The Delaney Woman (3 page)

Kellie held the phone to her ear, picked up the newspaper from the kitchen table and sat down. “What do you mean by odd?”

“Just odd, that's all. Has something happened?”

Kellie closed her eyes. Gillian was a wonderful friend, but she couldn't lean on her forever. “I'm fine, really.”

“Call me tomorrow if you need me.”

“I will, Gilly, and thanks.”

Connor's house, closed up since the funeral, smelled musty and old. Like a sleepwalker, Kellie moved through the rooms, refusing to focus on anything that reminded her of the two who once lived there. She walked into the kitchen, filled the kettle, lit the stove pilot and turned up the flame. There wasn't much to speak of in the cupboards but loose tea. Tea would soothe her. She added a pinch of her favorite blend, Lady Anne, to her mug, sat down at the table and stared at the clock. Slowly, slowly, the minute hand moved forward. The kettle hissed. She poured the water and watched it turn a deep golden amber. The leaves swelled like tadpoles and settled at the bottom. She would have to drink it without milk.

Carrying the mug with her, she walked down the hall into Connor's study. The room was exactly as he left it, pencils sharpened, desk cleared, brandy snifter perched on the ledge. It was dark. Kellie pushed aside the heavy drapes and cracked open the window. Dust circled in the air above her head. She turned back to the desk, breathed deeply and opened the top drawer. Pulling out the contents she sat down in the leather chair and began to sort through it.

Three hours later, she'd gone through the desk, the shelves and the chest of drawers. She would leave the computer for Mr. Griffith, if he ever came, but first she would delete Connor's personal files. The computer was incredibly fast with one of those narrow fancy monitors that took up half the space of the old ones. Clicking on the command that would take her into his accounts, she scrolled down to the end. She had decided to work backward beginning with his checking account deposits.

The amount on his last statement startled her. Kellie frowned. She scrolled up to the month before and the one before that. Every one was the same, the exact amount deposited on
the first and the fifteenth
. The first and the fifteenth. Was the deposit money from his paychecks? Could a police officer possibly earn such a salary? Dreadful thoughts, forbidden thoughts flickered through her mind. Could Connor have been involved in something illegal? Panicking, she scrolled up again and again. Every month was the same, the exact amount deposited on the first and the fifteenth. She scrolled still further back to the beginning of the year. Perhaps she should look through his paper files.

The doorbell rang.

Quickly she turned off the computer, pushed in the chair and walked to the door. John Griffith stood outside. She opened the door.

“I knocked but you didn't answer. I saw a car outside and assumed it was you.”

“Hello, Mr. Griffith. You're very late. I was just about to leave.”

His looked genuinely contrite. ‘ ‘I was held up. I'm terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

She attempted a friendly smile, hoping it looked real. “How long did you say you worked with my brother?”

“About six years or so.”

“What exactly do you do?”

“I'm a forensics investigator.”

She frowned. “Surely sorting through computer files isn't part of your job description.”

“You would be surprised, Miss Delaney. We fill in where we can.”

“I see.” She stood for a minute, arms folded against her chest. “Well, then. I have a few things left to do.” She stepped aside and gestured toward the study. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you,” he said and walked into the room behind her.

Kellie turned around. “Can I get you anything?”

“That's very kind of you, but it isn't necessary. Please, don't let me keep you.”

“How long do you think you'll be?”

“About an hour or so if it isn't too much trouble for you to stay.”

“No,” she said, “no trouble at all.” She walked away, through the house to the back door, down the steps of the porch, through the rosebushes to her destination, the side door of the garage. Connor's files were stacked neatly in a locked closet. Standing on a stepladder, Kellie felt around for the key on the top shelf. Then she unlocked the closet door. The files were dated. She pulled out the ones labeled July and August and began to sort through them. Her brother's pay stubs were there, reflecting the exact dollar amount of his deposits.

