while Kathy headed back to the London Library, where she’d arranged to interview everyone that Gael Rayner had been able to track down as having been there on Tuesday when Marion had collapsed.
It was a slow job. One of the regular readers, a Mr Vujkovic, said that he had picked up Marion’s belongings from the floor, including her phone, which he insisted no one had opened. The others had little to add, and no one apart from Nigel Ogilvie had seen Marion eating her lunch in the square. But several had noticed her out there on other days, and one woman had sat with her for a while, on the same bench, about a week beforehand. She was certain that Marion had been drinking a bottle of juice, because Marion had commented that she usually carried one with her, in case she needed a sugar fix for her diabetes. The woman described the orange bottle and yellow plastic cap, but had no idea where Marion might have bought it. Kathy immediately phoned the information to Brock’s office, thinking of other cases of industrial sabotage and tampering with supermarket foodstuffs that had been in the news lately.
From time to time she got up and stretched her legs, going over to the big windows and looking out at the uniforms working their way around the square. She knew they’d phone her if they discovered anything interesting, but by mid-afternoon she’d heard nothing from them or from Pip. She had interviewed thirty-six people, not one of whom had a clue where Marion had lived. None had seen anyone tampering with her bag.
As the streetlights came on and dusk began to fall, she collected Pip and they returned to Queen Anne’s Gate carrying sheafs of interview sheets to process. On Kathy’s desk was a stack of reports from the police hotline detailing phone calls from the public following the newspaper and TV coverage that morning of Marion’s death, and on Pip’s was a computer printout of Marion’s phone records. Kathy had a sense of the overwhelming tide of information which so often bogged down murder investigations that didn’t make a breakthrough in the first couple of days.
Brock came in and pulled up a chair beside them. ‘How’s it looking?’
Kathy pointed to the pile of phone messages. ‘It’s touched a nerve-the anonymous poisoner, the hidden assassin, striking you down where you’re most vulnerable, inside your stomach, without you even knowing it’s been done. People convinced they’ve seen someone putting something in the sugar bowls of the local cafe, sticking syringes into pastries, adulterating milk.’
Brock said, ‘We’ve alerted soft-drink manufacturers and distributors and supermarket chains. They say they haven’t received any recent threats. They also point out that they all have tamper-proof caps. Wouldn’t the sandwich be more likely?’
‘Maybe. I’d be more inclined to accept it was a random act if Marion wasn’t so damn mysterious. None of the people phoning in have any information on her, and nobody’s reported her missing. But somebody knows, and they’re keeping quiet.’
The duty officer appeared with a message for Brock. He scanned it and said, ‘I have to go. Good luck.’ He headed off, looking as weary and frustrated as she felt, Kathy thought.
She looked across at Pip and said, ‘Why wouldn’t you tell your mother where you live?’
Pip laughed. ‘Lots of reasons. You don’t know my mum.’
Kathy shook her head, trying to clear the cotton wool that seemed to have accumulated there during her mind-numbing day. ‘But you’d still tell her, unless…’
‘What?’
‘Unless she’d tell someone else who’s giving you grief.’
‘Her husband? What’s he like, the stepfather?’
‘Looked a bit of a thug. Why don’t you see what you can find out about him?’ She checked her notebook. ‘His name’s Keith Rafferty. He looked younger than Marion’s mother, maybe late thirties. Address in Ealing: Flat 3, 37 Bradshaw Street. Works as a driver for an outfit called Brentford Pyrotechnics. They sell fireworks.’
Ten minutes later Pip came over to her desk with a printout from her computer. ‘Assault, actual bodily harm, three years ago. He got four months. The previous year he was charged under the Sexual Offences Act, section 30, living off the earnings, and section 32, soliciting. That case didn’t get to court.’
‘Aha…’ Kathy looked up at Pip’s expression. There was more. ‘Go on.’
‘And Brentford Pyrotechnics don’t just sell fireworks, they also manufacture them.’
‘So?’
‘You know that brilliant blue light they have in star shells? Apparently it’s almost impossible to get it without using arsenic.’
‘Seriously? How did you find that out?’
‘Google.’ Pip shrugged, as if to say, What else?
Kathy checked the time. ‘Got their number?’
•
The manager at Brentford Pyrotechnics seemed unsurprised by her request to pay him a visit; apparently it had happened before. ‘Just last month,’ he said. ‘It’s the terrorist thing, I know, but really, you’ve got no need to worry about us. You’ll see.’ They were working late that night on an order, and he’d be available whenever they called.
The industrial estate lay within a curve of the Grand Union Canal, beyond which the elevated M4 emitted a low traffic roar into the night. Kathy pulled the car into a parking bay in front of the doors of the offices and showrooms, whose windows were lit from within. Pip looked down the darkened flank of the big sheds to their left and gave a pout of disappointment.
‘Aw, I thought they’d have a few sparklers going, at least.’
Mr Pigeon bustled out in answer to their ding on the counter bell. He looked as if they’d caught him in the middle of a crisis, and he spoke quickly, the glow of perspiration on his bald head. He barely glanced at their ID. ‘We’ve got a lot on this month, and several big productions next weekend.’
‘Really? I thought it’d be a quiet time for you-away from November the fifth, I mean.’
‘Oh no!’ Mr Pigeon chuckled at her ignorance. ‘It’s not just Guy Fawkes night for us, you know. We’re doing functions all the year round-weddings, public events, garden parties, funerals, celebrations of all kinds.’ He handed Kathy several brochures from the desk.
‘Funerals?’
‘Oh indeed. What better way to go than in a blaze of glory in the night sky above your assembled friends.’
‘You mean you pack their ashes into…?’
‘Rockets, Roman candles, giant catherine-wheels. Some want lots of whizzes and bangs, and others prefer a quieter, more contemplative presentation.’
‘I didn’t know that. And you manufacture these special fireworks to order?’
‘That’s right. Our run-of-the-mill stuff all comes from China now. Well, that’s the way of things these days, isn’t it? The great days of British fireworks are past, I’m afraid-Brock’s, Phoenix, Britannia. You have to specialise now.’
‘Did you say Brock’s? My boss’s name is Brock.’
‘Really? Well, maybe he’s related to the fireworks family. Theirs was the oldest fireworks company in Britain. They dazzled Queen Victoria at the Crystal Palace.’
‘But now you specialise?’
‘Quite. We have our own design studio, our own laboratory for devising precisely the right mixtures, and our own specialty fabrication workshop. It’s all top quality, and highly secure, believe me. We’ve had Special Branch, MI5, you name it-and Workplace Health and Safety, of course, all the time. They’ve picked this place apart. Well, it’s only to be expected nowadays. When I was a boy I could pop down to my local chemist and buy concentrated acids, fuse wire, any kind of chemical compound I wanted. Why, when I was a lad, the sight of a schoolboy marching down the street carrying a. 303 wouldn’t raise a murmur, unless he had long hair-then, outrage! But now, the slightest hint of anything that goes bang…’
‘Yes. Actually we’re taking a different line. It’s not the things that go bang we’re interested in, Mr Pigeon. It’s more the things that make you sick-poisons. Do you carry any of them?’
‘Poisons? Oh, well.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, of course we do. Acids, phosphorus compounds, copper salts…’
‘Arsenic?’
‘Yes, we have that too. But all those chemicals are subject to the same security procedures as the
