cars,noting the number of the BMW and of several other cars further up the street.The rain turned into a torrent and she broke into a run.
When she got back to Queen Anne’s Gate she phoned DS McCulloch to see if he knew anything about George Murray, who didn’t have a police record. He said he’d check and get back to her. Then she decided to see how Tom was doing. She found him in a room in the basement where he had taken all the material they had accumulated on the Roach family. Cold and vaulted like a crypt, he called it The Roach Room, and had covered its walls with photos and diagrams.
‘Take a seat,’ he offered. ‘Your hair’s wet. Did you get caught in that downpour?’
‘Yes,’she sniffed.‘I think I’m getting a cold.’
He plugged in the electric heater he’d brought down there and she moved closer to it, looking around at the images on the walls.‘Why are they all dressed in black?’
‘The most recent pictures were taken at a funeral four years ago, when the whole family turned out to farewell Cyrus Despinides, who happened to be a friend of someone else Special Branch were interested in. Cyrus Despinides was an old business partner of Spider, and his daughter Adonia is married to Ivor Roach, the second son, the accountant.’ Tom pointed to a family tree diagram.
‘Yes, I’ve met Adonia, and her daughter Magdalen.’
‘How come?’
Kathy explained.
‘So you’ve actually been inside the family compound, The Glebe?’ There was a plan and an aerial photograph among the pictures on the wall.
‘Yes, strange place, like a fortified village trying to pretend it’s just an ordinary bit of posh suburbia. But I suppose that’s what they mean by a gated community.’
‘It is a bit odd. They had it purpose-built for themselves. I mean, you’d have to think there was something a bit pathological about a family wanting to stick so close together. Imagine being one of the women,marrying into a deal like that.And they do stick together. Neither Spider nor any of the boys have divorced.’
‘The only other member of the family I’ve seen is the youngest son, Ricky, when we interviewed him.’
‘Right.’Tom pointed to the pictures of the brothers.‘They’re all in their fifties now. Mark, the eldest, the big- shot businessman, travels a lot,owns a lavish holiday villa on the north coast of Jamaica and an apartment in Hong Kong. He’s married with five children and three grandchildren. Ivor, the second son, is an accountant in his own practice, which is effectively dedicated to the Roach business operations.Ricky,number three,has the luxury car dealership in Eltham, wife and four kids.
‘And then there’s the old man,Edward “Spider”Roach.He was widowed eight years ago and had a brush with cancer shortly after. Since then rarely seen in public except as a regular churchgoer, but known to be a generous donor to a variety of charitable and political organisations,including the Catholic Church,Save the Children and the Conservative Party.’
‘So what are we looking for?’ Kathy asked.
‘Points of weakness,’Tom said.‘I’m meeting Michael Grant’s researcher, Andrea, tomorrow.We’ll see what they’ve come up with.’
That evening Kathy spoke to her friend Nicole, who mentioned that they’d received a request from Brock that day, to unearth old files relating to a surveillance operation back in the early eighties.
‘What kind of operation?’ Kathy asked, curious.
‘A funeral parlour,’ Nicole said, laughing.‘Maybe he’s writing his memoirs. Anyway, how’s it going with Tom?’
‘All right. I’m just getting used to having him around the office all the time.’
‘Mm, but apart from that? You’re not seeing him tonight?’
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘He’s not being a bit slow, is he?’
Kathy changed the subject, and they agreed to try to get together the coming weekend.
There were two reports waiting for Kathy the following morning. One had arrived by fax during the night from the police in Kingston, Jamaica, regarding her inquiry about the three victims,Walter Isaacs, Joseph Kidd and Robbie X. From the details taken from their passports when they entered the UK, the JCF had been able to identify the first two. It seemed that both had died, Isaacs in 1970 and Kidd in 1976, long before they arrived in London.
The second report was on her computer, a long string of vehicle numbers from the Rainbow Coordinator in Streatham. She poured a cup of coffee, pondered, and decided to begin with a shortlist of those that appeared more than once, on the basis that anyone visiting the Singhs would have first come, then gone. She set about comparing these with the list of numbers they’d compiled of cars known to belong to the Roach family.
Towards noon, when Brock came by, she’d found no matches. She told him what she was doing and the result from Jamaica, and he just nodded, preoccupied.
After he’d gone it occurred to her that the big point of all this wasn’t so much to prove that the Singhs had been intimidated by the Roaches-that probably wasn’t going to be possible. Rather, it was to prove that there was a continuing connection between the Roaches and the black gangsters of Cockpit Lane. She opened her notebookto the rain-wrinkled page where she’d writtenthe numbers of the cars at the park the previous day, and started comparing them with the Streatham list. Disappointingly, neither Teddy Vexx’s Peugeot nor the red BMW came up,but then,just as she was checking her watch and deciding it was time to go, one of the other numbers on her screen showed a match.It was that of a Ford Mondeo parked further up the street. A minute later she had the name, Jay Crocker, known to them as an associate of Teddy Vexx. She reached for the phone to tell Brock but found that he had left the office.
Martin Connell rose to his feet as she approached his table. The monitor hadn’t lied about the extra pounds, and there were other subtle signs of time passing about the corners of his eyes and mouth. She saw that he was making a similar appraisal of her. Ten years had put their mark on both of them.She hoped his success hadn’t made him pompous.Whatever else he’d been, he’d never been that.
‘Great view.’ She looked out at the sweep of water.
‘I hope it wasn’t too far.’
‘No.’ She’d been glad that the place he’d suggested was some way up-river from the office. ‘I’ve heard of this place, of course. But I’ve never been here.’ Not at these prices, she thought.
‘I’m very glad you’ve come. Really, I didn’t think you would.’
The smile of course, racy and ironic like . . . well, Belmondo perhaps, or even Tom a little. She made a mental note to work that one out later.‘I’m not sure why I did.I mean,we’re not interested in each other’s private lives, are we? And we can’t talk about work. Doesn’t leave much to fill in the odd hour.’
He laughed.‘We never had any trouble filling in the odd hour, Kathy. I did mean what I said on the phone. Since Daniel . . . Okay, you’re not interested, but I got to thinking, if it had been me instead of him, what would I look back to, most of all? And what came into my mind was you-no, don’t look at me like that, it’s true.You were very important to me. And I thought how sad it would be if we never had another chance to sit together at a fine white tablecloth with a glass of wine, and talk.’
As he spoke, using that persuasive voice, Kathy realised that the differences she’d noticed in him had disappeared and he now seemed the same as he’d always been. Or perhaps he was a little more mellow, a little less obvious in making known what he wanted. He had no difficulty in finding funny, neutral things to amuse her with. The river was a cue for a story of an evening with fellow lawyers (no mention of wives) on an evening cruise, being serenaded by a famous operatic soprano, whose improvised stage at the stern had buckled under her considerable weight, almost tipping her into the river. The theme of punctured human dignity led on to a courtroom story from his early days, and then to a convoluted account of a meal with a senior Tory member of parliament (wives included this time), whose well-known habit of ending a good story with a flourish of his pocket handkerchief had come unstuck when the handkerchief, like a magician’s prop, had been followed by a pair of ladies’ black silk knickers-not, so his wife calmly observed, her own.
The food was excellent too-French new wave, he said, as if he’d read her mind about Belmondo. An hour
