‘The owner of the bookshop? No, it certainly wasn’t him. I didn’t recognize the voice at all.’
‘We may need to speak to Judith. You’d better give me her address too.’
‘Sure, but she’s here, you know.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, in London. At least she was a couple of days ago. I got this message from her on my answering machine wanting me to contact her. She was staying at a hotel in Knightsbridge. I rang back and she wasn’t there, so I left a message. Then when she didn’t get back to me I tried again later that evening. They said she still hadn’t got back and I asked them to give her the message to ring me whatever time she got in. She never did, and after that I didn’t try again. To tell you the truth I felt I’d done enough running around for her the last time she was over here.’
‘Which evening was it you rang the hotel?’
‘Night before last. Tuesday.’
‘Have you got the number? I’d like to try it now, please.’
‘Sure.’ Bob found it for her and brought a phone over from a side table.
The hotel receptionist was helpful. ‘She checked out this afternoon, madam.’
‘Oh, I’d been hoping to catch her this evening.’
There was a pause at the other end while the woman looked something up. ‘Yes, she had booked to stay another couple of days, but apparently she had to return to the United States earlier than expected.’
‘She went to the airport?’
‘I believe so, madam.’
Kathy rapidly dialled the airport police at Heathrow and identified herself. Judith Naismith had booked on the 7.10 p.m. British Airways flight to New York, boarding in twenty minutes. She had already checked in and passed through to the departure lounge.
‘Hold her there, will you? I’ll get back to you within ten minutes.’
She dialled again, this time the Yard, and spoke to Brock.
‘Right, Kathy,’ Brock said after she’d explained, ‘tell them to pull her off the flight and hold her till we get there. I’ll pick you up where you are as soon as I can.’
Brock peered through the glass panel in the door of the detention room. Beneath a bright fluorescent light a uniformed policeman sat impassively at a bare table with arms folded. Opposite him stood Judith Naismith. She leant over the table, one hand propping herself up, the other resting on her hip. Although only a murmur could be heard through the door, she was clearly haranguing him. She had straight, shoulder-length ash-blonde hair, and was of similar build to Kathy, slim and of medium height, but her body was more angular, her gestures more explosive. When they went inside, Brock noticed her sharp and humourless eyes, and decided that Dr Naismith was going to be a formidable customer.
He introduced Kathy and himself.
‘What exactly is the problem here?’ she demanded, folding her arms. ‘You do realize I’ve missed my flight?’
‘I’m sorry about that, but we’re investigating the murders of two women which have occurred recently in central London, and we believe you may be able to help us with our inquiries. We only just learned of your whereabouts, and under the circumstances it seemed the only course open to us.’
He gave her a conciliatory smile and began to take off his coat. Her face had given no flicker of response to the mention of murders. Brock indicated to the uniformed man that he could go, and took his place at the table. Kathy waited by the door.
‘Please.’ Brock indicated the chair opposite him. ‘Sit down, Dr Naismith, and we can sort this out.’
She stared at him for a moment without moving and then turned to Kathy. ‘I hope you people are within your rights.’ She looked at Kathy slowly from head to foot, then back to her face again. Her stare was rude, intended to intimidate. Kathy returned it calmly, not showing the embarrassment which, to her annoyance, she began to feel.
Brock reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his notebook and Judith Naismith’s passport. ‘Come and sit down, Dr Naismith,’ he repeated absently, flicking through the pages of the passport. She still made no move, and he began to write in his notebook. Finally she sat down abruptly in the chair, half turned away from Brock with one arm hooked on the chair back, her legs crossed, in an attitude which suggested great self-control in the face of outrageous provocation.
‘Why are you leaving now, Dr Naismith? I understand you were planning to stay longer.’
She slowly turned her head towards him. ‘What business, exactly, is that of yours?’ She enunciated the words slowly, as if to someone with limited understanding.
Brock stared at her for a moment.
‘We’d like you to tell us about all of your recent contacts with Miss Eleanor Harper, of 22 Jerusalem Lane, WC2. Let’s begin with the last time you actually saw her.’
There was silence for a moment before she said, with the same exaggerated patience, ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No, you’re not, Dr…’
‘Am I then free to go?’
‘Are you saying that you refuse to co-operate with us?’
‘Am I free to go?’
Brock sighed, closed up her passport and placed it back in his inside jacket pocket. ‘Where will you be staying in London?’
‘I’d like my passport, please.’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. You won’t be able to leave the country until you’ve answered my questions.’ She looked at him with surprise as he got to his feet and pulled on his coat. ‘If I were you, I’d get myself a good solicitor, Dr Naismith,’ he said, and headed for the door.
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do!’ she called after him, but they were gone before she finished the sentence.
On the way back into central London, Brock, irritated, searched through an address book in his pocket and then made a transatlantic call. The voice at the other end sounded clearer than on a local number.
‘Good to hear you, David. Are you coming over?’
‘Not this time, Nigel. I need a bit of information quickly, and I thought you might possibly be able to help. It’s about an academic at Princeton.’
‘If I can. What discipline?’
‘Economic history.’
‘Oh yes? We have a Search Committee in place at the moment for a senior position in that department here. I could say I’m inquiring for them.’
‘Yes, that sounds good. I just want to get some background on the woman. She’s a British subject, been over there for thirteen or fourteen years, since doing a doctorate at Cambridge. Name, Judith Naismith.’ He spelled it, and, after some perfunctory small talk about the weather and each other’s health, rang off.
‘FBI?’ Kathy asked.
Brock shook his head. ‘No. Friend from the army. Went over there twenty years ago. Professor in the Midwest now.’ He lapsed into silence and said nothing more on the journey back.
21
During the night, while Brock and Gurney continued their questioning of Terry Winter, unseasonable freezing winds from the north and east displaced the damp, mild westerlies of the previous days, and a bitter change set in. Waking early on the morning of Friday 3 April, the third day of the investigation into Eleanor Harper’s death, Kathy shuddered to see that the view from her window of the distant street lights was obliterated by swirling snow. She breakfasted hurriedly on tea and toast, hauled on her long coat, scarf, gloves and woollen hat, and made for the lift.
