passed in no time, then another, before he looked regretfully at his watch and called
for the bill.
‘You mentioned gossip on the phone,’ Kathy said.
‘Did I? Oh yes,there was something . . .But you were right,no shop. There is one thing I will say, though. It’s absolutely ridiculous that you’re still at the same rank as when we . . . as before. I mean, it just makes me angry, Brock keeping you tucked under his wing at DS when everybody knows you’re the best thing he’s got, far better than Gurney. I mean, he won’t be there forever, Kathy, and when he goes . . . It could be sooner than you think, they’ll move someone in, maybe already have . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s the way big organisations work, Kathy. I know. You’ve got to look out for number one.’
‘You didn’t buy me lunch to give me a lecture on ambition, Martin.What is this all about, really?’
‘I told you what it was. I realised I was mortal, and couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing you one more time.’
He gave her a lift back to the West End and left her, mystified. Altruism wasn’t Martin’s style, and though he’d always been generous, there was always a motive.
Brock chose a spot towards the back of the waiting crowd and to one side, where he could see the arrivals without making himself obvious. One by one, then in a steady stream, they came around the corner, bent to their laden trolleys, eyes expectantly scanning the confusion of bobbing faces. Then she appeared.
If he’d intended it as a test of his own feelings, it would have rated as a complete success.The sight of the familiar face,the intelligent searching eyes, the determined chin, instantly dispelled all the doubts that had haunted him these last months and sent a warm surge of blind relief and affection through him. He saw with concern the fatigue in the shadows around her eyes, and began to push towards the end of the railings so that he could wrap his arms around her and tell her that it was good, so very good, that she was home at last.
Only she wasn’t pushing a trolley,and then he saw her face light up, not at him, but at someone on the far side of the crowd. Then he saw two children break out of the crush and run forward into her arms. Suzanne’s grandchildren, he realised, followed by a smiling woman he didn’t recognise. He watched Suzanne embrace her too, then turn to make a gesture of introduction to the man pushing the trolley behind her. He shook hands all round, grinning broadly; a tall man, tanned and good-looking, fitter and younger than Brock. The crowd shifted and surged and Brock lost sight of them, then he saw them off to the side, talking together in an excited cluster before moving together towards the exit doors, the woman explaining with hand signs where her car was parked.
He stood for a while, a fixed point in the swirling mass, letting the bitter sick feeling subside, then he followed them out into the chilly afternoon.
Kathy made her way to the office of the Streatham Rainbow Coordinator, who set her up in front of a monitor to watch the tapes of the junction at the end of the Singhs’ street. There was a gap of half an hour between the two appearances of the Mondeo, the second timed just a few minutes after the elder Singh had made the online plane bookings for his son and daughter-in-law. In both clips it was apparent that there were two occupants in the vehicle, bulky men who seemed to fill the car’s interior.
On the way back to Queen Anne’s Gate,Kathy got a phone call from Tom. He sounded rushed and there was a lot of background noise, as if he was in a train station.
‘How’s it going, Kathy?’
‘Fine, I’m just heading back. I found one or two-’
‘Great, me too. Look, I’ve only got a minute . . . Oh, got to go. See you later.’
‘Where-?’ But he was gone.
Back at the office, Kathy tapped on Brock’s door. He was at his desk, bent over a file, one of a stack of faded buff folders of a type she hadn’t seen in years.
She sat down and told him what she’d learned and he listened in silence.
‘So Michael Grant is right,’she said.‘We can show a connection between Roach and suspected drug dealers in Cockpit Lane. Should we tell Trident?’
‘Not yet,’ Brock murmured. He seemed still absorbed in whatever he’d been reading.‘What other checks can you make on Vexx and his crew?’
‘Phone records, and I could speak to the lad, George Murray, try to find out why he was spying on us.’
Brock nodded.‘Yes, do that.’
‘What’s Tom up to, do you know?’
‘He’s been spending time with Grant’s research officer. Apparently they’ve got quite a lot of stuff-press cuttings, company information, things like that. But he’s not sure if any of it will help us.’
She turned and left, thinking how tired and preoccupied he looked.
There was a pile of material on Kathy’s desk relating to two other cases she’d put on hold. Now they needed urgent attention, a file report and preparation for a court appearance at the impending trial for another murder case, and several phone calls and a briefing document to the CPS in relation to a serial rapist.She sat down and worked through till almost nine before she headed home, picking up some Chinese on the way.
She was sitting on her sofa in front of the TV when she jerked upright, conscious of having fallen asleep. The empty plate was on the coffee table in front of her, a subtitled movie playing on the screen. Then a rap on the door. She assumed that was what had woken her. She got up stiffly and looked through the spy hole to see Tom’s face grinning back at her.
‘Saw your light on from the street,’ he said, bringing a gust of cold outdoors and other smells in with him. There was a bottle in his hand and his voice sounded loud and cheerful. He gave her a kiss.‘Someone let me through the front door.’
‘Oh . . . I fell asleep in front of the box.What time is it?’
“ ’Round Midnight”.You know that one? Thelonious Monk. Classic.’ He was searching for glasses, humming to himself.
She checked her watch. It was just after three. ‘You sound happy.Where have you been?’
‘Working, working. We never sleep.’ That seemed to be the cue for another melody while he worked on the cork, filled the glasses and collapsed on the sofa.
‘Phew, I’m bushed. Cheers.’
She joined him. She hadn’t seen the shirt before, purple silk with a dark pattern of some kind. Not a work shirt. He smelled of cigarette smoke, and something else.
‘Cheers. Did you drive here?’
He looked penitent.‘’Fraid so.Shouldn’t have.Won’t be able to drive home after this. Can I stay here?’
‘Of course.’
‘Wonderful.’ He put his glass down with a bump that splashed wine across the table, then laid his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes.‘You are wonderful, you know that, don’t you?’
Kathy got up to wipe the spilled wine.‘What was that all about this afternoon, your phone call?’ she asked, but there was no reply and when she turned back he was asleep. She looked down at him for a moment, at the self-absorbed concentration on his sleeping face, and wondered if she really knew him at all. She spread a spare blanket over him and went to bed.
When she got up in the morning he was still there, curled up beneath the blanket. He woke to the sounds of her making coffee and toast, and sat up with a groan, rubbing his face. She handed him an orange juice and he said he was sorry.
‘What happened?’ she asked.‘Where had you been?’
‘Oh . . . I met somebody, had a few drinks. Sorry.Was it very late? Did I wake you up?’
‘Don’t worry. How’s your head?’
‘Nothing a shower won’t fix. Thanks, Kathy.’ He checked his watch with bleary eyes and jumped to his feet. ‘Hell, I’d better move.’
He had a fast shower,pulled his old clothes back on again,kissed her and ran out the door while she was still making breakfast. As she sat at the window munching her toast she contemplated the smell on his jacket. Cigarette smoke, curry and something else, something familiar.She got up and shook out the crumpled blanket on the sofa and a small white handkerchief fell to the floor.It didn’t look like a man’s handkerchief. She picked it up and was aware of that scent again . . . J’Adore, that was it. J’Adore perfume, she was almost sure. She wondered what perfume Michael Grant’s research officer-what was her name? Andrea-wore.
