Spider Trap Page 19

  She checked her watch. It was just after three. ‘You sound happy. Where have you been?’

  ‘Working, working. We never sleep.’ That seemed to be the cue for another melody while he worked on the cork, filled the glasses and collapsed on the sofa.

  ‘Phew, I’m bushed. Cheers.’

  She joined him. She hadn’t seen the shirt before, purple silk with a dark pattern of some kind. Not a work shirt. He smelled of cigarette smoke, and something else.

  ‘Cheers. Did you drive here?’

  He looked penitent. ‘’Fraid so. Shouldn’t have. Won’t be able to drive home after this. Can I stay here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ He put his glass down with a bump that splashed wine across the table, then laid his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. ‘You are wonderful, you know that, don’t you?’

  Kathy got up to wipe the spilled wine. ‘What was that all about this afternoon, your phone call?’ she asked, but there was no reply and when she turned back he was asleep. She looked down at him for a moment, at the self-absorbed concentration on his sleeping face, and wondered if she really knew him at all. She spread a spare blanket over him and went to bed.

  When she got up in the morning he was still there, curled up beneath the blanket. He woke to the sounds of her making coffee and toast, and sat up with a groan, rubbing his face. She handed him an orange juice and he said he was sorry.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Where had you been?’

  ‘Oh . . . I met somebody, had a few drinks. Sorry. Was it very late? Did I wake you up?’

  ‘Don’t worry. How’s your head?’

  ‘Nothing a shower won’t fix. Thanks, Kathy.’ He checked his watch with bleary eyes and jumped to his feet. ‘Hell, I’d better move.’

  He had a fast shower, pulled his old clothes back on again, kissed her and ran out the door while she was still making breakfast. As she sat at the window munching her toast she contemplated the smell on his jacket. Cigarette smoke, curry and something else, something familiar. She got up and shook out the crumpled blanket on the sofa and a small white handkerchief fell to the floor. It didn’t look like a man’s handkerchief. She picked it up and was aware of that scent again . . . J’Adore, that was it. J’Adore perfume, she was almost sure. She wondered what perfume Michael Grant’s research officer—what was her name? Andrea— wore.

  She went to the window and looked down at the car park. Tom’s Subaru was parked at an odd angle in the corner. She watched him get in, reverse and head for the street, and as he accelerated away she noticed a dark green car take off after him. She reached for the phone and dialled his number.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tom . . .’ She looked down at the handkerchief in her hand, then tossed it aside. ‘Is there a green Mondeo on your tail?’

  ‘What? Hang on . . . No, Kathy, don’t think so.’

  ‘All right. See you later.’

  nineteen

  The following day Kathy was caught up in one of her other cases, her court appearance scheduled and rescheduled in a frustrating series of delays. While she waited she thought about Brown Bread. Her Rainbow success, identifying the Mondeo, had been a small victory, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. The whole business of Rainbow surveillance had previously seemed rather dumb and unsavoury policing, but now she could appreciate its possibilities. Before long the net would be so extensive that they would probably be able to say where any given vehicle was at any particular time and, with the new facial recognition technology, any given person, too. She smiled grimly to herself at the thought of giving the coordinator Tom’s car number and asking where it was at one o’clock the previous night. What was he playing at? Come to that, what was Brock up to? The whole investigation felt directionless and remote.

  When the Crown solicitor finally told her in the afternoon that she wouldn’t be called until the following day, she decided to take the long way back to the office. She made her way down to the Old Kent Road, across Blackheath and onto the Dover road, noticing several cameras along the busy route, but not at the point where she turned off to Shooters Hill. When she reached the golf club she turned into the car park and switched off the engine. There had been a spate of car thefts in recent months as well as two burglaries of the clubhouse bar, and Kathy was interested to see cameras covering the building, the car park and, of greatest interest, the entrance gates.

  She got out of the car and walked around the clubhouse, seeing no one. The paraphernalia of golf carts and little flags and greens and fairways brought back the memory of an illicit weekend in Norfolk with Martin Connell, long ago. She’d forgotten about the game of golf they’d played, his instructions and guiding hand. The recollection was intense and bittersweet.

  The course was deserted, the open ground enfolded by dark woods. She walked up the first fairway and then cut through a belt of dripping trees to emerge on the edge of the returning eighteenth. On its far side she could see the roofs and windows of The Glebe above its encircling wall. Some of the upper rooms had large picture windows, glinting in the reflected light of the low red sun, and balconies, so that their occupants could enjoy views out over the parkland and woods and the stream that had been turned into a picturesque water hazard across the final fairway.

  Her phone trembled in her pocket and she turned back into the trees to answer it. It was Tom.

  ‘Hi, where are you?’

  ‘Playing golf.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Kathy, it’s not you. Look, I owe you a huge apology for last night.’

  ‘It’s all right. You can crash at my place whenever you want.’

  ‘I’d like to make it up to you. Can I buy you dinner tonight?’

  ‘Fine. How’s it going with Andrea?’

  ‘Oh great, we’ve had a good day. She’s given me one or two interesting things to think about.’

  ‘I’ll bet. Smart is she?’

