The Chalon Heads (31 page)
‘Some people who live up there gave me a description that reminded me a little of you.’
‘Really? Is that right? Well, I’ll be blowed. That’s bloody good detective work, Kathy. I take my hat off to you, I really do. How many young coppers these days would have had the patience and the wit to put that together, eh? I am impressed.’
Kathy’s heart began sinking again beneath this effusive tide of bonhomie. ‘Well, I wasn’t sure . . .’
‘You’re checking up on any strangers in the area, are you? Of course you would. Kidnappers would have been bound to do a bit of a recce first. And this lot sounds very thorough from what I’ve been able to gather—thorough and bloody rough, eh? I must confess, I thought the whole thing might have been a bit of a joke at first, but not any more, eh? Not any more.’
‘No.’ Kathy felt suddenly very tired. Her meal was going cold in the microwave, and she didn’t want to listen to this.
He seemed to read her mind. ‘Anyway, you don’t want to spend your precious leisure hours listening to a boring old fart like me, Kathy. I just wanted to let you know that I’m here to help if I can, in any way at all.’
‘Thanks very much, Peter, I will remember that.’ And remember not to give my number to people like this, she thought as she rang off.
She had just restarted the microwave when the phone rang again. She blinked in disbelief when she heard the same voice.
‘Kathy! Sorry to bother you again so soon, but you know how it is—no sooner have you put the phone down than something jumps into your mind, and I wouldn’t have been able to sleep without telling you.’
‘Telling me what, Peter?’
‘You asked me about when I went up by Sammy’s, and it just occurred to me that I saw something a bit odd up there in the woods above his house one time.’
Kathy bit off the withering comment that came to her mind and instead said, in a calm voice, ‘Really? What was that?’
‘It was a man, watching the house—Sammy’s house— through the trees.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, I’m positive. I was above him, on the ridge track, and he was crouching in the undergrowth, maybe twenty yards below me on the slope that encloses Sammy’s place on the—which is it? The west, yes, the west. He had binoculars, and he was watching the house and the pool and the tennis court through the trees.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘He had his back to me, I’m afraid, so I never saw his face. He was wearing a green jacket, and a green cap, so he was practically invisible in the bracken. I’d never have spotted him if it hadn’t been for the dogs.’
‘Dogs?’
‘Yes, he had two dogs with him, Labradors or retrievers, sitting good as gold on each side of him. Gave me a start, I can tell you. I thought at first I’d spotted a couple of young lions—that’s what they looked like. I did a year in Kenya in the Mau Mau days, did I tell you that? Saw plenty of lions then . . .’
Kathy sighed and wondered what continuous sequential reheating did to frozen Spicy Thai Chicken and Noodles. She felt somehow that she knew, that it had been happening to her for a couple of days now.
After she finally got White off the line, she sat down with her meal and made a number of phone calls of her own. The last one was to DS Bren Gurney’s home number. It was now after midnight, and she had to wait some time for the call to be answered. Finally Bren’s wife, Deanne, came on, sounding sleepy.
‘Deanne, I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s Kathy Kolla here. Can I talk to Bren?’
‘What time is it? Oh . . . we were asleep, Kathy. Bren’s going abroad first thing tomorrow morning.’
Kathy thought that she caught something more in Deanne’s voice than irritation at being woken up, a residue of an old suspicion that her husband was a bit too admiring of the capabilities of the young female detective sergeant that Brock had brought into their team. ‘I’m sorry, I know it’s a bad time to call, but I just had to speak to him before he goes.’
‘I see . . . Hang on.’
There was a delay, during which Kathy wondered what was going on. Weren’t they in the same room? Then Bren came on, yawning. ‘Hi, Kathy. What gives?’
‘Sorry, Bren.’
‘Yeah, yeah. What’s the problem?’
‘I need to get hold of Brock.’
Bren hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll give you his home number.’
‘I’ve already tried that. There’s no reply. And I’ve seen Dot, and she won’t, or can’t, tell me where he is.’
‘Well . . . then I don’t think I can help. What’s the problem?’
‘I need to talk to him about what he did yesterday— sacking me, and the business with the Canada Cover.’
‘Christ, Kathy.’ Bren groaned. ‘That’s history. Things have moved on.’
‘I shouldn’t have let it go at that,’ Kathy persisted. ‘I was just so taken by surprise. I need to hear him explain it to me.’
