The Malcontenta (40 page)

Kathy frowned. ‘Did he say what position Petrou was in when he strangled him?’

Long shook his head.

‘You don’t know if he was lying or standing?’

‘No. He did say that he had intended to move the body, to make it look as if Alex had hanged himself. Only there was nowhere to hang him from in the gym.’

Kathy pictured the bare surface of the brick vaults.

‘He went out to see if there was a suitable place in one of the adjoining offices, and then he heard someone coming along the corridor and opening the gym door. He waited till they went - I don’t know who it was - and then he left quickly, thinking they would raise the alarm. He said he was as surprised as anyone when Alex turned up in the temple, but realized that someone else must have tried to cover the thing up just as he had been intending to do himself.’

‘Wasn’t he taking an extraordinary risk of being noticed, wearing outdoor clothes in the clinic?’

‘He took a dressing gown - he said anyone wearing a dressing gown was immediately invisible at Stanhope.’

Kathy nodded. ‘AH right.’ She suddenly felt tired, reluctant to move on. ‘There are things that I’ll ask you to expand on later concerning what happened last October, but now I’d like you to tell us about Rose Duggan.’

Long, too, seemed loath to continue, i don’t feel well,’ he complained hesitantly.

‘In what way? Do you want us to get a doctor?’

The thought of confronting new faces brought the nausea back to his throat. ‘No, no.’

‘Would a cup of tea help?’

He nodded, and Penny got to her feet and made a phone call from the secretary’s desk outside.

‘Why don’t we get this next bit over, then we can break for your tea?’ Kathy suggested. ‘How did it begin, with Rose?’

Long sighed. ‘One day Stephen Beamish-Newell rang me here. It must have been January or February. He made some general remarks about the Petrou case and the coroner’s verdict, which struck me as a bit odd. I asked if anything was wrong, and he said he was becoming concerned about one of his staff, Rose, who was still going on about the case. He said it was unsettling for everyone, and he wondered whether there was any possibility that Rose might be able to get the coroner to reopen the case. He was very worried about more bad publicity and so on. I explained that there was little chance of the case being reopened unless she had new evidence, and I asked him to try to find out if she did, and to keep me informed. I mentioned it to Tanner, of course.

‘Then Tanner found out about Rose’s letter to Sergeant Kolla and her meeting with you, David. You can imagine that this was the last thing we wanted. The nightmare was beginning all over again. I contacted Stephen and told him who you were, David, and about Rose’s letter. He was as worried as I was, and only too willing to do as I suggested, to try to keep Rose away from Brock and to keep me abreast of any developments. I explained that Brock’s visit was unofficial and that I might be able to dampen things down if Rose were able to get him interested in reopening the case. I must say that Stephen seemed absolutely terrified of that.

‘The weekend of that first week you were there, David, Stephen contacted me again at home. Rose was becoming very difficult.. Her fiancé had tried to talk to her, as had Laura, but she was becoming quite hysterical. Stephen had learned she intended to talk to Brock when they had an acupuncture session on the following Monday, because she had discovered something about Alex’s death. I then phoned Tanner - I felt I had no choice. He told me to find out all about the arrangements for your acupuncture session, the time and place and what else would be going on in the basement at that time. He also suggested I propose to Stephen that he give you something at lunch-time, David, to make you sleepy.

‘I went through all this with Stephen. He gave me the information and agreed that all we could do was to try to delay Rose’s talking to Brock, and if possible persuade her against it. I gave Tanner the information he wanted, and he told me to get Brock’s acupuncture session brought forward an hour, when the place would be quiet, and to make a call to the clinic at two-thirty - I was to insist on speaking to Stephen about an urgent, confidential matter.’

‘Did he tell you what he planned to do?’

‘No.’

‘And you didn’t ask?’ Long shook his head.

Someone came into the secretary’s office with the tea, and Kathy stood up. Her skin felt grimy with perspiration and fatigue.

‘We’ll take a break there,’ she said, i have some things to arrange with Sergeant McGregor, then we’ll go downstairs.’

‘It just feels like an anticlimax,’ Kathy said. ‘I would really have liked to march into the canteen and arrest the bastard there, eating his bacon and eggs in front of his mates.’