  ‘Very. They all are, working over here, but she particularly. Oxford degree, you know. I’ll have to get her to show you around.’

  ‘Good idea. Damn.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Sorry, I trod in something. My feet are soaking wet.’

  ‘Where are you, really?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tonight. And you can tell me about Andrea.’

  He took her to L’Odeon in Regent Street, which Kathy had to admit made it a handsome apology. When he gave her a hug she found herself sniffing his collar like a jealous lover. No trace of J’Adore. Maybe she’d been mistaken, what with the curry and the cigarette smoke. But then she remembered the handkerchief. What had she done with it? On balance she decided not to bring it up.

  She told him about her day and he laughed.

  ‘You really were on that golf course? Alone? In the dark?’

  ‘It wasn’t quite dark. But I felt I needed to get to grips somehow with the reality of the Roaches.’

  ‘I know what you mean. And did it help?’

  ‘Not really. I couldn’t see much. I didn’t even want to ask the professional if they played there, in case he got suspicious.’

  ‘They do play there, the three sons and their wives, and some of their children. They’re all members.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Article and picture in the Plumstead Gazette, a family golf competition day last year. The whole clan in their snappy golf gear, the women with dazzling smiles, the men and kids scowling. I feel I know everything about them, and nothing. Like you say, it’s all on paper.’

  ‘Andrea had their picture from the Plumstead Gazette? Why?’

  ‘That’s a good question. She’s got passport records of every overseas trip they’ve ever made—how did she get those? She just laughed when I asked her. And she’s got graphs tracking the share prices of their companies against the FT Index. Michael Grant sounds rational enough, but I think he’s obsessed. He’s convinced the Roaches are behind half the drugs trade south of the river, a
nd he’s got Andrea dredging for anything that might fit into an incriminating pattern.’

  ‘How does she feel about it?’

  ‘She believes him. He’s very convincing, very impassioned. She thinks he’s wonderful.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘You can meet her. Grant’s daughter is giving a concert on Saturday evening to raise money for one of her father’s good causes. We’re invited, Brock too. Will you come? Apparently she’s very good.’

  ‘Oh, well . . . Nicole and Lloyd suggested we go out with them on Saturday.’

  ‘They could come along, then we could get a meal together afterwards.’

  ‘All right, I’ll ask her.’

  ‘You’re right, you know, about the case,’ Tom said. ‘We’re doing it all wrong, not being aggressive enough. What’s Brock doing, do you know?’

  ‘He seems to be immersed in old police files.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘More paper. It’s like he’s becoming bogged down in the past. Either we should have a go at the Roaches or we should forget about them and get on with something useful.’

  ‘What could we be doing?’

  ‘I’ve got one or two ideas.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Not now.’ He looked at her. ‘There are more important things to think about, like what we’re going to eat. The steamed sea bass is supposed to be a speciality of the house, so I’m told.’

  Later she caught him looking at her with an oddly sad expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ve been neglecting you,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve both been a bit preoccupied with work.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you, soon. Maybe we could go away somewhere, take a trip, get out of London.’

  ‘Where do you fancy, Jamaica?’ She smiled, but he just looked nonplussed, as if he couldn’t see that it was meant as a joke.

  Later, he drove her home. She asked him up for a nightcap but he refused, saying he needed to get a few things prepared for the morning.

  Kathy wasn’t required in court until ten that day, and decided to pay another visit to the flat above the laundrette in Cove Street. She guessed that George, if he was living there, was probably not an early riser. As she pulled into the kerb outside the tyre yard she saw the woman step out of the flat onto the access deck, this time unencumbered by her twins. Kathy waited while she hurried down the stairs and ran towards the street, then she went up to the front door. There was a light visible through the frosted window. She knocked, waited, then knocked again. Finally the door opened.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .’ George grumbled, wiping his hands on a cloth. ‘Wha—’

  He stared at Kathy and his mouth stayed open as he recognised her.

  ‘Morning,’ she said. ‘Can I come in?’

  He recovered himself, sticking his head out of the door and darting his eyes up and down the deck and over the street below. ‘What you want?’

  ‘A few words, George.’ From somewhere inside, a baby began to cry, then another, their wails rising to a coordinated shriek. ‘Won’t take a minute.’

  He looked harassed. ‘All right then.’

  She followed the sounds of distress as he closed the door behind her, and found the source on the floor of a cramped living room, two shiny brown sets of limbs thrashing on newspaper.

  ‘Oh, phew.’ A pair of soiled, freshly opened nappies lay next to their bottoms.

  ‘Yeah, ’orrible, innit?’

  ‘Got fresh nappies? I’ll give you a hand, if you like.’

  She squatted down and they took one each.

  ‘You’re better at this than me,’ Kathy muttered, trying not to breathe. ‘Are they yours?’

  He shook his head, mouth turned down with disgust. ‘No way. Where you parked?’

  ‘Outside the tyre yard.’

  ‘Anybody see you come up here?’

  ‘I don’t think so, why?’

  ‘The landlord don’t like coppers. He’d get really pissed off if he knew you were here.’

  ‘Teddy Vexx, eh?’

