The Chalon Heads Page 6

  ‘What’s he like now, then?’ he said quickly, following after her. ‘In the flesh. How is he holding up?’

  ‘Starling? Worried, panic-stricken, I suppose, lack of sleep, but physically in pretty good shape.’

  White ignored the last bit. ‘Panic-stricken, eh? My God, yes, he will be. How much will he pay for her? Half a million? One million? Everything?’

  As they reached the door, he said, ‘Have you anything to implicate Marty Keller, apart from motive and Sammy’s imagination?’

  ‘Early days,’ Kathy said, evasive.

  ‘You sure it isn’t Sammy done her in, making it look like a kidnapping?’

  ‘That’s always a possibility.’

  He followed her out to the front gate. ‘Now, Kathy,’ he said, ‘I want you to promise me something.’

  ‘It’s all right, Peter.’ She turned and met a gust of whisky breath up close. ‘I won’t tell anyone about your files.’

  ‘Not just that. I want you to promise to get back to me if you think of anything you need to know, day or night. Promise?’

  Kathy smiled, feeling sorry for this sad, obnoxious old bloke.

  ‘What if I think of something?’ he said, suddenly worried. ‘How can I get in touch?’

  ‘Do you know Brock’s office number?’

  ‘Not Brock! I’m not going to contact him. What about you?’

  Kathy gave him a card, writing her mobile number on the back for him.

  ‘Good, good. And one last thing, Kathy,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If I were Marty Keller after revenge,’ he whispered, as if the roses might have ears, ‘I wouldn’t just want Sammy Starling to suffer.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’d want to bring Brock down, too. Very much.’

  Kathy blinked, thanked him, and hurried to her car.

  Kathy sensed that the examination of the flat was coming to an end. Among the décor of black and silver and white, Brock, with his grey hair and beard and white nylon overalls, looked like an incongruous designer item. He sprawled on the white Italian hide settee, scratching his chin with a latex-gloved hand, looking deeply dissatisfied.

  ‘Nothing interesting?’ she said, picking up an overall pack for herself.

  ‘Puzzling. She’s been here, sure enough—there’s some dirty clothes in the laundry basket and a used towel in the bathroom. But I’d swear the bed hasn’t been slept in since the sheets were changed, which according to Sammy would normally have been last Thursday, when the cleaner comes in.’

  He got stiffly to his feet and went on, ‘No signs of a struggle, but look at this . . .’

  He led her into the kitchen, where two men were examining the worktop beside the sink, a polished grey granite surface lit by hidden low-voltage spots. Compared to her own modest facilities, Kathy thought the place resembled an art gallery more than a kitchen. One was holding a camera with large flash attachment, the other a fingerprint powder brush. The one with the brush, an Indian, looked round, and Kathy recognised Leon Desai, their liaison with the forensic science lab. Brock was taking this seriously, she thought.

  ‘Hello, Kathy.’ He nodded to her, with his cool smile. No matter what mayhem his job took him into, Desai was always cool, a source of irritation to Bren and some of the others.

  Kathy said hello and followed Brock over to a corner of the kitchen floor.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ he asked her.

  At first she saw nothing, then made out a faint trace of brown against the cream ceramic tile. ‘A footprint?’

  ‘Could be. And possibly blood. The rest of the floor’s been washed clean, by the looks of it.’

  ‘What about the neighbours?’

  ‘We’re being discreet so we haven’t made a big production of it yet, but we’ve spoken to a few. Most use the place as she did—hardly any permanent residents. This being a ground-floor flat, facing the back, tucked away, it wouldn’t be difficult for someone to come and go unobserved, if they knew their way around. There’s a door to the residents’ car park just along the corridor from the front door to this flat.’

  Kathy looked around. ‘It’s very tasteful . . .’

  ‘Oh, very. Classic, simple, expensive . . . tasteful.’

  ‘Is that Sammy Starling?’

  ‘Not unless he’s changed in that too. Sammy wouldn’t feel the need to acquire any taste himself. He’d just hire someone who already had some. It would mean nothing.’

