The Stranger You Know (43 page)

‘What does he do now?’

‘He teaches English as a foreign language in a college in Croydon.’

And he had the income from renting out the family home, I happened to know. He’d be doing all right for money.

‘Does he live alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he doesn’t have a girlfriend.’

‘No. Not as far as I know,’ she added, sounding disillusioned. She didn’t have much luck with finding trustworthy men, all things considered.

I pressed her for any more information that she could give me, but there was nothing else useful. As we sipped tea and Oliver played, Jenny unwound enough to give me a fairly good idea of how hard she had fallen for Stuart, and how good he was at making himself indispensable. He’d never been violent to anyone as far as she knew. The idea shocked her. He’d helped people who needed it, buying groceries for frail neighbours, mowing Jenny’s lawn when it was overgrown. He was an all-round good guy, or pretended to be one. The more we talked, the more she forgot why I was there, and the more she spoke warmly of him. He was funny, and charming, and good at DIY.

‘The perfect man,’ she said wistfully. ‘I thought, anyway.’

‘He’s clearly very good at getting people to trust him.’ People, or maybe women. He presented himself as someone you could trust. Someone to like. Someone to let in when he knocked on your door.

I had liked him, I remembered, and felt slightly sick.

When I’d finished my tea and when Jenny was starting to repeat the same stories about Stuart I thanked her for her time and help, asked her not to mention that I’d been around, and left. I took a stroll down to Larchfield Mews, a charmless apartment building behind a small parade of shops, not far from the A road that cut through the area. You probably couldn’t see it from his flat, but you could definitely hear it. His flat was on the top floor, on the left, and I glanced up at the windows casually. No sign of life. The building had a small car park underneath it. A gate prevented me from getting into the premises to have a closer look, but I was sure one of the cars would belong to Stuart, and I was equally sure it would be worth a once-over.

But I had no idea how I was going to persuade anyone to believe me.
I
was convinced that Stuart Sinclair was the Gentleman Killer, but that was based on the most tenuous of details. He had lied to me about where he lived and pretended to be a married father of one when he was nothing of the sort. That was strange, but not evidence of a murderous mind. He looked pleasant; he sounded plausible. His connection with Angela Poole was obvious, but his movements on the night of her death were a mystery. All I knew was that he had lied to me about what he’d seen and heard, and even then I wasn’t sure if it was a lie or a genuine mistake. He couldn’t have seen Derwent but he might have seen Vinny. By all accounts he had been a strange, withdrawn, unattractive teenager who’d become a handsome and outgoing adult. Nothing about that was screaming ‘killer’ and yet everything was. And I knew that everyone thought Vinny was a cold-blooded killer – I had thought that myself – and Shane’s behaviour was outwardly a lot more suspicious than Stuart’s, but I still knew. I
knew
.

And I’d prove it if it killed me, I thought, not having the least idea that it might actually do just that.

Chapter 35

Back in the office, I got on the phone to the Japanese embassy and pestered them until they put me through to someone who could look up Stuart Sinclair’s visa applications. The records showed he had settled in a place called Takayama in Gifu Prefecture and had a steady job teaching in a local high school. Based on what Jenny had said about when he returned to the UK, it looked as if he had left in the middle of the school year, a long time before his visa was due to expire. It was getting on for midday in London and Japan was nine hours ahead, so I didn’t even bother trying to get in touch with the school. I put in a request for a Japanese-speaking translator and spent some time hunting around on the Internet for background information on Takayama and, more importantly, the telephone number for the local police. There was a chance that they would speak English, but since my Japanese was non-existent and this was important, I wanted to understand everything they said. I didn’t know how long it would take – hours, probably – but I told myself to be patient and it sort of worked.

He had found a beautiful spot, a tourist destination in the mountains with old buildings and pretty countryside nearby. It was snowy in winter and hot in summer and it looked like a picture-perfect place to live. I couldn’t imagine spending seven years there, but I was a city girl and I’d never done a lot of travelling. Freezing summer holidays in Donegal were no preparation for the exotic, even if they did make you hardy as a mountain sheep.

