Gallery, viewing the Henry Moore exhibition, and they arranged to meet outside on the gallery steps. The sky was heavy with dark clouds when Kathy came out of Victoria Station and walked briskly down Vauxhall Bridge Road, and by the time she reached the river and turned along Millbank fat drops of rain were spotting the pavement. She ran up the steps towards the shelter of the portico and John stepped out to meet her with a smile, and it struck her with a sudden feeling of regret that she probably wouldn’t see him again.
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ he said.
‘Okay.’
They went inside and downstairs to the cafe.
‘How have you been making out?’ he asked, and she sensed a reserve about him, as if he’d resigned himself to getting nowhere with her.
‘A bit of a loose end.’
He nodded. ‘I would have called, but I figured you’d get in touch if you wanted to.’ He stirred his tea slowly. ‘And now you have. So what can I do for you?’
Kathy felt uncomfortable. ‘I really appreciate the help you’ve given me, John.’
‘Don’t mention it. What do you need?’
‘I wondered if you’re going to stay in London for a few more days.’
‘I reckoned I’d stay at least over the weekend. Why?’
‘If you had the time to look through Toby’s old records that would be very useful.’
‘Yes, I said I would. In fact I made a start this morning. I found some old photo albums, family groups mostly-on a beach, playing golf, at a fair-the sort of things you’d expect, but I didn’t come across anyone I recognised. To tell the truth, I don’t really have any idea what I’m supposed to be looking for.’
‘I’m going to try to get hold of those photographs that Nancy brought with her, and I thought I could email them to you so that you could see if any of the people in those showed up in Toby’s pictures. That would give us a connection.’
‘Email?’
‘Yes, I’m going over to Boston. She may have had other photos, or letters which might tell us something.’
John looked stunned. ‘I see. Are you back on the case then?’
‘Not officially, no. But since they don’t seem to be checking this angle I thought I would. Give me something to do. I’d be grateful if you kept it to yourself, though.’
‘When are you going?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Have you been there before?’
She shook her head.
‘I spent a month at Harvard last year. Hotels are pricey though. Have you got somewhere to stay?’
‘A bed and breakfast in a place called Back Bay.’
‘Back Bay is nice. Very classy. You’ll like it.’
‘It’s where Emerson lives.’
An awkward silence fell between them. She guessed what was going through his mind: I could come with you, it’s on my way home. But if that was what he was thinking he didn’t say, and she certainly didn’t want to compound the problems she would face if Chivers found out what she was doing.
‘I’m grateful, John, really I am,’ she said at last.
‘It’s a pleasure.’ He smiled stiffly. ‘You’ll have packing to do. I think I’ll take another look at Henry Moore.’
At the door they shook hands and went their separate ways.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A s the plane dropped through the clouds Kathy made out the ragged coastline and islands of Massachusetts Bay and, away to the south, the long crooked arm of Cape Cod reaching into the Atlantic. Soon she could see a harbour dotted with small craft, and wharves with the towers of central Boston behind, and then the plane was dropping into Logan International.
When she was finally clear of immigration she caught a cab into the city, giving the address of the bed and breakfast in Beacon Street. It was a solid brownstone house with a curved bow front to one side of the entrance steps. Two men welcomed her, gay she guessed, probably in their early forties, and showed her to her room upstairs. It was beautifully appointed and had a view out across the Charles River to the north shore beyond, lit up by the afternoon sun. Having assured her that they could help her with anything she needed, her hosts left her sitting by the window, feeling numb from the dawn start, the long flight and sudden immersion in this new city, and for the first time she was glad to have come, to have escaped the claustrophobia of London.
She had phoned Emerson Merckle the previous day to make sure he would be available, and had arranged to contact him as soon as she arrived, which she now did. He sounded pleased to hear from her, and suggested they meet for afternoon tea at a place in Newbury Street, just a few blocks away. She had a shower and changed into lighter clothes and set out through the leafy residential streets, across the broad boulevard of Commonwealth Avenue and on to Newbury Street, lined with fashionable shops, galleries and restaurants. As she approached the cafe she saw Emerson sitting at a window table, half a storey above the street, gazing out at the passers-by, and gave him a wave. He looked a little puzzled at first, not recognising her, then smiled and got to his feet as she climbed the steps and went inside.
They shook hands and made polite conversation about her flight and where she was staying. She could understand him not recognising her out of context, because he too seemed different, more confident and expansive in his own setting.
‘You said you wanted to get to know Nancy,’ he said, ‘so I had to bring you to Newbury Street, her favourite shopping place. Sure, she went out to the malls, of course, but this was really what she loved, the boutiques along here.’
‘She liked clothes?’
‘She liked shopping, the whole experience, for herself, for her children and grandchildren, for her friends. She bought me this shirt at a little place down the street here.’
He paused, remembering. It was a very stylish shirt, Kathy noticed, brilliant white, with gold cufflinks and a dark tie and trousers so that he looked as if he’d come prepared for a formal interview, hair combed, cheeks pink.
‘Afterwards we’d meet somewhere like this and she’d tell me what she’d found. I look out of the window now and expect to see her walk by at any moment, with carrier bags full of her trophies.’
‘And she did the same in London?’
‘Actually, no, not really. We did go to Knightsbridge, but that was about it, and frankly I was a little surprised. I was thinking about this after you called me. There were other things that strike me now, small things, but a little odd.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, we arrived in London on the Saturday, and the following day we took a boat down the river to Greenwich, but by afternoon I was feeling jetlagged and just wanted to lie down for a while before we thought about dinner. But she was more energetic, and said she’d go out for a walk around Chelsea. It was about seven that evening when she tapped on my door to tell me she was back, and when she came in I was aware of a peculiar smell. It took me back to my childhood. It was incense-my family were Catholics-and I asked her where on earth she’d been, and she laughed and said she’d been to vespers. I was astonished, because that just wasn’t like Nancy at all, but she said she’d passed a cathedral and looked in.’
‘A cathedral?’
‘That’s what she said. I didn’t think any more about it, until I got home and saw on the TV news about the funeral in a Russian Orthodox cathedral in London of that Russian who lived next to our hotel. I wondered if it could have been the cathedral Nancy visited, and if it was possible they had met there and that was why he’d come to
