much more concerned with Marion. It’s only now that I remember the odd expression on his face when I asked if he was phoning for help. I mean, what else would he have been thinking of ?’
‘Go on.’
‘I feel like a bit of a rat, telling you this. I’ve known Nigel for years, and he’s a very nice, quiet man, always with a friendly word.’
‘But?’
Gael gave a big sigh. ‘When I thought about it, I recalled seeing him with his phone out in the library before. Then I remembered another time. I was standing at the window on the top floor one day, about a month ago. It was lunchtime, and the trees in the square were bare. I noticed Marion on one of the benches in the central gardens, eating a sandwich and reading a book. And then I saw another person standing on the other side of the gardens. It was Nigel, and I thought he was behaving rather strangely, standing behind a tree, almost as if he was playing hide-and-seek, not wanting Marion to spot him. But then I realised he was holding his phone out, and I thought he must be just checking his messages or something. Now I’m not sure.’
‘You think he was taking pictures of her?’
‘Oh God, I don’t know. It sounds so creepy when you say it out loud. I’ve probably let my imagination run away with me. I mean, he’s in publishing, for goodness’ sake.’
‘That’s probably not an absolute guarantee of virtue, Gael.’
The librarian gave a rueful grin. ‘I’m sure I’m wasting your time.’
‘Don’t worry. And you said he’s here at the moment?’
‘Yes, in the Reading Room. He seemed rather excited by all the fuss outside. I’ll show you the way, only…’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be very tactful.’
‘Thank you.’
But when they reached the Reading Room Nigel Ogilvie wasn’t there. Then Gael spotted his papers at one of the tables. ‘He’s probably in the stacks. I think I know where he’s likely to be. How are your heels?’ She looked down at Kathy’s shoes. ‘No, you’ll be all right.’
She led the way back into the narrow book stacks, and Kathy understood what she’d meant, for the floors were made of steel grilles.
‘This was one of the first steel-framed buildings in London,’ Gael murmured. ‘Very innovative for its time. Here…’
They turned a corner and Kathy saw Ogilvie between the shelves up ahead, his back to them. She nodded to Gael to leave and advanced on him.
‘Mr Ogilvie, hello.’
He turned, holding a book, a vague smile on his face. ‘Oh, hello! Inspector…’
‘Kolla. Sorry to interrupt, but I needed to check something with you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Your phone, do you have it with you?’
‘Er, yes.’ His free hand strayed to his jacket pocket.
‘May I have a quick look?’
He hesitated. ‘Why?’
‘Just details. I’ll have to put it in my report. The type.’
‘Really?’
Kathy put out her hand with a smile and for a moment thought he wouldn’t do it. Then, apparently unable to think of a good reason for refusing, he reluctantly eased out the phone. She took it quickly and said, ‘Oh yes.’
She opened it. The controls were different from her own, and she made a few mistakes as she rapidly thumbed the buttons.
‘What are you doing? Here-!’
‘Would it have retained a record of your call, do you think?’ she improvised.
The question threw him for a moment. ‘What? I don’t know. Look, give it to me and I’ll try to-’
‘Ah, what’s this?’ There was an image of a camera crew in the square, seen from the Reading Room window. Before that an ambulance standing outside the library. She flicked back, stared at the screen for a moment, then looked up at Ogilvie, whose face had become very flushed. She showed him the image. ‘That’s Marion on the floor, isn’t it?’
‘What… I really don’t know…’ he gabbled. ‘Maybe, when I made the call, I may have pressed the wrong button. If you’ll just give it to me…’
‘This is important evidence, Mr Ogilvie. We’ll need this. What else have you got?’ There was a long silence as Kathy clicked back through the images. ‘Well, well.’ She pocketed the phone. ‘I think we need to talk about this.’
‘It’s nothing, it’s just-’
‘Not here. I want you to come with me to a police station to tell me all about it. And I want to caution you, that you don’t need to say anything, but…’
He stood in dismayed silence as she delivered the caution, then meekly followed her to the Reading Room to collect his belongings. As he gathered them up and fumbled them into his case, Kathy glanced across at Gael, who was sitting at her desk, surreptitiously taking it all in. Kathy gestured her over.
‘Ms Rayner, Mr Ogilvie and I would like to leave without drawing attention to ourselves. Could you let us out the back way?’
‘Certainly.’ She glanced at Nigel Ogilvie, whose head was bowed. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Fine,’ Kathy said. ‘Just fine.’
It was a short drive across Piccadilly to Savile Row and into West End Central police station, where Kathy arranged for Ogilvie to be shown to an interview room to sit alone for a while.
She wondered about phoning Brock, but thought better of it; he’d probably be tied up, and anyway, this was her case. She arranged for hard copies to be made of the images in Ogilvie’s phone, and sat down to study them. The earliest was of Marion sitting in the square, viewed from the Reading Room window, before she returned to the library and collapsed. Kathy thought about this, then went in to interview Ogilvie, accompanied by a young woman constable from the station. He sat up with a jerk as they came in.
‘Look,’ he began, ‘you’ve got-’
Kathy interrupted, face grim. ‘We’re not quite ready to begin, Mr Ogilvie. Just some housekeeping first. Your full name, address and home telephone number, please.’
He complied, giving an address in Hayes.
‘Do you own or rent any other properties?’
‘No.’
‘What about your work address?’
‘Surely… surely you don’t need to involve them?’
‘Just routine.’
She left again, to make arrangements for a search warrant for Ogilvie’s home and office, then returned to the interview room and switched on the equipment, formally opening the interview. She spread the pictures out on the table. ‘I’m showing Mr Ogilvie eight prints of photographs found in his mobile phone camera, all of which show Marion Summers before and at the time of her collapse in the London Library on Tuesday last, the third of April, shortly before her death. Do you agree that you took these pictures, Mr Ogilvie?’
He bit his lip, a pained expression on his face, pudgy fingers fiddling with the corner of one of the pictures. ‘This is extremely embarrassing, but it’s not what you think. I had no… bad intentions.’
He gazed at her anxiously, searching for some glimmer of empathy, and saw none.
‘They gave me this phone at work, you see-insisted on it, so that they could keep in touch. My publishing director loves phoning me at odd times with his latest brainwaves-during dinner, on the train, at weekends. I hate the damn thing, but I did find the camera quite intriguing, once I’d worked out how to use it. I thought at first that I could take pictures of pages from the books I was studying-I’ve seen other people doing that-but I found the quality not very good, and decided to stick to photocopies. But I did find it amusing to record incidents of daily life.’
‘Of Marion Summers’ daily life, you mean. Not your wife and kids.’
‘I don’t have a wife and kids. Marion is, was, a very striking young woman. I find most of the people at the