‘Well, you can’t!’ Bren didn’t try to hide the exasperation in his voice. ‘Is that all? Can I go back to bed now?’
‘You’ve been working with him for longer than anyone else on his team. You must have some idea where he is.’
‘Kathy, I don’t! You know what he’s like. He’s a secretive old bugger. He keeps his private life private. I’ve been working for him for eight years now, and I’ve seen the inside of his place maybe twice. He’s been here for dinner with us a good few times, and each time he comes on his own and is excellent company and tells us next to nothing of his private life. Christ, do you think Deanne hasn’t tried to get something out of him? I mean, that’s a professional grilling, believe me, but he just smiles and tells a few yarns, and doesn’t give an inch.’
Kathy could hear some smothered noises in the background, followed by Bren’s chuckle.
‘Anyway, the fact is, I don’t know who his friends are, if he has any, and I haven’t the faintest idea where he is, and even if I did, well, if he doesn’t want to talk to you, why the hell should he?’
‘Sammy’s done a bunk, Bren,’ Kathy said. ‘McLarren told him, as clear as could be, that Brock switched the Canada Cover and so provoked the kidnappers into murdering Eva. Now Sammy’s disappeared, and it seems that he owns a gun.’
‘Christ. A pistol?’
‘A Tikka M690 Deluxe hunting rifle, seven millimetre, with telescopic sight.’
‘Bloody hell. Brock needs to know.’
‘Yes.’
There was a silence as Bren thought. Kathy heard some murmur of discussion between him and Deanne, then, ‘He had a wife, and a son, I think, but they were divorced decades ago. I think they’re in Canada. As far as I know he hasn’t been in touch with them for years. He used to fly gliders, belonged to a club on the North Downs somewhere . . . not far past Maidstone, I think. But I haven’t heard him talk of it for several years . . . I don’t know, Kathy. I’m stumped.’
‘Do you remember, Bren, the first case I worked with you on, the murders in Jerusalem Lane?’
‘The Marx sisters, yeah, what about it?’
‘One morning I spotted Brock getting out of a red sports car, driven by a woman. I gave you the number, and you found out the name. Do you remember? We thought it was a hoot, him being so secretive.’
‘Vaguely, yes, now you mention it. I’d forgotten about that. She never surfaced again, as far as I know.’
‘Can you remember her name?’
‘You’re joking. Can you remember the car number?’
There was a long silence, then Kathy said, ‘No, but the computer will.’
‘Eh?’
‘The vehicle registry computer will have a record of your enquiry. If you ask it, it’ll tell you again.’
‘What, now?’ Bren said wearily.
‘The computer never sleeps,’ Kathy said. ‘Thanks, Bren.’
Ten minutes later he called her back.
‘A red Mercedes sports, registered to one Mrs Suzanne Chambers, then resident in Belgravia, a brisk walk from Queen Anne’s Gate.’
‘That’s right, I remember it was a posh address.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Oh.’ Kathy’s heart sank. ‘She’s gone?’
‘Now listed at 349A High Street, Battle, East Sussex.’
‘Ah!’
‘It’s a long shot, Kathy.’
‘I know.’
‘Good luck. I mean it.’
‘And you, Bren. See you when you get back.’
That night, lying alone in her narrow bed, the light of a full moon glowing through the curtains, Kathy suffered a feverish and fitful sleep, her mind filled by bizarre creations, like creatures escaped from a fairy-tale, or the inhabitants of some Hieronymus Bosch landscape of hell—a Chinese philatelist, a decapitated princess, Raphael and The Beast, Brock the thief—all impossible, surreal fictions. One part of her mind, a skeptical and practical part, told her that such creatures could not exist in the real world, while another part, equally insistent, reminded her that she had seen Eva’s head with her own eyes, and heard Brock’s dismissal of her with her own ears.
S
he rose early, too early to go hunting Brock, she thought. Feeling agitated and impatient, she scribbled a list of notes while she nibbled some breakfast toast, then made a phone call to the duty officer in the Central File Office.
Half an hour later she found the address. The building was of the 1930s, and didn’t look as if it had had much maintenance since, especially in recent years. The board of bell-pushes lay disconnected on the front step, and the front door opened on a shove. Kathy went up to the first floor, found the door she wanted and pressed a buzzer on the jamb. There was no reply. She tried again without success, and was about to give up when a door on the other side of the landing opened and a young man carrying a brightly coloured motorbike helmet came out.