  ‘Teddy, yeah. How do you know that? What you want anyway?’

  ‘Winnie’s worried about you, George. Why did you leave?’

  ‘She got on my nerves, nagging all the time, wouldn’t stop telling me what to do. I couldn’t take it no more. Carole said I could move in here as long as I helped out with the twins.’

  From the look on his face as he stared down at them he wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice. Kathy noticed a keyboard and some sophisticated-looking electronic gear on the table, mixed up with the jumble of breakfast things. ‘You working, George?’

  ‘Off and on.’

  ‘Where did you nick that stuff?’

  ‘Give over, that’s all mine. That’s the other reason I had to leave Winnie—she couldn’t stand me practising.’

  ‘Is your group playing at the moment?’

  ‘Yeah, at the JOS. It’s the place, man. We just started there. It’s our big break.’ For a moment he grew a little stiffer with pride, then he sagged again. ‘What do you want, anyway?’

  ‘Where are the binoculars?’

  George looked startled. ‘What binoculars?’

  ‘I want to know why you spied on us when we were digging up those bodies on the railway land.’

  Now he was acting offended. ‘I never did! Who told you that?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. We found a spliff you were smoking over there. Pretty potent. You want me to arrest you and talk to you on tape?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ He slumped into a chair, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘This is so unfair. All the stuff that’s goin’ on and you pick on the little people like me.’

  ‘Stop moaning, George, and tell me what you were doing.’

  ‘I don’t know. They paid me, that’s all that mattered to me, but I don’t know what was the point. I sat up there freezing day after day and I said, What’s the point? They’ve cleared the snow, they’ve put up tents, I can’t see anything. And he just said, How many tents? Where are they? He wanted a daily report.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Teddy. But it was for somebody else. He was doing a favour for somebody who was interested, I don’t know who.’

  ‘You must have some idea. How did Teddy contact him? Did they meet? Did you ever see Teddy talking to him?’

  But George was too afraid of Teddy Vexx, and knew he’d already said too much. ‘You’ve no idea, no idea at all, what he can do. Just leave me alone. I don’t know nuffing.’

  ‘You should get away from Teddy and his friends, George. Concentrate on your music.’

  ‘I don’t have no money, do I? And he got us the gig at the JOS.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  George darted ahead of her to the door and looked cautiously around outside before letting her go. Behind them the twins started bawling again.

  When she got to court she found herself on hold once again, and she took the opportunity to make a couple of phone calls. She started with the Rainbow Coordinator at Greenwich Borough. When she got through she told him about the camera at the gates of the golf club, and he promised to check and get back to her. Then she rang Nicole and told her about the invitation to the concert on Saturday night.

  ‘What sort of music is it?’ Nicole asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Classical, I think. It’s for a good cause, not sure what.’

  ‘Oh well, we’ll give it a go.’ She made a note of the arrangements, then added, ‘What’s got into your boss these days, Kathy? He’s driving us mad with his demands for old files, buried in the deepest recesses. Is he writing a history book or something?’

  twenty

  On Saturday morning Brock sat at his desk surrounded by columns of stacked files that looked as if they’d been unearthed from some ancient crypt. Dot had attempted to rearrange them, he saw, perhaps to make an easier route to the door, but she hadn’t made much impression. From her withering looks the previous day he understood that she no lon
ger considered the situation tenable. He sympathised, of course, but he couldn’t stop now, not having come this far. The problem was that the material evoked so many memories, so many side trails, that it was easy to get distracted. To focus his researches he had pinned a large sheet of detail paper over the top of the Brown Bread wall, and it was now covered with a hand-drawn timeline and incident record chart decipherable only to himself. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, something would emerge out of the mist. He knew he couldn’t go on much longer.

  Then the phone rang, his mobile not the office one. ‘Hello?’

  The caller said nothing for a moment. He heard an intake of breath, and repeated, ‘Hello? Brock here.’

  ‘Hello, David.’

  It was his turn to be silent, giving the buzzing in his ears a chance to subside. ‘Suzanne,’ he said at last.

  ‘Was that you at the airport on Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes it was. I got cold feet when I saw the children.’

  ‘I’m coming up to town this morning. Do you want to meet?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d like that.’

  Kathy also had a surprise in store that Saturday morning. Tom picked her up at nine for what he described as a mystery trip. He was wearing a warm jacket, and she noticed the strap of a camera hanging from its pocket. They headed north and east on roads she didn’t know, and after a while she began to see signs for the Lee Valley Regional Park, Waltham Abbey and Epping Forest. They drove through woodland on narrow lanes over rising ground, and eventually emerged on a hilltop, where Tom pulled over in front of a panoramic view back across the city. It was a fresh, blustery morning, with sunlight piercing the gaps in high cloud to pick out parts of the Thames basin in pools of brightness. Suddenly the sound of birdsong and the hum of distant traffic were punctuated by the sharp staccato rattle of gunfire.

  ‘Now do you know where we are?’

  Kathy shook her head.

  ‘Lippitts Hill? You haven’t been to the firing range here?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but I must have come a different way. Have you brought me for a morning’s shooting then?’