‘Oh, no. I mean most of the people who have come here since the war have been running away from communist countries, so they don’t like Peg and Eleanor’s politics, but they don’t go around painting swastikas on the synagogue or anything like that! But they are a funny lot, you know, so intense. They’d give each other their last pound, and then have a raging argument over some crown prince or general or something who died fifty years ago. They forget nothing. Did Mrs Rosenfeldt tell you about her dog?’
‘No, I didn’t know she has one.’
‘She hasn’t, not for twenty years. But the story of Mrs Rosenfeldt’s dog is one of the sagas of the Lane. Are you sure you want to hear it?’
Kathy smiled. ‘Go on.’
‘Mrs Rosenfeldt has been here longer than anyone. She met her husband in one of those refugee camps after the war and they came over here soon after, so by the time the others arrived, the ones escaping from the communists, she’d already been here a good few years. I can remember her quite well when I first started to work here for Mr Hepple, in 1969. She was a widow by that stage, and she used to walk up and down the Lane, chatting to everyone, pretty much as if she owned the place, and with her she would take her dog. He was one of those little pugs, you know? The kind that looks as if it’s walked into a brick wall.
‘It was a snappy little beast, and it seemed to have a knack of sharing its owner’s prejudices about people, giving the ones that Mrs Rosenfeldt didn’t like a hard time. It would bark at them and bite their heels, and leave little messages on their doorsteps. Mr Witz especially. It used to drive him mad, stepping out of his shop and straight into one of the dog’s little messages. Well, one day someone left a message for Mrs Rosenfeldt. She opened the shop door one morning, and there was the dog, dead. It might have been run over, but Mr Stwosz next door saw it, and he said it looked more like as if someone had whacked it, here’-she pointed to her forehead-‘with a hammer. Poor Mrs Rosenfeldt. Everyone felt terrible for her, although there weren’t many people sorry to see the back of the dog.’
‘Who did it?’
‘No one knows. Mrs Rosenfeldt didn’t make a fuss or anything. She didn’t accuse anyone, and she didn’t let anyone see that she was upset. But she was much quieter after that, and stayed indoors more.’
Kathy nodded. ‘Nasty. What about the other problem, Sylvia, between Meredith and the Kowalskis? How long ago did that happen?’
‘Last year, I think. When Prince whatsisname got married. The time goes by so quickly now.’
Kathy left soon after, and made her way back to the tube feeling considerably more relaxed than when she had arrived. When she stepped through the front door of her flat, the light on the answering machine was blinking. She replayed the message, swore, stomped into the kitchen and slammed a frozen chicken dinner into the microwave.
7
Brock’s home phone rang just after 7 the next morning. It was Kathy.
‘Sir, I’m sorry but I just looked in my diary and realized I’m supposed to be giving evidence in court this morning. With everything going on yesterday I just forgot all about it. I should be through by
11.’
‘Not to worry. I’ve got some things I could be doing at the Yard. Anything you want me to follow up for you?’
‘Well, I went back and spoke to Sylvia Pemberton, the solicitor’s secretary, on the way home last night, and there are a couple of things we could follow up.’
She outlined Sylvia’s account of property changes in the Lane, and of Meredith Winterbottom’s falling out with the Kowalskis and their friends.
‘All right, I’ll see what I can find out. Get an officer to ring me at the Yard when you’re called, and I’ll come over and pick you up.’
When he arrived in the office at 9, Brock phoned George Hepple at his Croydon office, leaving a message for him to return the call when he arrived. He rang back shortly before 10.
‘Sorry to bother you again, Mr Hepple. It occurred to us that with you and the Kowalskis selling up, there might be other property movements going on in Jerusalem Lane. Are you aware of any?’
There was a pause.
‘Yes. I don’t think it’s any secret that there is, in point of fact, a proposal for some redevelopment in the Jerusalem Lane area before the council planning committee at this moment.’
‘A council development?’
‘No, it is a commercial project, by a private development company. Do you want their name?’
‘Yes please.’
Again a pause.
‘First City Properties.’
‘How many properties in the block have changed hands over the past few years, would you say, Mr Hepple?’
‘I really couldn’t say, Chief Inspector.’
The solicitor seemed considerably less loquacious this morning.
‘An estimate. Ten per cent?’ Silence. ‘Fifty?’ More silence. ‘Ninety?’
‘I’m sorry, I really can’t say,’ the solicitor said at last. ‘I think you will find that quite a few residents of the area, getting older, have decided to take advantage of a buoyant property market to retire elsewhere.’
‘I see. And Mrs Winterbottom? Had she considered such a move?’
The solicitor’s conversational speed seemed stuck in its slowest gear. There was another pause while he considered the question.
‘She had considered it, yes.’
‘She sought your advice?’
‘No.’
‘You gave her advice?’
‘I really don’t think this is of any relevance to your inquiries, Chief Inspector. Any such conversations between Mrs Winterbottom and myself are a private matter.’
‘No, Mr Hepple, they are not. And the coroner I think will take the same view when an inquest is held. However, I believe you’ve answered my question. Good morning.’
The phone went down at the other end without a reply. Brock tucked himself into a corner between a sandstone wall and a cluster of pink granite columns which carried the ribs of a Victorian Gothic vaulted ceiling. He kept out of the way of the streams of people hurrying across the echoing hall to the various waiting rooms and the courts. After ten minutes he saw Kathy emerge from a corridor on the far side of the hall, then pause to talk intently to a man in a pinstripe suit. Brock didn’t recognize her at first. The fair hair which she had worn yesterday drawn back into a band was now brushed loose. She was wearing a smart black houndstooth jacket and short black slim skirt, and he had taken her for a solicitor or officer of the court.
The man she was talking to had his back to Brock, who could make out thick dark hair curling over a white collar. The man was relaxed, poised, in contrast to Kathy, who seemed agitated, her hands gesturing impatiently. All the same, Brock thought, with some little stab of envy, they made a fine-looking couple. Young, fit, confident, vigorous
… His left shoulder, which had been giving him trouble off and on for years, chose this moment to get cramp. He groaned, straightened away from the cold stone and reached over with his right hand to massage the pain.
Kathy was shaking her head, and suddenly the man reached down and took hold of her hand and held it. He half turned towards Brock, who could see that the face, though handsome and intelligent, was not quite as young
