The Chalon Heads (32 page)

‘So? How did Sammy persuade him?’

Wilkes gave a smug smile. ‘Sammy sent me back a second time. He wanted me to find something on the old man that he could use, some kind of leverage. And I did.’

He sat back beaming, making Kathy ask, ‘Yes? Go on.’

‘While my off-sider went back through the paperwork, I followed the old geezer, see? For days and days, till I was sick to death of his routines—the bar, the quay, the park, the bar, the quay, the park, on and on. Then one day he stopped at a little shop in the old town. It sold antiques and gifts and coins and stamps. Old stamps. That’s what he was interested in, just like Sammy. He went in and talked to the owner for ages about the stamps. Didn’t buy anything.

‘So then I got my off-sider to see what he could find out about that, and eventually he came up with a press report, fifteen years old, about the de Vasconcellos family selling their famous stamp collection to raise funds to send Eva’s mother to Switzerland for a cure for her cancer. The collection had been in the family for three generations.

‘Sammy was over the moon when I told him. He came up with this idea of a book on these special stamps that look like Eva, and dedicated it to her old man. I thought it was a bit loony myself, but it worked like a charm.’

‘I see.’

‘Yeah, well, Sammy presented him with the book, and an album of the same stamps that he put together for him, and the old geezer wept. Really, Sammy told me, he burst into tears. Apparently Eva’s mother looked the spitting image. After that, Sammy could do no wrong. The old bloke sold him his house, gave him his blessing to marry his daughter, and then retired to an old folks’ home, where he probably still is, dribbling on Sammy’s stamp album.’

‘Sammy bought her with stamps, you might say,’ Kathy said.

‘Well, yeah, I suppose you could put it like that.’

‘Were they real, the stamps?’

‘Real?’

‘Yes. Or did he have copies made?’

‘Copies? You mean forgeries?’ Wilkes looked startled.

‘Yes. Did Sammy have someone who made rare stamps for him?’

‘Blimey. I never heard of anything like that. What makes you say that?’

‘Did Sammy know anyone in that line of business, Ronnie?’

‘A forger?’

‘A good one.’

Wilkes gazed up at the ceiling, thinking. ‘I’ve no idea. He never mentioned it to me.’ He smiled at Kathy blandly.

‘That sounds like a lie,’ Kathy said, watching his expression carefully.

‘Oi! I don’t need to take this from you! I given you lots of help!’

Kathy shook her head dismissively. ‘After they were married, you spied on her for him, didn’t you?’

‘I never!’

‘I know, Ronnie. You reported on what she did in London, when she was at the flat in Canonbury.’

‘Yeah,’ he conceded. ‘But it wasn’t spying, just keeping an eye out for her, making sure she was all right. Sammy was concerned about her.’

‘You gave him written reports?’

‘Nah. I was never one for the paperwork.’

‘That’s why you haven’t got anywhere, Ronnie. What about notebooks? You must have made notes of times and places?’

‘It wasn’t like that. I didn’t follow her all the time. He didn’t want me to do a proper surveillance job on her, just look in from time to time, to make sure she didn’t get into trouble.’

‘And did she?’

‘Nah. Boring, really. Shopping, going to the movies, having a nosh. I sometimes felt tempted to tell her how to have a good time.’

‘And did you?’

‘Course not. Sammy’d have killed me.’

‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

‘No way.’

‘What about the waiter at the Italian restaurant round the corner from her place?’

‘You reckon?’ He considered this for a moment, then dismissed it. ‘Nah, I’ve watched them together in the restaurant. They were friends, nice, sharing a joke, but nothing more, I’m sure.’

‘Did you ever eat there with her?’

‘I did once, matter of fact. She caught me out, getting out of a taxi, and I had to pretend it was a complete accident, me being there. She insisted on taking me in and giving me a nosh.’

‘Did she get her drugs from the waiter?’

‘Eh?’ Wilkes raised his eyebrows in innocent surprise.

‘Come on, Ronnie,’ Kathy said wearily. ‘Eva had a heavy coke habit.’

‘No!’ He expressed astonishment.

‘I hope you’re a better punter than an actor,’ Kathy said, noticing the form guides and racing pages scattered among the debris on the table by the window. ‘Drugs was the thing Sammy was most worried about, wasn’t it? Come on, Ronnie, don’t be stupid.’