  He led her back into the living-room. ‘You saw Peter White?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘We nearly didn’t. He tried to put me in my place early on. I walked out.’

  Brock grinned. ‘That’s the way. He buckled after that, did he?’

  ‘We started again. He’s still keeping a file on Sammy Starling, you know. He seems haunted by him, and by Keller and Harley . . .’

  Kathy saw the shadow cross Brock’s face. She went on, ‘It was useful background, I suppose, for me. He told me Starling’s life story. But nothing directly relevant to this.’

  ‘Bitter, is he?’

  Kathy nodded. ‘He tries to lose himself in his roses.’

  ‘His wife, Ruth, started growing them a year before his retirement, to give him something to do. He had no other interests than police work before then. Does he have any thoughts about Keller?’

  ‘He doubts Keller would have the stomach for it after all that time inside.’

  ‘We’re finished, Brock.’ Leon Desai stood at the doorway. The SOCO photographer came past him carrying his big aluminium equipment case. He peeled off his gloves and overalls and Desai let him out of the front door.

  ‘Yes . . .’ Brock sighed. ‘We’re all finished. Kaput. Finito.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m hungry. Mrs Starling was known at a little Italian place around the corner, La Fortuna. Fancy giving it a go?’

  The stark décor, unusual modern chairs and cutlery, lush white tablecloths, all signalled expensive to Kathy. For the first time she felt personally confronted by Eva Starling’s lifestyle. She was pretty certain she couldn’t afford to eat anywhere where Eva was known.

  The menu confirmed this. Kathy’s heart sank as she searched in vain for a modestly priced plate of spaghetti Bolognese.

  She looked at the reaction of the other two. Desai was frowning intently. He caught the look on her face and silently mouthed the word help. Brock bore an expression of mild surprise as his eyes scanned the large but sparsely printed document through his glasses. –‘Now I understand why this place is called La Fortuna. This is on me, by the way,’ he murmured, and waved aside their brief, unconvincing protests.

  When the wine waiter visited their table Brock asked what Mrs Starling might have chosen, and barely blanched as he ordered a bottle of the same.

  ‘She had very good taste, didn’t she?’ Desai said. ‘The flat, I mean.’

  ‘Is that her?’ Kathy asked. ‘I mean, rather than some interior designer that Starling might have hired.’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Because of her clothes. Kryzia suits, La Perla underwear, Xenia shoes. All spot on.’

  ‘La Perla underwear?’ Brock echoed. ‘What do you know about things like that, Leon?’

  Desai smiled, unfazed. ‘It’s my job to be observant, Brock,’ he said smoothly.

  Kathy looked at him with interest. She’d never heard of Xenia shoes.

  ‘Yes, well, you’re absolutely right,’ Brock said. ‘Sammy Starling wouldn’t have a clue about La Whatsit underwear. Brenda was strictly Marks and Sparks, no matter how much money she had.’

  ‘Maybe Eva educated him,’ Kathy said.

  ‘Yes, maybe.’ He returned to studying the menu. ‘Anything else you found to be observant about, Leon, apart from the lady’s underwear?’

  ‘The videos.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The titles.’ He pulled out a notebook and read from it.

  ‘The Young and the Damned,
The Criminal Life of Archibaldo de la Cruz, The Exterminating Angel, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, That Obscure Object of Desire . . .’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They seemed kind of evocative, belonging to a beautiful young woman who’s just disappeared.’

  ‘They’re all Buñuel titles,’ Brock said. ‘He liked stories about sex and death and obsession.’

  The waiter appeared at his elbow, and Brock returned the glasses to his nose. He lifted the impressive menu.

  ‘And Signora Starling is coming to join you?’ the man said hopefully. ‘Shall I lay another place?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Brock said. ‘You know her well? What’s your name?’

  ‘Tomaso.’ The man looked smoulderingly at Kathy. ‘You are friends?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brock said. ‘I think we can claim to be that. You could say that we may be the only friends she has left.’

  ‘The only friends?’ The waiter looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes. It seems she may have been betrayed by her other friends, Tomaso.’

  ‘Is so?’ He now looked vaguely troubled.

  ‘Is so. Did she bring her other friends here?’

