‘I certainly do, but I’m also interested in another matter, possibly connected. You remember when I was here before that we talked about the security of your chemicals?’
‘Of course, and I showed you our clearance documents and our latest security vetting.’
‘We didn’t discuss the possibility of one of your own employees removing material.’
‘Yes, but I told you, deliveries are weighed and recorded as they arrive and the use of all chemicals carefully tracked and accounted for.’
‘What about a delivery driver, maybe helping himself to small quantities from shipments before they’re checked in? Would that be possible?’
Pigeon’s mouth opened to protest, then a little cloud of doubt passed over his eyes. ‘Well, I’d say no, but I suppose I could check. You think Keith Rafferty…?’
‘I’d appreciate it if you would keep this to yourself for the moment, Mr Pigeon. He may have had a friend in the laboratory who would cover up for him. I think it would be a good idea if you carried out your own checks and got back to me, preferably within the next twenty-four hours.’
‘I see. Well, yes, I’ll see what I can do.’
As she got back into her car, Kathy had a call from Brock.
‘Kathy? Where are you?’
She explained about the assault at the London Library and her trip out to the fireworks factory. ‘I’m going to arrest Rafferty as soon as he gets back.’
There was an ominous pause, then Brock said, ‘No. I want you back here, Kathy. Quick as you can.’
‘But-’
‘Quick as you can, Kathy.’ The line went dead. seventeen
‘ B ren told me about the cat,’ Brock said.
‘Yes, well you can understand how I feel then.’ Kathy sat rigid in the seat facing him across his desk, knowing he could see her anger blazing like a beacon, a part of her regretting this unfamiliar feeling of rebellion against him, another part relishing it.
‘All the more reason for you to drop it,’ Brock said. ‘He’s trying to goad you, make you step over the line. Don’t worry, he’s not going to get away with it. I’m going to put Bren onto the Ogilvie assault.’
‘No!’ Startled at the vehemence of her own reaction, Kathy felt the blood rush to her head. She bit her lip, then continued, more measured, ‘He doesn’t have the background.’
‘Then you’ll have to give it to him.’ Brock sat back in his chair, studying her. ‘How do you see it, then, Kathy? Do you think Rafferty killed Marion?’
She hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Oh, he’s capable of it, and we know he likes tampering with girls’ drinks. It’s also possible that he raped her and made her pregnant, but there’s the business of the unknown benefactor who stumped up three-quarters of a million for her house.’
‘You have a suspect?’
‘Her supervisor, Dr Anthony da Silva, a flirt with his students, married to a wealthy lawyer, living conveniently close to Marion’s new house. It’s even possible he had Rafferty working for him, doing his dirty work.’
‘That’d be a risky business relationship,’ Brock mused. ‘Why the attack on Ogilvie?’
‘I think he knows more than he told us-maybe something he picked up from snooping around Marion. Maybe da Silva got Rafferty to persuade him to keep quiet.’
‘That’s possible, I suppose.’ The atmosphere in the room had relaxed a little. ‘Brief Bren, Kathy. Get him to follow it up. As for Marion, if we really have got a murder on our hands, rather than a suicide, I’d like to get Alex Nicholson to take another look. Why don’t you draw up a profiler briefing for her. Keep it simple-victimology, scene, forensics-you know the form.’
Kathy nodded.
‘Then concentrate on Interpol. Maybe you should go over to see them at Lyons. Have you ever been?’
She shook her head, feeling sorry that he felt he had to offer her a little treat in compensation. ‘I’ll speak to Bren.’
Bren was a solid, dependable detective, who’d got her out of trouble on more than one occasion, and she knew she could rely on him. He listened patiently to her briefing, asked a few pertinent clarifiers, and gave a brisk nod. ‘I’ll take him apart, Kathy, don’t worry.’
‘Well, watch your back, Bren. Remember there’s two of them, him and Crouch.’
‘They won’t even know it’s happening until it’s too late.’
‘How are you going to do that?’
‘Don’t know yet.’ He gave her a benign smile; one he’d picked up from Brock, she thought.
She returned to her desk and drew up a summary of the Marion Summers case, which she emailed to Alex Nicholson, then forced herself to concentrate on the Interpol requests. It wasn’t as if they weren’t interesting-a fugitive Australian con man thought to have slipped into Britain on a tourist bus from Holland, a Bulgarian people- trafficker believed to be hiding from vengeful colleagues he had cheated, a Russian couple who had probably abducted a missing child. She picked up the phone and got back to following the lines of inquiry she’d already begun, putting Keith Rafferty and Nigel Ogilvie out of her mind.
That evening, as people began to stretch and yawn and reach for their coats, Bren came and sat on the edge of her desk.
‘Ogilvie is sitting up in his hospital bed, enjoying the attention of the nurses. He insists that he lost his footing on the stairs while he was carrying a pile of books and that there was no one else involved. The witness, Mr Vujkovic, and the doctor say otherwise. The doc showed me pictures he took while he was dressing the wounds-you can actually see the print of someone’s boot on his thigh and shoulder. But Ogilvie won’t change his story. I showed him Rafferty’s picture and he feigned ignorance, but you could tell he was scared shitless. I don’t think he’s going to change his tune, unless we can get to the bottom of what’s been going on from some other angle.’
‘What about Rafferty? Did you speak to him?’
‘Yes. He didn’t deny that he’d gone to the rear of the London Library. He said someone who wouldn’t give his name phoned him and asked to meet him there, concerning Marion’s death. But when he got there no one showed up, and after ten minutes he left without seeing anyone. His knuckles were grazed and slightly swollen-from carting boxes, he said.’ Bren smiled grimly. ‘Leave it with me.’
A bit later Pip came by Kathy’s desk.
‘Sorry, boss,’ she said, head down, contrite. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘Swings and roundabouts, Pip. All in a day’s work. How are you going?’
‘Oh, good. I’m working with the boys on a series of bank robberies involving fatal shootings.’
‘Well, you take care.’
‘It’s all right. I’m not usually so stupid.’ She hesitated, fiddling with a file in her hand. ‘I did finish off one little job you gave me. Do you want it, or should I give it to DI Gurney?’
‘What is it?’
‘The posy of white flowers Marion had.’ She opened the file. ‘ Cistaceae, of the rock rose family.’ She offered Kathy a sheet with photographs and information on the plant taken, Kathy noted, from the internet.
‘Oh… well done.’
Pip handed her another sheet. ‘In the Victorian language of flowers, the gum cistus of the Cistaceae plant family symbolised imminent death. Literally it meant, I shall die tomorrow.’
‘And that’s exactly what she did. You think it was some kind of message from someone?’
‘Could be.’
‘Any idea where they could have come from?’
‘Not really. You see the five petals around the yellow stamens in the centre?’ She handed Kathy an enlargement of the photo Gael had sent over.
‘Yes?’
‘We should get an expert to look at them, but from what I’ve been able to find out, they’re Cistus monspeliensis, Montpellier cistus. It’s a wild flower.’
‘Montpellier?’ Kathy said. ‘The south of France?’
‘That’s right, that’s where they’re most common. But where would you find them in London?’
But Kathy was thinking that Corsica was off the south coast of France. The place had cropped up in Brock’s notes of his meeting with Sophie Warrender, and again when Kathy had checked where Tom Reeves had
