Dark Mirror (25 page)

‘Oh, the murderess. Yes, I know who you mean. What are you after?’

‘It seems Marion was very interested in her, and since she had been accused of poisoning her lover with arsenic . . .’

‘Oh, the morbid fascination with arsenic angle, yes, I see. Look, I went over all this with your boss, what’s his name? Brock. It was the reason I contacted him in the first place. I told him about Marion’s theories about the role of arsenic in Victorian society. I really do rather resent having to repeat myself.’

‘He told me about your conversation, Mrs Warrender, but it was Madeleine Smith in particular I wanted to ask about. Did Marion discuss her with you?’

Sophie frowned. ‘We did talk about her, now you mention it. Marion sympathised with her predicament—you know, having that lover who would rather ruin her than let her go. But there was something else . . . She’d had some disagreement with Dr da Silva about Madeleine Smith, I think. I seem to remember she got quite agitated about it. Do you recall, Rhonda? Were you here that day?’

‘Actually, she told you that Madeleine Smith was the key to the whole business.’

‘Did she?’ Sophie raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t remember that.’

‘What business?’ Kathy asked.

‘Well, her disagreement with Dr da Silva, whatever that was.’

‘It wasn’t really of any interest to my work,’ Sophie said. ‘She did tend to go off on a tangent. I had to remind her several times who was paying for her time.’ She checked her watch pointedly. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Not really. I’m sorry to have interrupted you when you must be so busy after your time away.’

‘Yes, it has been rather hectic. Bloody phone, after four weeks of blissful peace.’

‘I’ve never been to Corsica, but I’d like to. An ex-boyfriend of mine is in Calvi. Is that near where you are?’

‘Not far. Our house is in the north of the island too, at St Florent, between Calvi and Bastia, the main city in the north. He didn’t join the Foreign Legion, did he? That’s where they’re based.’

‘Really? No, I’m sure he didn’t.’ But thinking about it she wasn’t so sure. ‘He said Corsica is beautiful at this time of year,’ she lied, ‘with the wild spring flowers over the hills. Is it like that where you are?’

‘Oh, absolutely, the maquis is an ocean of blooms.’

‘You’re lucky to have a job that you can take away with you to a place like that. It must be more difficult for your husband. He’s in banking, isn’t he?’

‘What is this,
Parkinson
?’

Kathy smiled. ‘Sorry. My inquisitive nature.’

‘Well, yes, it is more difficult for him, but he’s reached a level where he can more or less make the rules. Modern communications are wonderful, of course, and if they need him for a meeting he can always fly back.’

‘But wouldn’t he have to change planes at Paris or Nice? It must take all day.’

‘You have been doing your homework, haven’t you? Are you thinking of going out to see this Beau Geste of yours? Once the tourist season starts next month you can get direct flights from London to Bastia, but Dougie doesn’t have to bother. They send over a private jet to pick him up. It lands back at City Airport, and a car has him at his desk in no time.’

‘Ah. Did he come back around the time Marion died, by any chance?’

Sophie stiffened, and Kathy was aware of Rhonda looking up.

‘Why on earth do you ask that?’ Sophie demanded angrily. ‘Or is it just your inquisitive nature?’

Kathy shrugged, trying to make light of it. ‘You could say that. I’m interested in Marion’s movements around that time, and any
sightings of her by people who would have recognised her would be useful. Your husband’s office is in St James’s Square, isn’t it?’

‘Well, let me assure you, Inspector, my husband did not leave Corsica at that time, and I must say I’m beginning to resent the intrusive attentions of your boss’s little coterie. Rhonda will show you out.’ Face flushed, she swung away, shoving her glasses aggressively back on her nose, and began noisily shuffling her papers.

Kathy left, wondering what
little coterie
she was talking about.

•

Brock was talking in his room with a couple of other detectives when Dot tapped on his door. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got a Mrs Warrender on the line. She says you know her, and she’s very steamed up about something.’

‘All right, we’ve just about finished here.’ He went round to his desk chair as the other two left. ‘Hello? David Brock speaking.’

‘Yes, I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Chief Inspector.’

The woman sounded furious. ‘What’s that, Mrs Warrender?’