Kellie's hands shook. She reached for more boxes, the unlabeled ones. Pulling out a manila folder she opened up a sheaf of papers and began to read. Nothing there. She laid it aside and pulled out another one. Twenty minutes later, her face white, heart hammering, she examined the contents of the folder. Why would Connor have his picture on
two
passports and why was he using the names John Devereaux and Austin Groves? Why was he reporting to British Intelligence? What was the nature of the numbers on all his correspondence to them? She was having difficulty accepting the evidence and yet what other explanation could there be? Connor Delaney was no mere police criminologist. The signs were all there, large amounts of money, counterfeit identities, coded numbers, receipts for services rendered. Two current ones bore a single name. She latched on to the name,
Tom Whelan
.

Kellie replaced the files, all except the damning one, and locked the cabinet. She dusted herself off and followed the path around the back of the house to the carport where her car was parked. Looking around carefully to be sure she wasn't observed, she slipped the folder beneath the floor mat. She had no plan, but instinct told her to hold on to her evidence.

Back in Connor's bedroom, she opened his closet door. Her brother's smell filled her senses. She slammed the door shut again, drinking in great gulps of air. Rubbing her head, she paced the room, back and forth, back and forth, until the hammering of her heart eased. She couldn't do this. She simply wasn't ready. She would have Gillian clean out his closet and distribute the clothing to the Red Cross.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a cleaning receipt she'd found in the top drawer of his desk. Connor's suit was still at the cleaners. She would pick it up today. The suit would be no more than a piece of dark wool, packaged in plastic, as sterile and impersonal as the great bolts of material on display in the tailor's window. It was a good suit. Connor had impeccable taste in clothing. Someone could use it.

Her stomach was beginning to complain. Kellie looked at her watch. She'd skipped both breakfast and lunch. There was still time to order a pub meal after she picked up the cleaning.

“Miss Delaney?” It was John Griffith. She hadn't heard his step in the hall. “I'm finished here. Thank you very much for your time.”

“You're welcome. Do you have all you need?”

“I'm not sure yet. But I'll let you know.”

“Do you have a card, Mr. Griffith?”

“A card?”

Kellie's eyes were a hard, ice-flecked gray. “Yes. A business card? In case I should need to reach your office.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and a pad of paper. “I can give you a phone number.”

Kellie took the number and looked at it. “Goodbye, Mr. Griffith.”

Normally she loved autumn. Oxford, teeming with color, was best in autumn. Steam rose from fogged store windows, men and women wore colorful mufflers and drank hot spiced drinks. Delicious soup smells wafted out from restaurant kitchens. It was a season for eating comforting foods and wrapping oneself in wool. She did not love this particular autumn, however. Driving down the lovely, old familiar streets gave Kellie not even a hint pleasure. She wondered if she wouldn't be better to relocate, begin again somewhere where memories didn't assault her around every corner.

Sahid Pushnabi adjusted his turban, bowed and welcomed Kellie effusively. “It has been too long, Miss Delaney. How may I help you?”

Kellie pulled out the receipt. “My brother left his cleaning. Do you still have it?”

“Of course, Miss Delaney. I have called several times, but there is no answer at his home. I thought, perhaps, he was away on holiday.”

Kellie swallowed. He hadn't heard. She thought everyone would have heard. “My brother and nephew were killed in an auto accident two weeks ago.”

The Indian's face blanched and his hand flew to his lips. “I am so terribly sorry. Please forgive my rudeness.”

Kellie shook her head. “How could you know?”

“If there is anything I can do—”

“Thank you. I'll just pay for the suit.”

“No, no.” He waved her money aside. “Please. It is little that I do.”

In the end, she gave in. It was a small amount, really, not enough to argue over.

It was nearly time for tea before Kellie was home again. She turned on lights, adjusted curtains and lit the fire. It was a large flat, too large for one person, but she preferred living alone rather than sharing with a roommate, a reaction to a childhood where she never had a private moment. She would see about selling Connor's house, or should she? Someone, she couldn't remember who, had advised her to wait at least a year before making any permanent decisions.