  ‘No, here she eats alone. Sometimes with Mr Starling, when he is in London.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her, Tomaso? Last weekend?’

  ‘No. She hasn’t been here for three weeks, a month.’

  ‘Are you sure? Mr Starling keeps an account here, doesn’t he? Would you mind checking it for us?’

  The waiter looked at him disdainfully. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t possibly—’

  Brock showed him his warrant card. ‘Eva is missing, Tomaso. This is important.’

  The man looked startled.

  Brock said, ‘And keep this to yourself, please, Tomaso. That’s important too. Now, our order . . .’

  Later, after he had served their meals, Tomaso returned with a printout of the Starlings’ account. ‘As I said, the last time she was here was the fifteenth of June.’

  Brock looked at the document. ‘Fine, thanks.’

  Tomaso hesitated. ‘There was one time she came here with someone, a man.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  He saw he had their full attention. ‘Not a young man. Middle-aged. Not very . . . smart.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Maybe a year ago.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you about him? It must have seemed odd.’

  ‘She was joyful, I remember. Very happy. He seemed very uncomfortable. He didn’t belong in a place like this, I can tell you.’

  ‘She didn’t introduce you? Mention a name?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  At the end of the meal, as he served them their coffee, Tomaso spoke again to Brock. ‘Is right? Eva is really missing?’

  ‘Yes, Tomaso. She really is. Is there something else you can tell us?’

  The waiter looked unhappy. ‘Do you know about her phone?’

  ‘Her phone?’

  ‘Her mobile. She leaves it with us, when she is away from London. Yesterday a man called to collect it. He said he was her friend.’

  ‘When was this, Tomaso?’ Brock said quietly.

  ‘Yesterday lunch-time. I wasn’t here. One of the other guys gave it to him.’

  ‘Is he here now?’

  Tomaso nodded.

  ‘All right,’ Brock said. ‘We’d like to talk to him.’

  When the waiter had gone, Kathy said, ‘Starling said she doesn’t have a mobile.’

  ‘I know,’ Brock said. ‘But can you imagine a girl like Eva without a phone in her bag?’

  Tomaso returned with a younger man, the same dark southern-Italian looks. He spoke little English, and Tomaso acted as interpreter.

  ‘This is Massimiliano. He works in the kitchen. He says the man was middle-aged, English. He was coming out of the toilet at the back, and he stopped by the door to the kitchen and spoke directly to Massimiliano. He had a little Italian, and used sign language as well. Massimiliano told him he must talk to one of the others, but the man was in a hurry, and the restaurant was busy. He knew where Signora Starling’s phone was, behind the little bar in the corner there, and he said he would help himself. Massimiliano didn’t object.’

  Tomaso stared balefully at the other man, who looked sulky and unrepentant.

  ‘Could it have been Mr Starling, Tomaso?’ Brock asked.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’ Tomaso looked very uneasy. ‘Mr Starling doesn’t know about the phone. Eva says it’s her little secret. That’s why she leaves it here. She says he doesn’t like her to have a mobile, because of her health.’

  ‘Her health?’

  ‘Yes, you know . . . the electric waves.’

  ‘All the same, describe Mr Starling to Massimiliano, will you? Just to be sure.’

  They watched him talking rapidly to the cook. Massimiliano’s eyes widened and he shook his head and said something.

  ‘Not Chinese,’ Tomaso said. He spoke some more to the cook, then again to Brock, lips pursed with frustration. ‘He has no description besides this. He didn’t take notice. He was too busy. His mind was full with his sauces.’

  When they had gone, Desai suggested, ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Brock grunted. ‘It certainly seems she had her little secrets. The question is, were they lethal?’

  ‘Lethal?’

  ‘If she was being a bad girl, and Sammy couldn’t cope with it . . .’

  ‘You think he’s killed her?’ Desai was fascinated. ‘And staged the kidnapping business?’

  ‘Well, it is very stagy, isn’t it? That business of contacting us through Cabot’s, and the way we’re brought in when two out of three messages have been delivered. All seems a bit like a script someone’s prepared for us. I’ve already experienced one of Sammy’s surprising little scripts, and I don’t fancy taking part in another.’

