‘Might they have been in a sexual relationship, do you think?’
‘She never hinted at it, but I suppose it’s possible.’
‘When she left her student flat in Southwark she seems to have told no one where she went, as if she was trying to escape from someone. Could that have been Dr da Silva?’
Sophie Warrender spread her hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘What about this man? He’s her stepfather, name of Keith Rafferty.’ Brock showed her his picture. ‘Mean anything to you?’
‘Oh…’
Brock saw the start of recognition in her face. ‘You know him?’
‘Once, as Marion was leaving, we were at the front door together and I noticed a white van parked on the other side of the street. The driver’s window was open and he was staring across at us, and I thought what a mean-looking character he was. It was this man, I’m sure of it. I remember Marion suddenly drawing back into the house, looking very pale. She said she didn’t feel well, and I made her sit down and got her a glass of water. Later I called a taxi to take her home. The van had gone by then.’
‘When was this?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. This year, I think. January or February.’
Brock drained his glass. ‘Well, thanks for your help. I’d better go now. Please let me know if anything else occurs to you.’
When they reached the front door, Sophie Warrender said, ‘I hope this doesn’t sound out of place, Chief Inspector, but I gave Marion a number of my books and research notes to work on while I was away. I really will need to get them back before too long. Will that be a problem?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Tell you what, I’ll get my inspector, DI Kathy Kolla, to contact you and she can work something out.’
‘I’d be so grateful.’ She shot Brock a dazzling smile, then closed the front door.
•
That evening, in the Long Bar of the National Theatre and afterwards over supper, Brock told Suzanne Chambers about Marion and her connection to Sophie Warrender. Suzanne was as shocked and intrigued by the circumstances of Marion’s death as everyone else, but it seemed there was another reason for her interest. She had read all of Sophie Warrender’s biographies and greatly admired them, but eventually, after a couple of drinks, she admitted that what had originally drawn her to them was the discovery that Sophie was married to Suzanne’s first great love.
‘What, Dougie Warrender?’ Brock looked surprised, then laughed.
‘What’s funny?’ Suzanne stiffened.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ he said rapidly.
‘Did you see him today?’
‘I did, actually. A powerful man, bit flustered from the trip back from Corsica. They have a house there.’
‘In St Florent, yes.’
‘You know all about them, don’t you? You haven’t been stalking him, have you?’
She coloured a little. ‘Of course not. I saw her on TV once, authors talking about where they do their writing, and she mentioned the house in Corsica, and the one in Notting Hill. But I knew it already. When I was thirteen my best friend at school, Angela Crick, lived next door to the Warrenders on Lansdowne Gardens. I spent a magical summer staying with Angela while my parents were overseas, and fell madly in love with Dougie. He was older, about seventeen, very dark and brooding, my Mr Darcy. They’d just come back to England from India, where Dougie’s father had been a diplomat of some kind. It was my first big passion. His cousin was staying with him at the time, I remember, and he fell for Angela. I wonder what happened to Angela? I remember being devastated when I heard that the Warrenders were moving to New York, but they held on to the house in Notting Hill, apparently. And now you’ve been there, and have actually met them all.’
She looked wistfully into her glass. For a moment, as she had been talking about the Warrenders and the house in Lansdowne Gardens, the memories of those days had come back so vividly, the intensity of the feelings of her youth allowing her to briefly pull away the dulling blanket of years. She thought of Brock’s amused reaction to her confession about Dougie Warrender, and wondered if she would be terribly disappointed if she bumped into him again. Probably she would; they probably wouldn’t even recognise each other. twelve
T here was a mood of new beginnings on Monday morning at Queen Anne’s Gate. Detectives who had been seconded to Counter Terrorism Command had returned and were ready for new assignments. Bren and the others looked refreshed, hyped up by their spell away. They gathered in the incident room for Brock’s morning briefing, several of them clustering around Pip, whom Kathy noticed as she walked in.
The young DC came over to her and said meekly, ‘Am I forgiven?’
Kathy smiled, pleased to see the girl back on her feet. ‘It was my fault, Pip. I should never have let you go in there alone. Let’s just put it down to experience.’
‘I heard they’ve dropped charges against those guys. I can’t believe it. What about Marion? You’ll let me go on working with you on that, won’t you?’
‘Looks like there’s nothing to work on.’ Kathy told her what they’d discovered at the house in Rosslyn Court. Pip was shocked and started to protest, then fell silent with the others as Brock walked in, carrying a tall stack of files.
‘I hope you all had a good weekend,’ he began, ‘because there’s a heap of stuff to clear up now.’
She had had a good weekend, Kathy thought, though it seemed suddenly remote. Guy Hamilton had joined up with them, at Nicole’s insistence, and he’d been good company. He was a structural engineer, he’d told them, waiting to be posted back to a project in the Gulf States.
Brock gave Kathy three files, all liaison jobs with overseas forces through Interpol, tracing fugitives believed to be in London. She wondered if this was him having a little dig at her weekend trip. Without explanation he switched Pip to work with another pair of detectives, and she shot Kathy a penitent look.
When the meeting was over Brock drew Kathy aside and handed her a note summarising his meeting with Sophie Warrender. ‘You should meet her. In fact I said you might take her to Rosslyn Court to collect books and papers that she’d lent Marion.’
There was something about the way he said this that alerted Kathy. ‘So you want me to go on with that?’
‘Loose ends,’ he said vaguely. ‘If you’ve got time.’
‘I’ll get onto it. So you’ve taken away my little helper.’
He smiled. ‘I thought you might like a break.’
Kathy returned to her desk and put a call through to Sundeep Mehta. His advice was precise. ‘The heavy metals persist in the body. If she had a history of taking arsenic, it’ll be recorded in her hair, fingernails and bones. I’ll check. But Kathy, this was a massive, lethal dose. Was she an impulsive woman?’
‘That’s not my impression, Sundeep.’
‘Well, I’ll get back to you.’
She settled down to read through the new files, and made a start in following up the most promising leads. All the same, her mind kept returning to the house in Rosslyn Court. Alex Nicholson’s comments about the absence of a computer stuck in her mind, irking her for not noticing it sooner. Eventually she rang the secretary at the university and asked her if she could think of anywhere else Marion might have kept personal possessions. Karen explained that postgraduate students were provided with individual lockers. She apologised for not thinking to mention it before. Kathy said she’d come straight over.
When she arrived Karen took her to the postgraduate students’ office, a large room with a rank of computer stations to one side and a table and whiteboard at the other. A sink and coffee-making facilities stood in the far corner, next to a bank of grey metal lockers. Karen took her master key and opened one which had Marion’s name written neatly on a label. It was completely empty.
Kathy stared at the void in disappointment, then turned to Karen. ‘Is there anywhere else Marion could have kept things?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Do you know if she had a computer of her own?’
‘Sorry, no idea. We could ask.’ They went around the room, questioning the half-dozen students working at