She hung Connor's suit on the door and ripped away the plastic. It was a lovely piece. Expensive clothing had suited him well. She ran her hands over the sleeves of his jacket and heard the rustle of paper. Curious, she pulled out a small crumpled wad lodged in the pocket corner and unfolded it A telephone number was scrawled in the center under the name, a name that was burned in the memory of her brain,
Tom Whelan
.

With shaking fingers, Kellie picked up the telephone and dialed the number.

It rang three times, the long double rings distinctive to Ireland.

A man answered. “Whelan Bed-and-Breakfast, Tom Whelan here.” His voice was low-pitched, friendly.

“I want to book a room,” Kellie said quickly. “Do you have any available?”

“When would you like it?”

When, when? Of course he would ask when.
“Two weeks. I need a room in two weeks.”

“That would be November. I'm wide-open then. No one in his right mind wants to come to Banburren in November.”

“I do,” said Kellie.

He had a pleasant laugh.

“Well, then, come away. What did you say your name was?”

“Delaney. Kellie Delaney.”

“My daughter and I will expect you. You'll have the house to yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes,” Kellie whispered and hung up the phone.

Thomas Whelan of Banburren
.
Thomas Whelan of Banburren
. She said the name over and over. An idea began to form in her mind. The more she thought it through, the more credible it became.

Kellie wasn't a fool nor was she an idealist. Too much had been heaped on her in the course of a single day. She would sleep on the thought and look at it in the morning.

Exactly one week later, Kellie climbed the stairs of the Knightsbridge tube station and looked around. She had the address of Special Investigations, a division of British Intelligence with an office in the government buildings on the Thames. John Griffith had been only too happy to take her call.

London was a roiling mass of humanity on Friday. A fine rain had drizzled for hours and the city smelled of wet wool and exhaust. Umbrellas of the usual brown, navy and gray formed a somber roof over the footpaths. Storefronts with neon signs and the homey smell of fresh bread from the bakeries were the only brightness in the wet misery of the day.

Kellie snapped her umbrella shut, looked at the address on the massive door and compared it with the one on the piece of paper she pulled from her purse. A man came out of the building and held the door for her. She stepped inside. A guard sat at the desk. She gave her name. He checked the list and pointed her toward the lift.

John Griffith ushered her into a small office with glass windows. Kellie refused his offer of tea. Already she was uncomfortable. She had initiated this meeting because there was no alternative, but she had no desire to be here.

She glanced at Griffith, an average man of average height with regular features, brown hair, gray eyes, a man most would immediately forget. “Who are we waiting for?” she asked.

He smiled for the first time. “Cecil Marsh, our chief investigator, will be here momentarily. Are you sure I can't tempt you with a cup of tea?”

She needed a moment to collect herself. “Perhaps I will take a cup.”

He left the office. Kellie settled back in her chair and breathed deeply, coaching herself for the interview to come. She needed help. She had no resources to find information on her own. Diplomacy was the key. She would need to be very, very careful in the questions she asked. They had agreed to see her. That was a good sign. It gave her hope.

Too soon Griffith returned with a plastic cup of milky tea. He apologized for the sweetness. Kellie finished half the cup before the man Griffith introduced as Cecil Marsh joined them.

Mr. Marsh was the opposite of nondescript. Black hair frosted with gray curled around his ears and a heavy mustache marked his upper lip. He was very tall and hunched with black eyes, a strong nose and crooked teeth. Kellie would not forget him if she saw him again.

He came right to the point. “What can I do for you, Miss Delaney?”

She'd already decided to presume her brother's affiliation. “My brother didn't normally discuss the details of his work with me, Mr. Marsh, but this last case was something of an exception.” The lie she'd practiced came out smoothly.

He leaned forward.“Really?”

“Yes.”

He stroked his mustache. “I assume you've come here for a reason.”