as the thick hair and well-tailored figure had suggested from the back. There was a slight chubbiness about the jowls and under the eyes, and lines around the mouth.
‘Martin Francis Connell,’ Brock muttered to himself. ‘Solicitor, squash player, father of four. Married to Lynne Connell, daughter of Judge Willoughby.’
He eased himself out from his niche and walked quickly down the broad flight of grey granite steps to wait for Kathy outside in the sunshine.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Oh fine. Formality, really. Where are we going?’ Kathy asked.
‘Mayfair. To the offices of First City Properties. It seems they’ve bought up most of Jerusalem Lane, one way or another, over the past couple of years. Oh, and Detective Constable Mollineaux seems to have been doing a good job stirring up Terry Winter. He phoned demanding to know why Mollineaux was pestering his managers, and when I told him, he went rather quiet and asked if he could see us again. I said we’d see him at your office at 3.’
‘Great. I’ve a feeling we’re going to nail him.’
She said it with some vehemence, and Brock glanced across at her.
‘Possibly, but not necessarily for doing in his old mum. And how did your dinner go last night?’
‘Oh.’ Kathy stared balefully ahead at the traffic. ‘It didn’t. Something came up.’
‘Sorry. Nothing serious?’
She shot him a look which made him grunt and change the subject.
‘Fill me in on Adam Kowalski, then. A collaborator, you said?’
Kathy nodded and began to fill out the brief account she’d given Brock over the phone.
The plate-glass door to the developers’ offices had no handle and was locked. As they pushed it tentatively, a female voice issuing from the chrome grille in the marble wall panel instructed them to enter.
The door slid open, revealing a small marble-lined lobby. Ahead of them was a narrow, open lift. They got inside and eyed themselves in its smoky glass walls as it rose to an upper floor. Reception was lined with the same dark marble. Its impressively sombre effect was spoilt by the display on the walls of some rather garish watercolour impressions of modern office blocks. A young woman sat at a large toughened glass table, her long legs crossed beneath a surface on which nothing much appeared to be happening. She looked as if she wasn’t long out of some expensive private school.
She eyed them coolly, like a face from the cover of Vogue.
‘Mr Slade’s secretary will be along in a moment. Would you like to take a seat?’
Brock and Kathy subsided into soft black leather cushions. Recessed downlighters in the smoky silvered ceiling picked them out in pools of light, so that they felt like scruffy artefacts on exhibition in an upmarket gallery. Copies of The Estates Gazette bound in clear perspex covers were to hand on glass side tables.
Mr Slade’s secretary was considerably more mature and more functional than the receptionist. She led them down a timber-panelled corridor and knocked at an unmarked door.
‘Come.’
Derek Slade was in his shirtsleeves, his tie loosened at his neck. He was a powerful-looking man in his midthirties, who looked each of them directly in the eye, shook hands firmly, sat them down courteously and ordered coffee.
‘Have we met before, Chief Inspector? Your face looks familiar. No? Well, this is an unusual visit.’ His voice managed to sound both circumspect and quietly forceful. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever been interviewed by detectives from Scotland Yard before.’
Both Kathy and Brock were trying to process his accent in the automatic English way, without success. It seemed both classless and placeless.
‘Yes. Thank you for seeing us so promptly, sir,’ Brock led off. ‘We’re conducting inquiries into a possible murder, and you may be able to give us some background information on the circumstances of the victim.’
‘Really? Is it someone I know?’
‘Meredith Winterbottom.’
Slade looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think the name rings a bell.’
‘Of 22 Jerusalem Lane, WC2.’
Slade’s expression didn’t change. He just stared for a moment at Brock.
At that moment the phone at his elbow burbled discreetly. He lifted it.
‘No calls, Valerie… Oh? All right, I’ll speak to him.’ He smiled apologetically at Brock. After a brief exchange he hung up.
‘My solicitor. A colleague of his wanted to warn me that you might be calling on me. Intriguing. So, how can I help?’
‘We understand,’ Kathy said, ‘that your company has been buying property in the area of Jerusalem Lane. Can you tell us how much of the block you’ve actually acquired to date?’
Slade frowned. ‘We have agents who act for us in property acquisitions. If you want to talk about that, I would prefer to have them present.’
‘Oh, is that necessary? Surely you would know which properties you actually own?’
‘They act under our instructions, but we may not have a complete record of transactions to date here in this office. If you want an accurate picture I’d really prefer to get them in. They’re only round the corner-Jonathan Hockings.’
‘You think Mr Hockings might be available?’ Kathy asked.
Slade smiled at her. ‘Jonathan Hockings are the company. You’ve probably seen the name on letting boards. They’re an international firm. Their Quentin Gilroy works for us. I’ll try him.’
He picked up the phone and placed the call through his secretary. Gilroy was available, and promised to come round immediately.
As they sipped their coffee, a look of recognition suddenly came over Slade’s face.
‘Brock! Of course. You were in charge of that recent shooting case, weren’t you? That’s where I’ve seen your face. On TV.’ He smiled and sat back in his chair staring at Brock appraisingly.
‘Look, could I have your autograph for my son? He was following it all.’
Brock dutifully took the offered pen and notepaper and wrote, ‘Best wishes from Detective Chief Inspector David Brock, Scotland Yard.’
‘Splendid. Could you maybe put his name at the top-to William Slade?’
As he added this, Brock said, ‘I understand you’re planning a bit of development around Jerusalem Lane, Mr Slade?’
Slade gave a little smile. ‘You might say that. Come, I’ll show you.’
They went through the secretary’s connecting office to a long, windowless room with a boardroom table. At one end stood a large architectural model. Three granite-clad towers with pyramid roofs, ranging from fifteen to twenty-five storeys in height, stood in a landscaped plaza.
Slade gestured with open hand: Jerusalem Lane, mark two.’
‘Good God!’ Kathy exclaimed. ‘Where’s the Lane?’
‘We’ve kept the name in a bistro planned in the podium here.’ Slade pointed. ‘Sunlight, space and greenery. Like the squares of Georgian London. Well, the Prince won’t think so. All the same, a big improvement on what’s there at the moment, yes?’
At that moment the door opened and a tall young man stepped soundlessly into the room. ‘Derek,’ he murmured, and then shook the others’ hands as Slade introduced them.
‘This is the famous Inspector Brock, Quentin. You remember? That shooting of those policemen.’
‘Oh, right, yes.’ The young man smiled languidly at Brock. He had the casual assurance of a public school education and three years at Oxford, and the sharp eyes of a dozen years in real estate.
‘Have you come across a Mrs Longbottom, Quentin?’
‘Winterbottom,’ Kathy corrected.
‘Believe I may, Derek. Jerusalem Lane?’ He nodded at the model.
‘Right. Seems the lady is deceased, and the Inspector is interested. Any clues?’
‘Last spoke to her about four months ago, I’d say. Not interested in selling, I’m afraid. It’s in the monthly printouts.’
‘How much of the block does First City actually own now?’ Brock asked the agent.