Maitland stopped on his way past. ‘Booking a trip?’

‘Following something up,’ I said. ‘Any luck with Vinny?’

‘Nope.’

‘Shane?’

‘Nope.’

‘Have either of them been charged yet?’

‘Nope.’

‘Keep me informed, won’t you?’

‘Yep,’ he said, grinning, then relented. ‘They’ve moved them to Charing Cross nick so they’re not such a long way off. Godley’s determined to persuade one or other of them to talk. He thinks one did it and the other knows about it, so it’s just a matter of waiting until the innocent one cracks. And they haven’t reached the custody time limit on either of them yet, luckily enough.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I’d have thought we’d have got somewhere by now. And we’ve still got nothing on the forensics, from either of them.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re a long way from taking anything to the CPS, put it that way.’

I was encouraged by the news that they were failing to make a case. It meant that Godley might be more receptive to a new suspect. Especially if I could find some reason to get a search warrant for Stuart’s flat. In the past, I would have assumed I’d get a fair hearing from Godley and Burt, but I knew they would be a hard pair to convince now. I’d blown through a lot of credit in the past week – probably more than I had to spare.

I had been waiting for about two hours and was making my seventh or eighth cup of tea when Ben Dornton put his head into the kitchen. ‘There’s a nice Japanese lady asking for you.’

‘Brilliant. At last.’

‘You get all the interesting cases,’ he said wistfully. ‘I’m going to interview a guy who stabbed someone for his drugs out the back of Euston. He’ll probably plead guilty in the end. That’s my career.’

I tilted my head back to show him the aurora borealis of bruising around my neck. ‘Interesting is overrated.’

‘I wouldn’t mind some of that. I could be the hero for a change.’

‘Trying to impress someone?’ I asked slyly, and laughed as he actually blushed. He was utterly smitten with the lovely Christine and I wished him the best of luck.

When I got back to my desk, the translator was standing near it and I could see immediately why Dornton had described her as a lady. She was in her mid-forties and impeccably dressed in a cashmere twinset, tweed skirt and pearls. More English than the Queen, I thought, and introduced myself.

‘I am Akiko Larkin. How can I help?’ Her voice was soft, her English practically unaccented. I dragged a chair over so she could sit beside me.

‘I want to call a police station in Japan to find out about a suspect.’ I filled her in as quickly as I could and she listened, taking in everything I said, making an occasional note.

‘It might take a little while to speak to the right person. There will be someone there at this time, but maybe not the person we need.’

‘Worth a try,’ I said firmly, and handed her the phone. I was relying on her to do my job for me and I hoped she was as efficient as she seemed to be.

It took two or three phone calls to track down the right bit of the prefectural police for Takayama, and then a halfhour wait for the relevant inspector, Nakamura Shoichi, to phone us back once Akiko had explained why we were calling.

‘Nakamura is his surname,’ Akiko explained, having established that I knew more or less nothing about Japan and Japanese customs. ‘In Japanese the surname comes first.’

‘So you should be Larkin Akiko?’

She laughed politely. ‘Before I was married I was Sakamoto Akiko. But I have been married to an Englishman for more than twenty years and I am used to being Mrs Larkin.’

The phone rang and I answered it, passing it to Akiko when the person on the other end tried to talk to me in Japanese. She spoke rapidly and softly into the phone, as I tried to pick out any phrases I recognised. Stuart’s name sounded very odd rendered in its Japanese pronunciation. Aside from ‘
hai
’ and ‘
arigatou
’, I didn’t manage to understand much, but Akiko made copious notes. She ended on a flurry of thanks, hung up before I could stop her and turned to me.

‘I can call him back if you have any more questions, but I thought you would want to hear what he had to say.’

‘Go on.’ I hated getting everything second-hand, but there was nothing else I could do.

‘Inspector Nakamura knew who I meant immediately. Your suspect was a resident in Takayama for a long time and the local community knew him quite well. He had a Japanese girlfriend who lived with him. He was very settled there and happy, but then a tourist was murdered and he came under suspicion.’

