Corsica. She remembered how defensive Sophie Warrender had been when asked if her husband had returned to London during their stay on the island.
She felt edgy now, unable to settle, going over her conversation with Sophie Warrender. She had mentioned London City Airport, and how easy it was for her husband to get into his office from there.
Kathy picked up her phone and got through to the duty officer’s desk at headquarters. In a little while she had a contact name and phone number for security at the Docklands airport, and placed the call. The man sounded bored, happy to have something to do, and she hung on while he got to work on his computer, checking private flights for the period around the weekend before Marion died.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘There were only two private flights between here and Bastia around that time-Friday the thirtieth of March and Sunday the first of April. But no Douglas Warrender on the passenger list.’
Kathy sagged. ‘Oh well. Maybe he used another name?’
‘Doubt it. There was only one passenger each time. But it was a woman. Flew out Friday, returned Sunday. Name of Marion Summers.’
Kathy blinked. ‘Gotcha,’ she whispered, and took down the details of the charter company and flights. A feeling of excitement grew inside her. Poor old Sophie, she thought.
She got to her feet and plucked the picture of the white flowers from its place on the edge of the diagram and moved it to the vacant spot in the middle. As she stepped back to consider, the sound of her buzzer jarred into her thoughts.
‘Kathy?’ Guy’s voice sounded tinny over the intercom. ‘Are you okay? I was passing and saw your light… Sorry, I should have phoned first. Just wanted to check everything’s all right.’
‘Come on up.’
She met him at the lift and they kissed cheeks.
‘Sure I’m not butting in?’
‘’Course not.’ Seeing him again, she felt a surge of pleasure. ‘I’m really glad you came.’
He grinned. ‘Any developments?’
‘Not really.’ She took his hand and led him into the flat. ‘Take off your coat. Wine?’
He saw the half-eaten plate of curry on the sofa and said, ‘Oh, you’re in the middle of eating.’
‘Want some? There’s plenty more.’
‘Um, well… smells good. I’m starving actually. I was going to suggest…’
She poured him a glass of wine and went to the microwave.
‘Bastia?’
She turned and saw him looking at her notes beside the phone.
‘You planning another trip? Sorry.’ He looked sheepish. ‘None of my business. But you sound happy.’
‘Not a trip, no,’ she said, bringing over his plate. ‘Bastia’s where the flowers came from.’ She nodded towards the wall and he turned, puzzled, to look.
‘Ah, they’re in the centre now. You think that’s the key? You have a new suspect?’
‘I think so. I don’t have his picture, but I know who he is. He’s been hard to find. I don’t know it all yet, but I think I may be getting somewhere at last.’
‘Didn’t you need my program to work it out?’
She laughed. ‘Sorry. I like having it up there on the wall where I can soak it in at odd moments, when I’m thinking of something else, so inspiration can catch me unawares.’
‘And it’s caught you now? That’s why you’re happy?’
‘It makes you feel good, when something slots into place, doesn’t it? And then you kick yourself because it was staring you in the face all along and it seems so obvious.’
‘So this guy doesn’t know you’re onto him?’
‘Not yet. I’ve got some more homework to do first, then he’ll find out.’
Guy raised his glass. ‘Well done. I’m really glad for you, Kathy.’ But he looked subdued.
‘You all right?’
‘I go tomorrow. They just told me this evening. That’s why I came round. I didn’t expect you to be here, but I came anyway.’
‘Ah. Did they say how long you’ll be away?’
‘A year, maybe two. I’ll have regular trips back home, of course.’ He sounded sad.
‘Well, we’d better make the most of it while you’re here, hadn’t we?’ twenty-four
T he office was quiet the next day, Saturday. Kathy imagined Bren looking after his sick little girls, Brock visiting Suzanne down in Sussex, Pip recovering from a night out. She made herself a coffee, feeling simultaneously elated and bereft. She’d said goodbye to Guy at seven that morning, wanting to spend the day with him, but they both had things to do, and he’d said he didn’t want her to see him off at the airport.
She called a contact at Interpol and asked for information on Marion Summers on Corsica on the weekend before she died, then began searching the police databases for information on Douglas Warrender. There was a concise biography in the current Who’s Who, with his present post listed as Managing Director of Mallory Capital, education at Oxford (BA Hons PPE 1969) and Harvard (MBA 1972), and current address at Mallory Capital, St James’s Square, London SW1.
Towards midday she got word from Interpol that Marion had been registered for two nights in a small hotel, Les Voyagers, in the centre of Bastia.
Kathy was suddenly ravenous, hungrier than she’d felt for ages, and was thinking about lunch when her mobile phone rang. Hoping that it was Guy, she answered eagerly. ‘Hello?’
The person at the other end paused, then spoke in a soft voice that she didn’t recognise. ‘Detective Inspector Kolla?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Douglas Warrender. I believe we should meet.’
Kathy stiffened in her chair. ‘Concerning what?’
The man gave a little grunt of amusement, then said, ‘My wife tells me that you were asking about my relationship with Marion Summers. She-my wife-gave me your number.’
‘I can set up an appointment for you to come in and make a statement, Mr Warrender.’
‘No, not that. I’d rather meet you off the record, an informal chat, to explain a few things.’ The words were mildly stressed, but Kathy picked up the tone of command in the voice. ‘I think it might save you a lot of time and effort,’ he added.
‘Where did you have in mind?’
‘I’m presently sitting on a bench in St James’s Park, just a short walk from your office. It’s a pleasant morning, quite warm. You might like to join me. Say in ten minutes?’
Kathy rang off, wondering how he knew she was at work that morning, or how he expected them to recognise each other. But he did, rising to his feet at the same moment that she recognised the face she’d found on the internet. It didn’t really do him justice, she realised, as she walked across the grass towards the bench beneath a spreading plane tree; the image on the web had been rather bland, but in life he seemed forceful and intelligent, regarding her with shrewd, calculating eyes. Kathy wondered if Marion had seen some echo of Rossetti in him.
He held out his hand, and they sat.
‘You have a recorder?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s up to you, but I shall speak more freely if this conversation is not recorded.’ He seemed quite open, rather relaxed.
Kathy held his eyes for a moment, then nodded and took the machine out of her pocket and laid it on the seat between them. He reached forward and switched it off.
‘Thank you. You’re interested to know if Marion had a lover, I understand. She did. It was me.’ He paused. ‘You’re not surprised, I see.’
Kathy said nothing, and he went on.
‘We first became interested in each other last October. It was a stormy day, I remember, a Saturday, the wind lashing the trees. She had come to our house for a work session with my wife, and Sophie was late getting home from whatever she was doing. Marion and I had a coffee and began to talk, and very quickly we both realised that we found something compelling in each other. I rang her the next day and asked if she’d have lunch with me,