Brock smiled, manoeuvring the car along the winding road back towards London. ‘Better that McGregor should pick him up, Kathy. In the long run you’ll feel better about it all if you distance yourself and don’t make it personal.’

‘But it is personal.’ She could see the glow of the orange street-lights of the built-up area in the night sky ahead, although here in the country the darkness was impenetrable. Soon the dawn would come, people would rise, taking up where they had left off. And Tanner, wherever he was, would rise too, and discover that his whole world had come to pieces while he slept.

‘It was a beautiful example of what that American was talking about at the conference, come to think of it,’ Brock said. ‘Chaos theory. A malcontented butterfly flutters her wings somewhere in the north of Italy, and in the south of England all hell breaks loose.’

‘Yes,’ Kathy yawned. ‘Bit ironic that the killer was the one person who wasn’t personally threatened by Petrou.’

‘The worst part of the whole thing,’ Brock said, ‘is that I’ve put my shoulder out again, breaking into Long’s bathroom.’ He glanced at Kathy’s face, her eyelids beginning to droop. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I took you straight back to your flat?’

‘Oh …’ Kathy felt too tired to think. ‘No, I might as well pick up my car from your place and get it home. Once my head hits the pillow I’m going to crash.’

Brock turned on the radio and a voice cheerfully predicted rain. It was followed by an old recording of ‘Volare’.

A pale dawn was silhouetting the backs of the houses behind Warren Lane and picking out the young leaves on the horse-chestnut tree as Brock turned through the archway from Matcham High Street and swung to a stop in the courtyard behind Kathy’s Renault.

‘I’ll ring you when you’ve had some sleep,’ he said. ‘Drive carefully.’

She nodded and trudged over to her car, feeling for her keys in her shoulder bag. She pulled them out, dropped them, groped around in the half-light on the cobble-stones, picked them up, opened the door and threw herself in behind the wheel. Thankful that the engine turned over first time, she strapped herself in, giving a little smile of pleasure at being alone again on her own territory. She put the car into gear, glanced up at the back of Brock’s house as she rolled forward, and saw a light in his kitchen window snap off.

She pulled to a halt. There was no way that he could have got further than his front door in the time since he had left her. Whoever had turned off the kitchen light must have heard his key in the lock, the door pushed shut, his footsteps begin the weary climb up the stairs.

‘Oh no.’

She switched off the engine and thought fast. She had no phone in the car. The nearest public phone would be in the High Street, but that would mean driving away. Which was what she should do. Except she still had the front door key Brock had given her.

She snatched it from her bag and hurled herself across the courtyard and round the corner to his front door. She bent down and opened the letter flap. A light was on in the stairway. She was just about to call out and warn him, when she heard the crash of breaking glass and splintering timber. Then total silence.

She thought again about leaving and getting help, or at least finding something to use as a weapon. What? The tyre lever? She slid the key into the lock as quietly as she could and carefully eased the door open. Still no sound. She closed the door and began to climb the stairs, the way she had learned as a teenager coming home late and not wanting to wake her aunt and uncle, by clinging to the wall, where the timber treads were less likely to creak. Half-way up, the light went off.

She froze.

In the silence she put her hand into her coat pocket and took hold of her bunch of keys, gripping a key between each of her knuckles. Not a lot of use, but still … She carefully slipped the long coat off her shoulders, laid it on the stairs and started to move forward again.

The darkness inside the house was relieved only by the faint glimmer of dawn which spread from the study across the landing and drew her into the room. It was light enough to see that there was no one standing waiting for her. Light enough, too, to see the chaos in the centre of the room, where Brock’s body was a dark mound in the middle of a shattered coffee-table.

Kathy looked carefully around the room, then a second time, then over her shoulder at the landing. No sign of anyone else. Was there a back door the intruder could have left by? A window, perhaps?

She stepped forward cautiously and knelt beside Brock, reaching to feel the pulse in his throat, still making no sound, as if the slightest noise might start the furies. The smell of whisky was overpowering, and she guessed that the broken bottle that lay beside his head must have been close to full. There was a pulse, but no signs of consciousness. His laptop computer was lying beside him like a faithful dog, waiting for its master to wake up and give it instructions.

She picked it up and straightened, trying to remember where the phone was, turned round and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Tanner’s dark figure standing a few paces away in the doorway.