‘For what reason?’

‘He had met her a couple of days before she died and made friends with her. His girlfriend had just left him and the victim’s friends thought they had started a sexual relationship.’

‘How did she die?’

‘She was strangled,’ Akiko said calmly.

‘But they didn’t arrest him.’

‘There was no other evidence against him and he left before they could find anything.’

‘Left as in left the country?’

‘Yes. He abandoned his car and many belongings. The inspector was quite concerned that he was guilty but he wasn’t able to pursue it because there was no evidence beyond his suspicion. Mr Sinclair called Inspector Nakamura from London and said that he was depressed because of his relationship breaking up and he wouldn’t return to Japan. He said he left in a hurry because he was suicidal, and he made arrangements to have everything sold or given to charity.’

‘Did the inspector tell you anything else?’

‘He suggested that you speak to Mr Sinclair’s girlfriend. Her name is Takahashi Yumi. She was reluctant to speak to Inspector Nakamura but now some time has passed she might have changed her mind.’

Another phone call to Japan. Super. ‘Did he give you any way of contacting her?’

‘He had anticipated we might want to speak to her and contacted her family before he phoned us. I have her name and address, and her telephone number. She lives in Bayswater.’

‘In London?’

‘She’s a student at St Martins College.’ Akiko put her notebook in her bag. ‘She will speak English. You don’t need me.’

I stopped thinking about the wonderful, glorious news that the girlfriend was in London, which was practically the first bit of luck I’d had so far. ‘I might need you to translate something. I might need you to call someone else in Japan.’

She nodded, not smiling but obviously pleased. I rang the number she gave me and managed to get through to Yumi straight away.

‘It’s regarding Stuart Sinclair.’

There was a gasp at the other end of the line, and then she spoke again, very quietly. ‘Is he in trouble?’

‘I need to ask you some background information about him, but it’s very important that you keep this confidential.’

She considered that in silence and I asked another, very important question.

‘Are you in touch with him at the moment?’

‘No. I never want to see Stuart again!’ I thought she was going to hang up but after a second she sighed. ‘When do you want to meet?’

‘Now, if possible.’ I gave her the address of the office and she promised to come straight away, even though she had a lecture. I hung up and Akiko picked up her bag.

‘You have spoken with her. You know she speaks English well enough.’

‘Please, stay.’ Something made me feel she might be useful, still. ‘Just until after the interview.’

‘All right.’

‘She does speak English well, but not as well as you do.’ It was true. Yumi’s speech was halting and she hesitated before each new clause, groping for bits of vocabulary. She seemed to understand everything I said but I couldn’t be sure. ‘Your English is amazing.’

‘I’ve had a lot of time to practise.’

‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Twenty-four years.’

It was pleasant to have a conversation that wasn’t going to end up with someone being arrested; it didn’t happen often enough in my life. While we waited for the girl I found out how Akiko had met Mr Larkin (Paris, 1988, studying at the Sorbonne) and whether she missed Japan (yes, but her life was here with her children) and whether she liked her job (some days yes, some days no). I hoped she didn’t mind the questions. I couldn’t help myself. Curiosity was more than a habit now and I could no longer switch it off than I could stop blinking.

To prepare for the interview with Takahashi Yumi, I told Akiko what we needed: evidence that the man who had been her boyfriend would make a good suspect in the Gentleman Killer case. ‘Did the inspector give you the name of the girl who was killed in Japan?’

‘Grace Brumberger. She was American.’

‘We’ll need him to send us the file on the investigation.’

Akiko called him back while I did an Internet search on Grace Brumberger and turned up a treasure trove of information – her Facebook page, updated since she died with messages from grieving friends and acquaintances, a memorial page, a Grace Brumberger scholarship her parents were offering at the school she had attended, and most useful of all, a sixteen-page article from her local newspaper investigating what had happened to her in Japan. She was from Connecticut. She had been a cheerleader. Her parents were well off and she was an only child. She was bright, and diligent, and a good friend to those in need.

And she looked more or less exactly like Angela Poole.