John Harvey - Good Bait

For an instant, the smile returned. ‘Probably not the bit about the cleaner.’

‘Is he here?’ Cormack asked, persevering. ‘Your husband?’

‘Thankfully, no.’

‘Not behind the arras somewhere?’

An eyebrow arched in mock surprise. ‘A policeman who knows his Hamlet , I am surprised.’

‘Advantages of a good comprehensive school education.’

‘Is there such a thing? How heartening.’

Enough of the chit-chat, Karen thought. ‘Mrs Broderick, if your husband’s not here, do you have any idea where he is?’

‘Off traipsing after a golf cart somewhere; either that or slutting over some poor escort-agency tart paying off her student loan.’

‘Any idea when he might be back?’

‘Other than hopefully after I’ve gone, I’m afraid not.’

‘You won’t mind if we take a look inside?’ Cormack said.

‘You’ve a warrant, of course?’

‘Not at this moment. But, I assure you …’

‘Oh, what the hell? Come in, help yourself. Liberty Hall.’

She stepped aside. Cormack went on through, leaving the two women facing one another, close enough for Karen to be able to smell the alcohol on the other’s breath.

‘Cathy. Cathy Broderick.’

‘For now.’

‘Yes, for now.’

‘Karen. Karen Shields.’

‘And it’s your job to soften me up. Gain my confidence. Woman to woman. While the man does the searching.’

‘Something like that.’

‘So let’s have a drink.’

Karen followed her beyond where the oak flooring changed to matt black tiles and into a long room with glass at both sides, partly shielded now by blinds, and exposed steel beams. Black leather chairs on tubular frames.

‘Dennis met this architect somewhere, the golf club I expect. Convinced him that modernism was the way to go. Hates it, of course, now that it’s done. His quarter-of-a-million-pound fucking folly, as he calls it. Never comes in here at all.’

The far end was dominated by a large painting, a repeated pattern of crimson whorls on a white background, each overlapping the other. An ice bucket sat on a Perspex table, wine bottle protruding, a small tray of glasses, one used.

‘Please, sit. These are actually more comfortable than they look.’

Not difficult, Karen thought.

‘I suppose it’s no use offering you a glass of wine?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Chablis. Grand cru.’ Cathy Broderick helped herself. ‘No sense leaving it for Dennis. He’d as soon Carlsberg out of a can.’

‘You’ve been married how long?’

‘The subtext to that question, if my opinion of him is so low, why stick around so long?’

‘Maybe.’

‘When you’ve been milking the cash cow — or, in this case, cash bull — as long as I have, it’s difficult to put all that aside.’

‘Give back the Alfa Romeo, for instance.’

‘Significant birthday present. Attempt to get me to change my mind.’

‘About the divorce?’

‘About my lawyer screwing him for every penny we can get.’

‘He’s not short of them, though? Pennies?’

‘The original self-made man. Market stall to millionaire in thirty short years. Started on fruit and veg, moved on to processed meats, from there to a company providing ready-cooked meals to schools, hospitals and nursing homes across five counties.’ She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to hard work, graft and the necessary greasing of palms.’

Warren Cormack had appeared in the doorway. ‘Access to the cellar? It’s padlocked across.’

‘There’s a key behind the clock in the kitchen. High-tech security.’

Cormack nodded and turned away.

‘Gordon Dooley,’ Karen said, ‘your husband knows him well?’

‘Gordon?’ She hesitated just a little too long over her answer. ‘They used to have, I don’t know, some business arrangement together. I don’t think he’s seen him in quite a while.’

‘What kind of business would that be?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘Processed meats? School meals?’

Cathy Broderick smiled. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Gordon was asking him for some help, that’s all I know. Money advice. Some cockamamie project or other, I dare say.’

‘He does know him pretty well, then?’

A snort of laughter. ‘Since they were kids on some poxy estate in South London. You should hear Dennis tell it, in his cups. How they nicked stuff from Woolworths and sold it on street corners to raise enough for their first market stall. Peckham, Saturday mornings. The thing is, Dennis he moved on, legit. Gordon, I’ve never been so sure. And now I’ve said too much.’

She splashed some more wine into her glass.

Cormack had been listening at the door for a little while. Of Dennis Broderick there was no sign.

‘Would it surprise you to know,’ Cormack said, ‘Gordon Dooley’s last known trade was in illegal drugs? Import and supply. Heroin. Marijuana. Cocaine.’

‘Surprised? No, not really. Never really liked him, Gordon. Too brash, loud. Too full of himself. Full on. Dennis should have dumped him years ago, but there was always something, made him hang on.’ She drank some more of the wine. ‘Take the boy out of South London, but you can’t … You know how it goes.’

‘He wouldn’t be involved? Some kind of partner?’

A laugh, genuine, open. ‘Dennis? Drugs? He’d run a mile. All I can do to get him to take a couple of aspirin for a hangover. No, not a chance.’

‘And you’ve no idea,’ Cormack said, ‘where he is now? When he might be home?’

‘Like I said, none at all.’ Not a whit unsteady, she was on her feet. ‘Only conversation we have nowadays, through our lawyers.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks for your time.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Karen said.

‘Helping out the forces of law and order. A pleasure, always.’

She walked them to the door.

‘The old aerodrome,’ Cormack said, ‘out at Wing. Your husband has some property there, doesn’t he? Somewhere he uses for storage?’

‘He used to. Not for a good while now, not as far as I know. Why d’you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing important. Thanks, again.’

‘One thing,’ Karen said, glancing at the Alfa. ‘You’re not thinking of driving? The next little while? Automatic disqualification and a possible six months in prison, that’s without the fine. I should stay put. Either that, or send for a cab. And if you are thinking of ringing your husband, dispute or no dispute, do tell him to get in touch. Nothing he should be unduly concerned about, just a few small matters need clearing up.’

‘What do you reckon?’ Cormack asked, once they were back at the car. ‘She on the outs with her husband as much as she says, or do you think a lot of that was for our sake?’

‘You mean that could all have been a big act? I’m not so sure. But it’s not impossible. She could be phoning him right now, warning him to stay clear.’

‘We’ll have someone keep an eye on the house. Soon as he turns up, we’ll know. Nothing by this time tomorrow, we’ll go looking for him.’

‘And Forensics, how soon d’you think it’ll be before we get something definite from them?’

‘Lean hard enough, maybe a couple of days. Meantime, I’ll suggest SIS take a closer look at Broderick’s business dealings. Check his phone records and so on. And hope we turn up something on the Volvo. Link that to Dooley and we’re really getting somewhere. At last.’

‘Amen to that!’

Karen drove back down to London with Aretha at full volume all the way. Lady Soul, Spirit in the Dark, Aretha Live at Fillmore West . Those old albums: singing in a way that made you believe.

More often than not, the mornings began in a slow drift of rain that laced across Cordon’s face as he strode the lane to the boulangerie and back, rucksack slung over one shoulder, protecting the croissants on his return. It suited him well, this small routine, the chance to stretch out, the time to himself. Birds, lively at that hour, singing their presence, darted between the trees to either side; Charolais cattle heaving themselves from the ground in the adjacent fields, coats creamy white in the haze of lingering mist.