‘Hello, Kathy.’

His voice was low and hoarse and probably the most frightening thing she’d ever heard.

‘Hello, Rie,’ she heard herself say, calm as anything. ‘You didn’t need to do that to Brock. You’ve hurt him. I think we should get an ambulance.’

He looked her over slowly before replying. ‘Too late for that, Kathy. Thieves are getting more and more violent these days. I don’t think he’s going to make it, to be perfectly honest.’

‘No, Ric. No one will buy that.’

‘Oh, really? Why’s that, now?’

She hesitated. ‘Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

He was looking keenly at her. ‘Come on, Kathy, what have you got up your sleeve?’

He took a step towards her.

‘They know, Ric. Long has told them everything.’

‘Ah.’ He halted, a little smile frozen on his lips while his mind worked. ‘Well, it was always on the cards. I’ve had time to make other arrangements. I do have some family business to attend to overseas, as it happens. It makes it easier to deal with you two, anyway. No need to pretend. In fact, I can positively show off. Enjoy myself. It would be poetic having you and Brock end up exactly the same way as the other two, wouldn’t you say? Brock on the end of a rope like Petrou, and you with your throat sliced open like Rose. Couldn’t have a plainer way of telling them all to get fucked than that, now, could you?’

He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket. When he withdrew it he was holding something, and Kathy watched as it clicked and sprung a long silver blade.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, her voice sounding implausibly relaxed to her own ears, ‘why you killed Petrou at all. What did he say to you that made you so angry?’

Tanner stared at her balefully for a long, silent moment. ‘It wasn’t what he said, it’s what he wouldn’t say.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I wanted the stuff he had on Long, didn’t I. Photographs and a letter. Very indiscreet stuff. Stuff you’d spend a lifetime to keep hidden. Especially if you were Assistant Comissioner of the Metropolitan Police.’

Kathy was chilled by Tanner’s voice, so detached, so quiet and unemphatic, as if he had already set aside all the feelings that modulate the way we speak.

‘But eventually he told you where it was?’

‘Eventually. I persuaded him.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘I sat on his chest and stuck a needle in his eyeball.’ Tanner sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, as if he was developing a cold. ‘Then he told me. He kept them in a plastic wallet taped under the seat of his motor bike, together with his passport and a stack of money. His insurance - always ready for a fast getaway. That’s probably the way you think if you’ve lived in Beirut. Well, then I had to kill him, didn’t I?’

‘What sort of needle was it?’

‘What does it matter? It was on a trolley I passed on my way in. I was looking for something else to use - a scalpel or something. There were lots of needles sticking in a sponge and I reckoned that might do. My first thought was to stick it in his balls, but the eye was better. I could watch his face while I did it.’

He began to move towards her again, the blade poised. Instead of backing away she came at him, swinging the laptop towards his head. But it was just a little too heavy, the case a little too smooth to hold properly, and he raised his left hand and stopped her in mid-flight without any apparent effort. Then he brought up the blade in a graceful arc and sliced her right arm.

She recoiled, stumbling backwards over Brock’s body, arterial blood spurting from her arm, and fell in a clatter against the gas fireplace, scattering the elements and almost knocking herself out with the impact of her head against the tiled surround. She could hear herself making some kind of noise, snuffling in panic, then her scalp was seized with pain. She opened her eyes and realized he was gripping her hair and forcing her head back She stared at his eyes, wide, excited, only inches away, studying her fear and then, as his head drew back, fixing on her throat.

‘Goodbye, Kathy,’ he whispered.

She had no way of calculating the blow, left-handed, as she tried to thrust the toasting fork up and into him somewhere, anywhere, before he could bring the knife down. Afterwards she would tell her friends - especially the men, who seemed very troubled by it - that she hadn’t aimed there particularly: it just happened to be the spot that the long steel prongs met as she stabbed upwards. And at first she didn’t think she’d done him any damage, for he just froze, kneeling over her, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. While he seemed to hesitate, she frantically pulled the fork away and tried to target his upper body in case he struck at her. And then his whole frame suddenly convulsed, and she thought in panic of that glittering razor-edged blade. She cried out and turned her head. She gripped the fork that Gordon Dowling had toasted crumpets with just a month before, and jammed it into his throat.