‘Yeah,’ he conceded. ‘He was worried about that. But if she was doing it, she was careful. I never saw her make a score, and I never saw her look as if she was under. Sammy got me to search the flat a couple of times, but I never found nothing. I reckon if she was getting stuff it was either from the restaurant or the cinema. Those were the two places she went regular, like.’

‘Did he send you after her every time she went to London on her own?’

‘Pretty much, I guess.’

‘Tell me about this last time.’

‘This last time?’ Wilkes asked vaguely, wrinkling his brow in thought.

‘Yes. Sammy rang you.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ His face cleared. ‘Sammy rang me, that’s right.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, well, Sunday night.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Just the usual. Eva was going up to the flat for a few days, and would I keep an eye out.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Latish. I dunno, ten, eleven, maybe.’

‘At night? Was that usual? To phone you at that time?’

Wilkes shrugged.

‘And you’re certain it was Sunday?’

He looked at Kathy and hesitated. ‘I think it was.’

‘Don’t you keep
any
records? A diary or something?’

‘Nah. You reckon it was earlier?’ he asked. ‘Or later?’

‘I want you to tell me, Ronnie. Think. Where were you when you took the call? It was your mobile, was it?’

‘Cor . . .’ He scratched his head. ‘I was here, I reckon. But which day . . . I
think
it was Sunday.’

‘You were positive the first time.’

‘Was I? Well, I couldn’t swear.’

‘All right. What did you do then?’

‘Nothing that evening. The next couple of days I called round to the flat, but there was no sign of her. I called Sammy, and at first he said to check on Marty Keller again, like I told you, then he changed his mind.’

That made sense, Kathy thought. By then Sammy would have received a ransom note and wouldn’t have wanted Ronnie poking around, possibly alarming the kidnappers. But the timing of the earlier call to Ronnie puzzled her. Sammy had said that his wife had gone up to the flat on the previous Thursday. Surely he would have called Ronnie earlier than Sunday night.

‘You said just now that Sammy phoned you on the Sunday night and said Eva was going up to the flat for a few days.’

‘Yes.’ Wilkes yawned and scratched, becoming bored with this.

‘So she hadn’t actually left then.’

‘Eh? I dunno.’

‘
Was going.
That means she hadn’t yet gone.’

‘Oh . . .’ Vagueness filled Ronnie’s face again. ‘Well, I suppose you’re right.’

Kathy sighed and got to her feet. ‘I hope I never have to use you as a witness, Ronnie.’

He grinned. ‘That’s the general idea, innit?’

‘What do you know about Sammy’s gun?’

‘Eh?’ Ronnie’s face dropped. ‘Has he taken that bloody thing with ’im?’ The idea seemed to worry him a good deal.

‘I asked what you know about it.’

‘Some prat, someone he’d done some business with, gave it to ’im for a present, several years ago. It was the most stupid bloody gift you could imagine for Sammy. He got all keen for a while, and joined this club. He took me there once, kind of showing off. Beautiful gun, mind, almost as big as ’im. Deadly accurate, except when he used it. Watching him blazing away on the firing range was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. He hit everybody’s target ’cept his own.’

‘So he has ammunition?’

‘Jesus, I don’t know.’ He looked pale.

At the door she stopped and said, ‘What about Eva’s mobile?’

‘Eh?’ He frowned. ‘I don’t remember her having one.’

Kathy looked hard at him, but his face expressed nothing but torpor.

When she got back to her car, she made a call to headquarters to have Sammy’s phone records checked for his call to Ronnie, then headed south, driving against the incoming commuter flow, out towards the A21, the hop gardens and orchards of the Weald.

In Battle, 349A High Street turned out to be a shop, with the name Chambers Antiques over the window. Kathy watched lights come on, then someone reverse the sign hanging behind the door, from Closed to Open. She got out of the car, walked towards it and opened the door.

‘Good morning.’ A girl of about twenty seemed to be alone. She came round from behind the counter. ‘Can I help?’

The interior of the shop glittered with the reflections of glass and crystal, the glow of polished wood and leather. Quality, Kathy thought, not tourist trash. The girl had a cloth in her hand, which she had been using on one of a number of ornate grandfather clocks ticking sumptuously in the background.

‘I wondered if Mrs Chambers was in,’ Kathy said.

‘Oh, no, I’m afraid she isn’t here at the moment. Can I give her a message?’

