‘Oh, come on! All that gorgeous kitchen equipment and no laptop? This girl was a serious scholar! She’d have at least one computer of her own, and masses of back-up.’
‘Yes,’ Brock said. ‘There are a few loose ends still to tie up.’
Kathy thanked Alex at the front door and returned to Marion’s study. She sat there for a long while, looking at the pinboard, the book titles, going through the drawers once again. She came across a framed photo of Marion, and set it up on the table in front of her, as if she could interrogate the face that gazed calmly back at her through the glass. It was a black and white image, like the Victorian photographs on the wall, as if reflected in an arsenic mirror. She took in the enigmatic smile on the lips; the clear, intelligent gaze of the eyes; the humour creases at their corners; and she asked it softly, How on earth could you do a thing like that?
She lifted a piece of blank paper and placed it in front of the picture, covering one half of Marion’s portrait. The person she saw was open, warm, outgoing. Then she moved the sheet of paper to cover the other side, and now she was confronted by an eye half-closed, reserved, and a half-mouth tight with suspicion. She took the paper away and the two halves merged into a single image, ambiguous now and more difficult to read. It was a simple trick, which worked for anyone’s face. You didn’t need to have DID to contain two personalities-everyone did. Two contradictory propositions-which was the real one? The answer, of course, was both.
Kathy sighed and dropped the photo in her bag and pulled out her phone. She rang Nicole’s number and explained the situation.
‘I knew it,’ Nicole said. ‘I told you so, didn’t I?’
‘I suppose you cancelled my flight?’
‘Of course not. Meet me after work tonight and we’ll get ourselves organised.’
•
They met in a bar in Victoria near both their offices, a place so crowded that they had to stand jammed together at the front window, shouting questions and answers at each other over the roar of conversation. At one point a young man in a dark suit bumped Nicole’s arm, sending her sheaf of Prague and easyJet brochures flying across the floor, and they had to scrabble to gather them up. ‘I told you we needed to get out of London,’ Nicole yelled. ‘Did I mention the very attractive Czech that Rusty’s got lined up for you?’ eleven
P erhaps it was a mistake to take the M25, Kathy thought, as they crept towards the third clogged junction in a row on the orbital motorway the next morning. She checked her watch again, calculating their narrowing margin of time. Nicole caught the gesture and said calmly, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it.’
By the time they finally arrived at Gatwick, dropped the car in the long-term car park and sprinted to departures, Nicole had lost her cool.
‘Oh damn!’ They saw the huge queues at the easyJet counters.
A young man standing at the back of the queue turned to them. ‘Where’re you off to?’
‘Prague,’ Nicole panted.
‘Me too. Come on.’ He took hold of Nicole’s arm and led them to the front of the queue, pushing in as a couple moved away from the check-in desk. He had a brisk conversation with the man, who nodded, asked for identification, and bundled them through.
‘Brilliant!’ Nicole shook his hand as they cleared security and headed to the gate.
He gave her a warm smile. ‘Practice.’ He turned to Kathy. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in Prague.’ He waved and walked away.
‘He’s gorgeous, and he likes you,’ Nicole said. ‘Did you see the way he looked at you?’
Kathy laughed. ‘I thought you’d fixed me up with a Czech.’ But her eyes strayed after the young man.
A couple of hours later, Kathy found herself, with a slight sense of unreality, walking briskly along the bank of the Vltava River, sparkling sunlight reflecting off freshly painted and restored buildings, Nicole chatting at her side. They paused at the Jirasek Bridge to take in Frank Gehry’s extraordinary Ginger and Fred building, its forms dancing around the corner to point the way into the New Town area of Prague, the Nove M sto. They headed that way, in towards Charles Square, following the directions to the cafe where Rusty was to meet them.
He was already there, sitting alone at a table. They exchanged hugs and sat down, Nicole chattering to her brother about arrangements for the weekend. Despite the novelty and interest of the city, and the crispness of the spring morning, Kathy was finding it hard to get Marion Summers out of her head. What else should she have done? What signs had she misinterpreted? Then Nicole gave a cry of delight and pointed across the street at a figure with a camera, and Kathy realised it was the man who’d rescued them at Gatwick.
Nicole said, ‘Go on, ask him over. He fancies you.’
‘No, I’m not interested.’
‘Well it’s time you were. I’ll ask him then.’ Nicole jumped to her feet and ran across the street. Kathy watched the look of incomprehension change to a smile as he realised who she was, then he gave a shrug and followed her.
‘Hello again.’ He grinned at Kathy. ‘I guess tourists all go to the same places.’ He spoke with the slightly amused, calm voice she remembered from the airport.
‘Sit down!’ Nicole commanded. ‘We’re going to buy you a drink for saving us.’
Despite her embarrassment at Nicole’s overemphatic welcome, Kathy thought he did seem quite pleasant. He had a certain poise. Rusty pulled a chair over from another table and they made introductions. His name was Guy Hamilton, and he was alone, driven by a sudden impulse to get out of London for the weekend.
‘Well, you must come and see Rusty’s show tonight,’ Nicole insisted, giving Kathy a nudge under the table.
•
In London, Brock sat at his desk, nursing a cup of strong coffee. His office window was cracked half open, allowing a breath of cool spring air into the room, and with it the muffled thump and bray of a military band, out on The Mall, perhaps, or Horse Guards Parade. He had intended to concentrate on the office paperwork that had backed up during the week, approving timesheets, the Action Manager’s estimate of resources needed, costs, but instead he had the Summers file open in front of him, reading through Kathy’s reports. Despite his revulsion at the girl’s public suicide, he found himself drawn back to her, wanting to understand.
The phone at his elbow rang; the duty officer. ‘Got a woman on the line, sir, says she’s got information about Marion Summers. Very insistent on speaking to the senior officer on the case. Says her name is Sophie Warrender. Sounds posh.’ He sounded sceptical, understandably, after so many hoax calls and nutters. ‘Shall I put her through to the hotline?’
‘No,’ Brock said. Warrender. The name had been in the file somewhere. ‘I’ll take it, thanks.’ A click, then he went on, ‘Good morning, this is Detective Chief Inspector Brock. Can I help you?’
‘Yes, I hope so. My name is Sophie Warrender. I know Marion Summers, the victim in that terrible poisoning case. I’m sure it must be the same person-twenty-six, a PhD student at London University?’
‘That’s her. How are you connected, Mrs Warrender?’
‘She’s been doing work for me, research for my next book. I’m an author, you see.’ That rang a bell. ‘We’ve been out of the country, just flew back last night, and I hadn’t heard. I thought I should speak to you.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Notting Hill, Lansdowne Gardens.’
‘Ah yes.’ Brock was scanning the list of Marion’s telephone contact numbers. ‘Can I have your phone number, please?’
She gave him a couple of numbers, which matched those on the list.
‘And you have some information for us?’
‘Well, I’m not altogether sure, but yes, I think I should speak to you. Do you want me to come to see you?’
‘Did Marion visit your house in Notting Hill?’
‘Yes, this is where I have my office. She was here quite often.’
‘Then I think I’d like to come to you.’
He rang off and called for a car. As he prepared to leave, his mobile rang, Suzanne on the other end. He felt a familiar warmth as he heard her voice.
‘Are we still on for tonight?’
He patted his wallet with the tickets for the National Theatre. ‘Of course. Is Ginny lined up to look after the kids?’
