Barry Maitland - The Marx Sisters

When she returned she said, ‘Felix must look after his father now. You must tell him to come.’

Kathy made the call to Enfield. A tentative female voice answered.

‘Mrs Kowalski? Can I speak to Mr Kowalski, please?’

Felix’s wife was hesitant. ‘Who is this?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Kolla from the Metropolitan Police. I need to speak to Mr Kowalski urgently.’

‘Oh.’ More hesitation. ‘He’s away at present. At a conference.’ She spoke uncertainly, as if she found talking on the phone a problem.

‘Well, could you tell me where? Maybe we can contact him.’

‘I’m not sure. It’s at the University of Nottingham… What is this about? Has he been involved in an accident or something?’

Kathy took a deep breath. ‘No. It’s his parents, Mrs Kowalski.’

‘Oh no. What’s happened?’ The woman’s voice sounded flat, defeated.

‘His mother is being detained by the police in connection with a serious offence. She wants your husband to look after his father while she is in custody.’

‘Custody?’

‘I’m afraid so. Look, would it be easier if we took Mr Kowalski senior back up to London with us? I’ll give you an address and a phone number, and you can make arrangements with your husband to pick him up later this afternoon, say around 4.’

They drove back in silence, the old couple like statues together in the back. In the event it was their daughter-in-law who was waiting for them when they arrived, and who took charge of the old man. She hadn’t been able to get a message to Felix yet, she explained, as the conference sessions had finished for the day, although they hoped to contact him when he came in for his evening meal with the other delegates. She had a little boy, about four or five, clutching her hand and she looked drained, as if there were already so many things to cope with that she could hardly bear to find out what this was all about. Brock and Kathy left her talking with Mr Hepple, whose cup was obviously brimming over. Brock had some difficulty being civil in response to the solicitor’s ebullient greeting.

On their return to 20 Jerusalem Lane they found Bren Gurney in almost as good a mood as Mr Hepple. His earlier hunch had been dramatically vindicated, and he felt entitled to some measure of triumph. He himself had had no luck with his own lines of inquiry. The plumber who had worked on Caroline Winter’s kitchen had died of a heart attack just two months before, and no trace of the missing books had been found either, although, as he pointed out to Brock, half the places they visited had been closed for the weekend.

‘Yes,’ Brock nodded resignedly, ‘we’re not going to get anywhere further with that until Monday.’

‘All the same,’ Gurney grinned, ‘this clears the way to charging Winter with Eleanor’s murder.’

Brock shook his head wearily. ‘No Bren, sorry, not yet. You yourself said that his girlfriend will likely as not change her mind about being with him that night. It’s all too circumstantial. Let’s get that damn book dealer first. Find out who he contacted and how much he told them.’

Gurney made as if to argue, then changed his mind and shrugged. ‘All right, chief.’

Brock gave a little nod. ‘See you Monday, Bren.’

Kathy gathered her things together to follow her colleague downstairs.

‘Eleanor’s funeral is tomorrow afternoon,’ she said to Brock. ‘I think I may go.’

Brock seemed not to hear at first. He appeared preoccupied and unsettled. Then he roused himself. ‘I should take a break, Kathy,’ he grunted. ‘You’ve had a solid week of it. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Go out and have some fun for a change.’

Kathy smiled. ‘Easier said than done.’

‘Get that architect to take you out to a show or something.’

‘Bob Jones?’

‘Yes. Much more your type.’

‘Than Martin Connell?’ She looked at him carefully. ‘Don’t worry about that, sir. It doesn’t bother me. Not any more.’

He nodded. ‘I just wouldn’t like to think that we were confusing our targets, between Winter and his solicitor.’

‘I understand. You’re still not sure we’ve got it right, are you?’

‘I’d feel happier if Marie had told us something she couldn’t have got from the newspapers. Like that the plastic bag was found in the bin in the kitchen, not on Meredith’s head.’

‘Yes, but why would she lie? And she did know about the pink washing-up gloves, and the books.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt she called on Meredith that afternoon. If only she could have told us the name of the book dealer!’

Kathy nodded. ‘What will you do tomorrow?’

‘Oh,’ Brock shrugged, ‘I’m going down to a gliding club on the Downs. A winter picnic, they call it. Must be mad.’

‘Do you fly, then?’

‘Used to glide. Mainly a spectator now, though. They invited me down for tomorrow.’

‘What about Bren? How does he spend his time off?’

‘He’s a family man, Kathy. Young kiddies.’

When she got downstairs, she bumped into Gurney again who was heading for the door.

‘We’re making a mistake,’ he muttered. ‘We should be nailing Winter now while he’s still in a panic. I reckon that bastard Connell’s beginning to make Brock jumpy.’

‘I don’t think so, Bren. Is Connell a bastard, or is he just good at his job?’ Even as the words came out, she wondered why she was saying this. Did she really want to know why Gurney was so riled by him?

‘You’ll find out for yourself, I dare say.’

Now she was getting herself in a mess, letting Gurney think she didn’t know Connell. Yet she couldn’t face the thought of having to explain. She cursed Martin inwardly for involving himself in this of all cases, and said, ‘How about your unlawful entry? Has he made any more of that?’

‘Let him try, Kathy,’ he snorted. ‘Just let him try.’ He waved and pushed the outer door open against the bitter wind.

Spared the necessity of having to go to work, most of London had decided to stay at home rather than risk the icy conditions outside. The route to the suburban crematorium was deserted and Kathy, arriving early, found herself alone in the car park. She chose the same spot where she and Brock had parked the previous September, with its good view of the entrance to the chapel. She had his Polaroid camera, and when people began to arrive, took pictures of them entering the building. But there were so many of them that she soon realized that she wouldn’t have enough film. Moreover, they were all wrapped up heavily in coats and hats and scarves against the cold, and after a while she gave up what seemed like a pointless exercise.

She found Eleanor’s funeral an unsettling experience. The crematorium chapel, with its emasculated, ecumenicized forms of liturgical architecture, its medievalmodernist pews, lectern and stained glass, seemed an incongruous setting for the rendering of the Internationale which opened the service. The congregation seemed illtempered, forming knots and factions of elderly men and women who pointedly avoided looking at each other, on ideological grounds perhaps, or for more personal reasons, and who obviously resented being crushed together. In the front pew Terry Winter sat sullenly on one side of Peg, his wife and two daughters, wearing brave expressions, on the other. Mrs Rosenfeldt, who had closed her new enterprise for the afternoon, was a spectral figure among a pack of mourners at the rear. Only Peg’s preference for the colour red in all its shades lent some warmth and unity to the proceedings-the scarlet drape over the coffin, the two vases of red roses on each side of it and on Peg herself the same bright outfit she had worn to Meredith’s funeral six months before.