The Chalon Heads (39 page)

‘Who else? He’s proved that now, hasn’t he, with Pickering?’

‘Sammy China . . .’ Brock scratched his chin. ‘I’d be interested in having a look at Pickering’s file, see where he came from exactly. Do you think you could get it for me?’

‘Sure.’ Kathy sighed. Doing something was better than nothing, of course, but this seemed so futile. ‘Do you want me to bring it to your home?’

‘Somewhere more central, I think. I might reinstall myself at Queen Anne’s Gate, if the coast is clear. I imagine the bloodhounds will have gone by now.’

‘Isn’t there anything else we can do?’

‘We can do some thinking. And you can keep me up to date with McLarren’s efforts. Let me know if they find Leon’s car, or if anything else develops.’

Kathy dropped him at the offices at Queen Anne’s Gate, now closed up and deserted. She waited to see that they hadn’t changed the locks, and watched him give a little wave as he stepped inside.

She was on Vauxhall Bridge when her phone started ringing. She pulled into the kerb and took the call, stifling a groan of frustration when she heard the hopeful voice.

‘Sergeant Kolla? Kathy? Peter White here. Can you talk? I just wanted to see if my little clue had been of any help.’

For a moment Kathy couldn’t think what he was talking about. Then she remembered his description of the man in the woods with the binoculars. ‘Oh, yes, Peter,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Actually that was a great help. We tracked him down and we’ve now eliminated him from our enquiries.’

‘Oh dear.’ White sounded intensely disappointed.

‘But he did provide us with further information, which was very helpful.’ Kathy heard herself sounding like an official bulletin. ‘Thanks to you.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. You know, I’ve had a couple more bright ideas, Kathy. I’d like to discuss them with you.’

‘Look, Peter,’ Kathy said firmly, ‘you’ve caught me right in the middle of something. I really haven’t got time to talk. Sorry.’

‘Oh. Is there a flap? Has there been a development?’

‘I’m sorry, Peter, I must go.’

‘Kathy!’ His voice was tense with eager anxiety. ‘Don’t hang up. Please! I may be able to help, don’t you see? I helped you once, I might be able to again! You must give me the chance! You must let me try!’

His appeal was so pathetic, so embarrassingly grovelling, that Kathy was tempted to press the button to kill the call. But then she thought, Why not? Maybe he does know Sammy better than anyone else.

‘Peter . . . in confidence, all right?’

‘Of course! Of course!’

‘If Sammy were to go into hiding, have you any ideas where he might go?’

‘He’s done a runner!’ Peter White was practically squealing with excitement. Kathy wondered if he took whisky in his cornflakes.

‘
If
. . . if he did, Peter. What do you think?’

‘Could he have left the country?’

‘No. We think he’s still in London.’

‘In London . . . a bolt-hole . . . He’s alone?’

‘He has a hostage.’

‘
A hostage!
’

‘Calm down, Peter. An adult male. Which must make things more difficult for him.’

‘Yes, yes . . .’

Kathy could hear White’s heavy breathing in her ear as he tried to calm himself and think. ‘Look . . . give me a minute, Kathy. Let me get my reference book, my index. I’ve got addresses there.’

There was a clunk as he put down the phone. In the background, faintly, she could hear a radio, and she pictured the view from his kitchen window, the garden of desperate roses, and shook her head sadly as she thought how she had made his day.

He came back on the line, breathless, and she wrote down the addresses he began to reel off. After a dozen he came to a halt. ‘I think that’s all I can suggest at this stage, Kathy. But let me think—’

‘That’s just great, Peter,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll get these checked straight away. If you have any more ideas, do let me know. But now I must go.’

‘Of course, of course! Kathy, let me say thank you, thank you for letting me help.’

She stabbed her finger hurriedly at the button and put the car into gear.

17
Raphael

S
oon after three that afternoon Desai’s car was found in a car park in Whitechapel, just a mile to the south-east of Shepherd’s Row. There were spots of blood on the driver’s seat, and a bloodstained tissue on the floor between the pedals.

When Kathy phoned Brock with the news, she added, ‘North of the river. McLarren and Hewitt are moving more people back across from the south. They think Sammy changed to his own car and continued east, to the areas he knew around West Ham.’

‘That could be a mistake,’ Brock said. ‘Whitechapel is south from Shepherd’s Row. He could have continued to the river, across Tower Bridge and into South London.’