‘You know bloody well what’s that. I came to you in good faith with what I knew about Marion, as any honest person might, and the next thing I and my family are being subjected to underhand surveillance and questioned as if we were suspects.’

Brock scratched his beard, wondering what she was going on about. ‘I really think there must have been some mistake.’

‘Mistake? I’ve just had your inspector here, accusing me of theft and lying about our movements, and practically implying that my husband was mixed up in Marion’s death.’

‘DI Gurney?’

‘What? No, the blonde woman, Kolla. She insisted on seeing me under the pretext of being interested in some irrelevant
nineteenth-century character, and the next thing she’s asking leading questions about my husband’s movements. But that’s only the latest intrusion. No doubt your other informant has briefed you about her spying activities?’

‘I’m sorry, I have no idea—’

‘Your so-called lady
friend
. Is she an undercover officer too?’

‘Mrs Warrender, please. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Suzanne Chambers, she said she was. Just two days after I speak to you she turns up at my house and invites herself in and interrogates my elderly mother-in-law, mainly about my husband. Then two days later—yesterday evening—she turns up again at a reading I was giving in our local bookshop. Again she insinuates herself into my mother-in-law’s company, using her to interview my husband, who was also there. She claimed they’d once been teenage friends, though my husband says he can’t remember her. Are you claiming you don’t know about this woman?’

‘I do know a Suzanne Chambers,’ Brock said slowly. ‘But I’m sure she wasn’t in London yesterday.’

‘Look,’ Sophie snapped, ‘this has got to stop, do you hear me? Do you seriously suspect my husband of wrongdoing? Because if you do, I’m getting straight on to our lawyers.’

‘No, no, I’m sure we don’t. I really think there’s been some misunderstanding here. Suzanne Chambers certainly doesn’t work for the Metropolitan Police or any other security agency, and has not discussed with me any contact she may have had with you, which I’m sure was not in any way sinister. I’ll certainly speak to her about it. As for DI Kolla, the Marion Summers case is still ongoing, and she was trying to tidy up loose ends. I’m sorry if her approach seemed offensive. I’m sure it wasn’t intended to be, and I’ll speak to her too.’ He stopped himself, wondering why he was bending over backwards like this. It
was the revelation about Suzanne, of course. He remembered her slightly dreamy comments after the National Theatre, about Douglas Warrender being her first great love. What on earth was she playing at?

‘I’d appreciate that,’ Sophie Warrender said, sounding somewhat calmer. ‘And anyway, I thought the Marion business was cleared up. Didn’t you decide she’d committed suicide?’

‘The forensic evidence leaves some room for doubt. We need to explore all the options for the coroner.’

‘You still think it possible that someone murdered her?’

‘There are unexplained gaps in our information. The identity of the father of the child she lost two weeks before her death, for example.’

‘Yes, Inspector Kolla mentioned that when we met at Marion’s house. I had no idea.’

‘You said you weren’t aware of a boyfriend, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. To be honest I imagined her as completely celibate. Stupid of me.’

‘Well, she guarded her privacy rather closely, it seems. I’m sorry we seem to have been at cross-purposes, Mrs Warrender. Leave it with me.’

He rang off and dialled Kathy’s number. ‘Kathy? Brock. What are you doing at the moment?’

What she was actually doing was trying to check on private flights between London City and Bastia at the beginning of the month. What she told Brock was, ‘I’m working on the Interpol cases.’

‘I’ve just had Mrs Warrender on the line, complaining about your visit.’

‘She did seem a bit stressed today. What was the problem?’

‘She said you implied that her husband was involved in Marion’s death.’

‘No, I didn’t do that. Interesting that she chose to see it that way though.’

‘I thought we’d agreed that you were going to concentrate on Interpol?’

‘Yes. It was just a loose end. A book went missing from Marion’s house after I took Sophie Warrender over there. I just needed to check she didn’t have it.’

Brock frowned. ‘Kathy . . .’ He sighed. ‘Just leave her alone, will you?’

Then he added, ‘You haven’t spoken to Suzanne recently by any chance, have you?’

‘No, not for ages. Why, is she all right?’

‘Yes. I just thought . . . Never mind.’