‘Actually, it was Mr Brock I wanted.’

The girl looked at Kathy with a frown. ‘Mr Brock?’

Kathy’s hopes faded. ‘David.’

‘David?’ The other woman smiled. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘It’s rather urgent,’ Kathy went on gamely, ready to give up. ‘Very urgent, actually.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Never mind. I’ll try somewhere else.’

Kathy turned to the door and had her hand on the knob when the girl said, ‘If it’s really important, they’ve gone up to the Abbey.’

Kathy turned back, surprised. ‘The Abbey?’

‘Yes. You know, the site of the battle. They decided to go before all the tourists arrive, before it gets too busy.’

Kathy got directions and took the street towards the marketplace, and behind it the battlemented mass of the gatehouse to the Benedictine abbey, now ruined on the hilltop beyond. There was already a short queue at the entry desk, people examining the souvenirs, reading the introductory notices. She paid her fee, took the handset offered her for the commentary, and set off along the marked trail.

She came to the terrace walk, a long, gravelled ridge on which the English army had been deployed on 14 October 1066, overlooking the boggy valley to her right, across which the Norman force had struggled for the best part of that day. There were a number of small groups of people on the walk, strolling slowly from one observation point to another, pausing to listen to their audio guides. Among them she saw a family, two small children, a woman and a man. The man was kneeling, tying the shoelace of the smaller child, a girl of three or four. It was only when he straightened upright that Kathy realised it was Brock.

The other child, a boy of perhaps eight, said something that made the woman laugh. She turned towards Brock, the sun on her face. Brock gestured to the boy, making big sweeping arcs with his hand, explaining the theory of trajectories. The boy listened carefully, then made him repeat part of it, enchanted by the notion that, through an empty sky, there are two alternative routes by which an arrow may arrive at precisely the same point. In this case, as he went on to demonstrate with his finger, in a manner that made the little girl go ‘Yuck,’ the eye of an English king.

Kathy held back, watching them, uncertain what to do. They appeared so enclosed in each other’s company, like any ideal nuclear family, if somewhat extended in their age range. Grandparents and grandchildren, perhaps. She frowned and turned away. Maybe later, she thought, she might catch him alone.

She retraced her steps, back to the end of the terrace walk, heading towards the entrance, when the phone in her shoulder-bag started ringing. She got it out and heard Brock’s voice. ‘I’m not sure that stalking is your forte, Kathy. Are you alone?’

‘Hell,’ she muttered. ‘Yes . . . yes, Brock.’

‘Well, if you’ve got this far, you’d better come and tell me what you’ve got to say.’

She turned back and found him sitting alone on a bench halfway along the terrace walk.

He was dressed in a light summer shirt and slacks, exactly like the tourist he was supposed to be, and seemed completely untroubled. He grinned at the slightly sheepish look on her face as she approached, and patted the seat beside him. ‘Well, then?’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I tried every way to get a message to you.’ She sat down.

‘That’s all right. I should have known that there was no way to elude Detective Kolla. Although I can’t for the life of me think how you did manage to find me. It couldn’t have been Dot?’

‘She was most unhelpful.’

‘Good. She was meant to be. Well, then, this message.’

Kathy described McLarren’s interview with Starling, his disappearance, and his gun. ‘McLarren made it sound as if you were directly responsible for Eva’s death. Sammy seemed devastated. I think he may be trying to find you, Brock. I think you’re in danger.’

‘Mmm . . .’ Brock considered this. ‘Well, he won’t find me . . . Unless he’s had the sense to tag along behind you, that is. He couldn’t have done that, could he?’

Kathy blushed. ‘No! No, of course not. I was very careful.’

‘I hope so, Kathy. I’d hate to think that other innocent people were being put in danger.’ He looked over his left shoulder towards the sound of a child’s laughter among the ruined walls of the monks’ dormitory, brooding over the old battlefield.

‘Why don’t I arrange protection?’

‘Kathy,’ he said gently. ‘Do me a favour. Let me arrange things my own way. Please.’

She bit her lip. ‘Sorry.’

‘And what was the other thing?’

‘The other thing?’

‘That you wanted to see me about.’ He considered her gravely as she met his eye.

‘I . . . No, that was it, really.’

‘You didn’t want to ask me about my decision to kick you over to SO6?’

‘Well, yes, I did, actually. I found that . . . quite hard to swallow, without explanation.’