‘Yes.’ Kathy sounded unconvinced and depressed. ‘We just don’t know, do we? And being forced to sit around waiting . . .’

‘Any luck with Pickering’s records?’

‘I’m to pick them up in half an hour.’

‘Good. Do you think you could bring us some food, while you’re at it, Kathy? I’m starving.’

‘What would you like?’ she asked flatly.

‘Doesn’t matter. Maybe some Indian.’

‘I don’t know if he even liked curry. It would have been just like Leon to prefer kippers or something.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ Brock said, worried by Kathy’s use of the past tense. ‘And some coffee if you would. They’ve cleaned this place out. There’s nothing else I should know, is there?’

‘Not really. They’ve warned the hospitals, they’ve got ambulances ready, and blood of Leon’s type, and a hostage negotiation team is being briefed. There’s a story going round that McLarren has called for a volunteer to stand in as Raphael and be handcuffed to you.’

‘Go on.’

‘The story is that the volunteer’s widow will get half a million compensation if things go wrong. It’s bullshit, an office myth.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

They were silent, then Kathy said, ‘That’s all I’ve got. I’ll go and get the file now.’

She put down the phone and was on the point of leaving when it rang.

‘Sergeant Kolla?’ The voice was soft and tentative, and she didn’t recognise it at first.

‘Yes?’

‘Tim Waverley. Have you a moment?’

‘Of course, Dr Waverley.’ Kathy sat down carefully, as if an abrupt movement might frighten him off. She reached for a pad and pen.

‘Nothing significant, really,’ he said, sounding very agreeable and smooth. ‘I thought I’d better set the record straight, that’s all.’

‘What record is that, Dr Waverley?’

‘Oh, Lord, you do sound so suspicious!’ He laughed. ‘And for God’s sake call me Tim, won’t you? No, look, I went away and checked my records after you called. Can I ask, the dealer in Shoreditch, is his shop in Shepherd’s Row, by any chance?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Ah, well, that’s it, then.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I believe his shop is called Shepherd’s Stamps, and I’ve always assumed that his name must be Shepherd, like the street. I just call .him Walter, so when your colleague was going on about somebody called Pickering, I didn’t make the connection, you see? The point is, anyway, that I have had dealings with him, so it is entirely possible that you might find my name in his address book or whatever.’

‘Oh, I see. Have you ever been to the shop?’

‘I have, actually. He got me to look at some stuff of his. The place doesn’t look like much from the outside, but he had some very respectable wares. Perhaps respectable isn’t quite the right word, in view of what you told me.’ He chuckled, then became serious. ‘But you don’t think I’m in any danger from Mr Starling, do you?’

‘I’m sure he’s only going to be interested in people who conspired to cheat him.’

‘Yes . . . Still, maybe I should go away for a few days until you catch him. What do you think?’

‘We’d rather you didn’t. We’re likely to need you to examine any stamps we come up with, as evidence.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He sounded unhappy.

‘What about the Fitzpatrick sale? Bahamas Chalon Heads, mostly mint with a number of fine covers. Did you recall anything about that?’

‘ ’Fraid not. Why don’t you let me have a look at them?’

‘Can’t do that at the moment.’

‘Oh. Well, send me a listing, and I’ll try to rack my brains.’

‘Yes, I will. Thanks. Was there anything else?’

‘No, that was it. Just thought I’d clear that up.’

‘Thank you.’

Kathy put down the phone and said softly to herself, ‘That’s crap, Tim old chap.’

She picked up Pickering’s file from Cobalt Square, and continued on across the river to Queen Anne’s Gate, detouring on the way to buy food from a corner take-away. Brock was alone in the building, its rambling corridors and offices eerily deserted. He led her to a small office she had never been in before, a clerk’s room by the look of it, with filing cabinets and a couple of laser printers. Covering one wall was the same large map of London, its police areas and divisions, which had been in the room in which they had met with McLarren and Hewitt.

She gave Brock the carrier bag of food and coffee, and noticed some coloured-headed pins stuck into the map. ‘Are those yours?’ she asked.

He looked up briefly from unpacking the foil containers. ‘Yes. What did you get?’

‘Beef vindaloo. You like it hot, don’t you?’

‘Splendid. Did you get popadoms? Chutney?’

‘No, sorry. I’ll remember next time.’

‘Never mind. I’ll try to find plates.’