Brock rang off and dialled Suzanne’s mobile.

‘Yes? Oh, David! I’m serving a customer. Can I ring you back?’

‘Quick as you can.’ He put the phone down, thinking that her voice had sounded odd, almost guilty.

She rang back after a moment. ‘Hello. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, but Sophie Warrender isn’t.’ He told her about the phone call.

‘Oh dear. But honestly, she’s making a mountain out of a molehill. I decided to detour to Notting Hill on Monday on the way home because of our conversation. It’s changed so much, so smart and rich, when it used to be practically a slum. Anyway, her mother-in-law, Lady Warrender, was in the garden, and we got chatting and she invited me in. I hadn’t planned it. Then I saw a notice for Sophie Warrender’s talk in a local bookshop. I wanted to hear her speak, but I didn’t think I’d make it, otherwise I’d have mentioned it to you. But at the last minute I decided to dash up, hear the talk and dash back. I had no idea that Lady Warrender would be there, or Dougie, who
she insisted on introducing me to. Honestly, David, it wasn’t important.’

She’d lain awake the previous night rehearsing this, and she thought it sounded all right, except that she’d said ‘honestly’ twice, which she knew he regarded as a sure indicator that someone was lying through their teeth. And his response sounded heavy and sad, as if he was very disappointed, and of course the whole thing had been clumsy and stupid.

‘Suzanne, this is an ongoing murder investigation. Like it or not, you are associated with me. You can’t just go calling on witnesses at a time like this.’

He sounded exasperated, as if he’d never imagined he’d have to explain such a thing to her. Which of course he didn’t, except that she had a life too, and she hadn’t exactly engineered this. She wanted to promise to have nothing more to do with the Warrenders, but she couldn’t quite do that. When she’d got home last night she’d looked up her old friend Angela Crick on friendsreunited.co.uk, and found her details listed with other old pupils of St Mary’s Grammar School for Girls. And that morning, during a lull at the shop, she’d emailed her and they’d arranged to meet. They could hardly do that without talking about Dougie Warrender.

•

Kathy, too, was reluctant to let this go. She felt annoyed. Brock wasn’t usually like this, checking her every move. And she wondered why Sophie Warrender had been so defensive. It was all very well Brock telling her to get on with something else, but her mind had ideas of its own. She turned over the note about the American university and was checking the international code when Brock rang her again.

‘Tina Flowers,’ he said. ‘That’s Marion’s friend, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Forget what I said. Drop what you’re doing. There’s a car outside for us.’

L
ily Cribb was a mature-aged Open University student, and was feeling quite numb. Perhaps you should expect this sort of thing to happen when you come up to town, she’d told herself, but still, she hadn’t felt as shaken since her dad had dropped dead outside the pub.

She had been sitting at one of the desks in the Humanities Reading Room. The desk was rather splendid, made of oak with an inlaid green leather top and lit by a specially designed reading lamp, and it was still hardly marked by use. Despite its craftsmanship, Lily hadn’t quite come to terms with the newness of the building and its fittings; she harboured a secret prejudice that really great libraries like this should be old and venerable, like the circular domed reading room of the old British Museum library which this building had replaced. She would admit, though, that the new structure was quite magnificent. She thought the
main entrance hall with its wave-like ceiling very grand, rising up to the glass cube in which the King’s Library was housed, and she did admire the care that had been taken over every detail, like the little light on the built-in console in front of her, which had begun flashing to tell her that the book she had requested was now available at the desk. She remembered the thrill of anticipation that flashing light provoked; the book was a memoir of life in East Anglia in the closing years of the nineteenth century, which she had managed to track down with some difficulty, and which she hoped would give her some crucial insights into the social impacts of the Great Eastern Railway, which was the subject of her thesis. The thought of what she might discover was so exciting, in fact, that she’d thought she’d better visit the loo first.

There she encountered more thoughtful design, with a nice balance of functionality and restrained elegance which she noted approvingly. Her eye travelled around the room, checking the basins and taps, the lighting, the tiles, wondering if she could learn something for her own bathroom makeover, which was germinating in her imagination. Her eye stopped at the door of one of the toilet cubicles, beneath which a shoeless woman’s foot was jammed.