‘He’s there,’ he muttered, as he walked past. ‘He just got back half an hour ago.’
Kathy nodded her thanks and pressed her thumb on the buzzer again, this time keeping it down, hearing the shrill noise muffled through the door.
After a minute the door was thrown open and a flabby figure dressed in sweatshirt, boxer shorts, feet bare, almost toppled out. ‘Jesus fucking . . .’ He stopped cursing and blinked at Kathy uncomprehendingly. He looked terrible, eyes bleary and bagged, stubble thick on his grey skin, hair standing upright in tufts.
‘Morning, Mr Wilkes. DS Kolla, remember? The Eva Starling case?’
‘Oh, Christ . . . yes, OK. Whassamatter?’
‘Sorry to bother you. I needed to check a couple of things. Can I come in?’
‘In?’ He squeezed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, steadying himself against the door jamb with his left. ‘What time is it?’
‘Six thirty,’ Kathy said brightly.
‘A.M.? Bloody hell. I only just got to fucking sleep. I was on a job all last night.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I’d catch you before you went out. You want me to come back?’
‘What? Oh, Christ, I’m awake now, aren’t I? Better come in.’
He shuffled back inside and Kathy followed, closing the door quietly behind her.
It was pitch dark until he managed to stumble to the window and sweep the curtains back, letting sunshine flood in over a jumble of bedding, clothes and worn furniture.
‘Don’t mind this,’ he mumbled, scratching and yawning. ‘I’m between homes at the moment.’
It wasn’t the mess Kathy minded but the smell, of sour damp cloth and pungent body odours, both very strong. She went over to the window. ‘Mind if I . . . ?’
He shrugged and picked up a half full bottle of milk while she undid the catch and slid open the window. The sound and smell of passing traffic billowed in.
‘It’s about Eva, is it?’ Wilkes said, voice hoarse. He took a pull at the milk and slumped onto a chair piled with discarded clothes. ‘I read about it in the papers. Sick, innit. How’s old Sammy taking it?’
‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘On the phone, a week ago. When he asked me to look out for Eva. I told you lot.’
He caught the look on Kathy’s face and straightened up slowly. ‘Why? What’s happened? He done a runner?’
‘We need to speak to him urgently. If he contacts you, let us know straightaway, will you? Here’s my number.’
‘Yeah, Right. Will do.’ Wilkes was alert now.
‘You must know him pretty well. You’ve been working for him for a long time.’
‘We weren’t what you’d call friends. He’d just give us a bell if he needed some little job done, a bit of information, whatever.’
‘You helped him when he first met Eva, didn’t you? You went over to Portugal for him. Is that right?’
‘That’s ancient history, that is.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Oh . . .’ Wilkes yawned elaborately. ‘Sammy was doing some business over there, some development, and he wanted information on some people. He sent me over to do a bit of digging around for him.’
‘You speak Portuguese?’
‘Nah. I worked with a local guy. He speaks English pretty good.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘Sammy was interested in this old guy and his daughter. It wasn’t too complicated. Financial information, mainly. The family had been rich once, but now they didn’t have much more than their house, which Sammy and his partners wanted.’
‘What about Eva? Didn’t he want you to find out about her?’
Wilkes grinned slyly. ‘Oh, yeah. You might say that. She’d been in a bit of trouble. Nothing you’ll find in Interpol or whatever—her dad knew a lawyer who hushed it up. Teenage stuff, with drugs. Anyway, she was a real worry to her old man, and her auntie.’
‘Auntie?’
‘Yeah. Marianna. She calls her Auntie Marianna. Sort of mother figure, really. They were real keen to get her married off to someone solid with plenty of cash.’
‘Yes, but not someone aged sixty, surely? What about all the rich young men down on the Algarve? She was very good-looking.’
‘Oh, she was a right bloody cracker, I tell you, but the types she attracted weren’t to Daddy’s taste. She’d had a string of bad boys, and she was developing a reputation.’
‘Go on.’ Kathy gingerly removed a damp towel from the back of a chair facing Wilkes and sat down.
‘Yeah. Only Sammy wasn’t bothered. He just wanted her, and I reckon she just wanted out. Probably the idea of going off to London as the young wife of a rich, daft old sod didn’t seem so bad. Even so,’ Wilkes went on, warming to his story-telling, ‘her dad wasn’t having any of it, not at first. He’s a man of principle, see, a gent of the old school. He couldn’t come to terms with his daughter marrying Sammy.’