‘You have it all. There’s a plastic fork. You can eat it straight from the containers. I don’t want any.’

‘You sure? Need to eat, you know, especially when you’re putting in long hours. It’s a trap, to let yourself get run down.’

‘I know. I’m fine. What about the pins?’

‘Mmm . . .’ He took a few mouthfuls before answering. ‘OK. The pink pins are today’s locations. Sammy’s house, bottom left, outside the area; the flat at Canonbury, centre right; Cabot’s, centre; Keller’s brother, centre left; Heathrow, outer left; Sally’s house and shop, lower centre; Wilkes’s flat, bottom centre; the Coopers’ house, outer left; Pickering’s shop, upper centre.’

He paused and took some more food. ‘Mmm. This isn’t at all bad, Kathy. Sure you won’t have some?’ The curry was bringing a film of sweat out on Brock’s forehead.

‘No, thanks. I’ll just have a coffee.’ She reached for one of the polystyrene cups. ‘Doesn’t seem to amount to a pattern.’

‘Quite. An arbitrary smattering of locations right across London.’

‘What about the others?’ Kathy looked at the cluster of blue pins, all together in a corner of South London.

‘The blue ones are the old days, where people began. How about Pickering? Where did he grow up?’

Kathy thumbed through the file. ‘Angell Town.’

‘Quite, Brixton. Stick another blue pin in down there for him.’

‘Who are the others for?’

‘Sammy grew up there. So did Sally Malone, of course. And, just for good measure, so did Sammy’s little helper, Ronnie Wilkes—well, Herne Hill, actually, bit to the south.’

‘There’s another one down there. Keller?’

‘No, not Keller. He’s the lone blue pin over in Essex, to the right.’

‘Who, then?’

‘Mmm . . .’ Brock waved his fork vaguely in the air. ‘We’ll see.’

He carried on chewing.

Kathy stared at the map and thought to herself, So bloody what?

‘Pickering called him Sammy China,’ Brock said, as if answering her doubting thoughts. ‘I thought that was interesting. After all, even if Pickering had known of Sammy in the old days, he’d been doing regular business with him in the present, when no one would dream of calling Sammy by his old nickname. Surely he would have referred to him as Starling, or Sammy Starling? And that made me wonder if there was something personal about all this. Something to do with the old days.’

Kathy felt despondent, but tried not to show it. Did Brock think that nobody else had thought of this? ‘Tony Hewitt has had a couple of blokes working on a possible connection between Walter Pickering and Sammy Starling ever since we found Pickering last night, Brock. That’s what held me up getting the file—they had it. I had to find someone else to borrow it for a couple of hours for me. Anyway, I understand that they’ve found at least three people—relatives and friends—who have known Pickering since he was a kid and who are convinced that he didn’t know any Chinese lads as either friends or enemies. Pickering and Sammy didn’t go to the same schools, work for the same people or support the same football teams. They grew up almost a mile apart, and there was no bus route between their homes.’

‘Ah. They’ve done well to find that out in so short a time.’ Brock took another mouthful of curry, drops of perspiration standing out on his brow. ‘That certainly helps,’ he added.

Kathy tried to work out how.

‘Well, now,’ Brock wiped his mouth and forehead with the paper napkins provided, took a gulp of coffee and got to his feet. ‘It’s been very frustrating sitting here. I feel the need of activity and fresh air. Let’s take a drive, shall we?’

‘Fine.’ Kathy looked at him in surprise. ‘Where to?’

Brock pointed to the one pink pin that touched the cluster of blue ones in South London. ‘Sew Sally,’ he said. ‘Where else?’

Sally Malone was just turning the Open notice to Closed on the shop door when Brock and Kathy pulled up outside. She opened the door for them, looking apprehensive and combative.

‘Is there news?’ she asked, as they came in.

‘Yes, Sally,’ Brock said. ‘There is. Lock up the shop and let’s have a chat.’

She slid the bolts on the front floor and led them through to the back.

‘Bad, is it?’

As Brock told her briefly about Sammy’s flight, his attack on Pickering and kidnapping of Leon Desai, she sank on to a chair, and the life seemed to ebb from her face.

‘Oh . . .’ was all she managed when he came to an end. She looked so devastated that Kathy got a glass of water from the sink and brought it to her.

‘Now, Sally,’ Brock said firmly, after a pause, ‘I need some help from you before this gets any worse. Do you hear me, Sally?’