  ‘That’s what White suggested to me,’ Kathy said. ‘That Sammy might be behind it.’

  ‘Did he? Well—but you have other ideas, Kathy? From your questions to Sammy about the stamps on the notes?’

  ‘It was the business of these valuable stamps being ruined. What was the point? Then I thought that they must have been sent by someone who knew Sammy was obsessed by stamps, but didn’t themselves know or care about them. It was like a gesture designed to get under his skin. I thought it might be the sort of thing that an angry wife might do.’

  ‘Oh, I like that,’ Desai smiled. Brock conceded a nod.

  ‘And Sammy had thought of this too,’ Kathy went on. ‘When I pressed him, he acknowledged that he’d checked to see if they were his own stamps.’

  ‘Well,’ Brock said, ‘if you’re right she’s alive, if I’m right she’s dead. Let’s hope you’re right, Kathy. Ah, the bill . . .’

  4

  The Canada Cover

  They had arranged for Sammy Starling’s mail to be intercepted. He drove up from Farnham early the following morning, Friday the eleventh, and was sitting in the conference room at Queen Anne’s Gate at six a.m. when a messenger arrived with an envelope addressed identically to the first two. Apart from Brock and Kathy, Leon Desai was there with an expert from the Questioned Documents Section of the Physical Sciences Division of the Metropolitan Police Forensic Science Laboratory, which deals with counterfeiting, handwriting analysis, typewriter identification and other matters relating to the analysis of documents. The expert, Bert Freedman, took charge of the letter, briefly examining the exterior with a magnifying lens before carefully slicing open the envelope and drawing out the note from inside.

  There was the expected fourpence blue head of the young Queen Victoria, the stamp this time cut into four pieces. Beneath it, the message read,

  EVA’S PRICE IS LOT 15

  CABOT’S COMMONWEALTH AUCTION.

  BUY IT.

  HAND-OVER INSTRUCTIONS

  ON YOUR MOBILE 4.00 P.M. SATURDAY

  Starling was very pale as he read
and reread it. Then he nodded to himself, as if this was to be expected, and raised a glass of water to his lips, hand trembling.

  ‘That’s the auction we saw advertised yesterday at Cabot’s, is it, Sammy?’ Brock asked softly, and Starling swallowed and nodded.

  ‘We’ve got the catalogue somewhere. Do you know what lot fifteen is?’

  Starling gave a little shake of his head, still speechless.

  Kathy got to her feet. ‘I’ve got it in the office.’

  A minute later she returned and placed the book in front of Brock. He had barely glanced at it since Melville had presented it to him. Now he looked at the illustration on the front cover to which Kathy was pointing. It was a photograph of a small envelope addressed in looping copperplate letters, with a black stamp of a Chalon Head design in the corner. Beneath the photograph was printed ‘Lot 15’.

  He picked up the catalogue and turned over the pages until he found a description of the item, which he began to read out: ‘ “Canada Cover, 4 June 1851. Unique pre-issue 12d 1851, SG 4, on env. addressed to Mrs Sandford Fleming, 185 Bloor Street, Toronto; one neat strike scarce franking . . .”’

  He stopped reading aloud as his eyes scanned on down the page until he said, ‘There’s an estimated value here . . .’ He hesitated then said, ‘£450,000. Can that be right?’

  They all turned to Sammy Starling, who stared back at them, impassive.

  ‘Let’s get Melville here,’ Brock said. ‘We’ve got his home address. Get a car to pick him up.’

  James Melville arrived an hour later in a state of some excitement—it wasn’t every day that one was roused from one’s bed and whisked off in a police car, waving like royalty at the people in number seventy-three who had observed it all from their bedroom window. He shook everyone’s hand effusively.

  ‘We’re getting breakfast sent in,’ Brock said. ‘What can we get you? Croissants? Coffee?’

  They settled down to business.

  ‘I really didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon, Chief Inspector,’ Melville said. ‘Have things come to a head?’ He looked with concern at Starling, who gave no reaction, his attention seemingly turned in upon himself.