle of the special Italian red for your birthday. You remember the Barolo?’

Kathy’s lips moved seductively up his shoulder to his neck. But she could feel the tenseness in his arm around her. If he’s looking at his watch I’ll bloody kill him.

‘I have to go, love. I’m sorry. Let’s have a glass while I get dressed.’

‘You’ve only just arrived.’

‘Don’t say it like that, Kath. I told you what the score was tonight.’

Kathy stomped out to the kitchen and returned with the two glasses of wine. She sat, naked, on the end of the bed and watched him as he did up his shirt buttons, pulled on his trousers.

‘You ought to get Brock to talk about the North case. It’s very interesting.’

‘Bugger the North case.’

‘No, really. Try to find out what kind of surprise they’ve got lined up for him. Maybe they’ve got around the extradition thing.’

‘Why are you interested? He’s not a client, is he?’

‘Of course not.’

The extra-special-super-charming smile, the one kept in reserve for new judges, not to be used too often in case it gets shop-soiled.

‘Just professional curiosity. It’s an opportunity for you to see how the big league works. But suit yourself, anyway. Oh God, I must fly.’

‘Flap, flap.’

‘Come on, darling, this isn’t like you.’

He took her in his arms again, kissed her gently on the mouth. ‘I do love you, you know that.’

‘I love you too,’ she whispered. ‘I really do.’ And then he was gone.

Kathy felt good the next morning as she drove over to Scotland Yard to pick up Brock for their trip to the coast, as if she were escaping from school for the day. But before they set off there was one chore to be done. She parked at the north end of Jerusalem Lane and the two of them walked over to the camera shop on the corner. Fluorescent pink posters stuck to the grubby shop front announced a closing-down sale.

‘Mr Witz?’

‘That’s me.’ He came out from behind his counter towards them.

‘We’re police officers, investigating the death of Mrs Winterbottom.’

‘I thought so.’ He smiled affably at them. ‘I already told your detective what I was doing at the time.’

‘Yes. You were in church.’

He beamed. ‘At my niece’s wedding in Northwood, twenty miles away, taking the wedding photographs. You want to see the pictures?’ He was teasing her.

‘No, thank you. We’d like some information on a quarrel between Mrs Winterbottom and the Kowalskis next door. Concerning his past in Poland during the war.’

‘Who’s been telling you that rubbish?’ He was suddenly angry. With his pink cheeks and white hair growing in big tufts around, and out of, his ears, he looked like a burly and malignant little gnome. ‘There was no quarrel, just a small misunderstanding, which some busybody women in this street like to blow up for mischief.’

‘Who?’

‘Ach!’ He turned on his heel and stamped back to his place behind the counter.

‘Believe me,’ he waggled his finger at them, ‘you’re wasting your time if you think Adam Kowalski, or anyone else for that matter, would kill Mrs Winterbottom for such a stupid reason.’

‘Wasn’t that the reason the Kowalskis were selling up?’

‘What?’ He looked at her incredulously. ‘Of course not! Adam sold his place on the same day I sold mine, and for the same reason, because it is time to retire, and take things easy. He should have done it long ago.’

As they turned to go, Kathy suddenly stopped and asked him, ‘Can you recall anyone around here who wears a bow tie, Mr Witz? Someone who visits, someone’s relative maybe?’

He shook his head, still grouchy. ‘Bow ties aren’t that unusual. But I don’t remember anyone special.’

‘All right. Thanks for your help.’

He shook their hands with a better grace.

‘When did you both sell, Mr Witz?’ Brock asked.

‘Back in February. It was a sunny day like today when Adam finally made up his mind.’ The gnome snorted. ‘But it took him another three or four months before he finally managed to get permission from that Marie to come to the pub with me to celebrate.’

He suddenly frowned and scratched his ear.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘That’s funny. That day… when he was about to close up the shop to go out to celebrate, Adam had to serve a customer. I remember how impatient it made me, waiting outside in the Lane. And I remember the man was wearing a bow tie.’

Kathy’s spirits rose the further they got from central London. It was a bright, clear day, the sun gleaming off the paintwork of cars, sparkling off their chrome. As they got closer to the sea, the sky became imperceptibly more brilliant, lightened by reflection from the sheet of water which lay ahead. Kathy took a pair of sunglasses from her shoulder bag and put them on. It was the sort of day that always seemed to come towards the end of the summer holidays when she was a child, glowing and bright, made achingly poignant by the knowledge of the dark autumn, dark suburbs and dark school to which she must inevitably return.

Brock was in good form, chatting amiably about the eccentricities of his colleagues and his computers, and then, when they were past Tunbridge Wells and into the woods and farmlands of the Sussex Weald, lapsing into silence as they absorbed the unfamiliar scenery. The Kowalskis had bought a small house on the east side of Eastbourne, on the Pevensey road. A two-storey semidetached on a 1930s estate. Its upper storey enjoyed a limited view eastward down the English Channel, towards the Strait of Dover. Severely pruned rose bushes struggled in beds on the small patch of lawn. Mrs Kowalski opened the front door.

‘Good morning.’ Brock beamed. ‘Splendid day! We phoned yesterday from London. Metropolitan Police.’

She glared suspiciously at them, and they felt obliged to produce their warrant cards. She led them into the front room.

Mrs Kowalski was a small, peppery woman who appeared to be highly protective of her husband. ‘What do you want to see him for?’ she shot at them as soon as they sat down.

‘Perhaps we could explain when he arrives. Is he not at home?’ Kathy, her good mood broken by the woman’s antagonism, spoke with careful politeness.

‘He can’t walk. He’s hurt his foot. He’s upstairs and can’t come down. Ask me your questions.’

‘Perhaps we could go upstairs to him, then,’ Kathy persisted. They faced each other in obstinate silence for a moment, until Mrs Kowalski snorted and got to her feet.