A number of messages had come in while she was away. A situation report had arrived from Tottenham Green profiling known associates of Danny Yilmaz and other possible criminals in the area. There were quite a few of them, but so far no connections to Thursday’s events had been established. Peter Namono was not known to the police in Uganda, and appeared to be an unauthorised migrant. Apparently he had been in touch with a refugee advisory service in South London.
The Home Office had forwarded a request from the American Embassy for an update on the case, with a cover note demanding urgent attention. And a preliminary report from the coroner’s office had been delivered. The autopsy had been completed and blood and tissue tests carried out in record time. Nothing new had been revealed and it was proposed to release the body to the family for return to the United States on Monday. Kathy sensed an all-round official desire to move on, to see a rapid and tidy end to an embarrassing and incomprehensible affair.
SIX
T ucked away in one corner of Cunningham Place was a small, rather plain brick church. Built eighty years before the square was laid out, its modest spire had once stood out among the fields and hedgerows of the western edge of London, but was now overshadowed by its neighbouring housing blocks. On most Sundays its congregation amounted to barely a dozen elderly people, but today they emerged through the porch to find a small crowd assembling outside in the sunshine.
As the vicar shook the hand of the last parishioner, Toby Beaumont mounted the steps with his two employees, Garry the silent concierge and Jacko the limping bellboy, all dressed in suits and ties, and introduced them to the priest as the ushers for the memorial service. Garry was carrying a poster-sized photograph of Nancy’s smiling face, enlarged from a snapshot Emerson had provided, and received permission to tie it to one of the porch columns. Deb, Julie the cook and Destiny the maid followed, carrying huge bunches of flowers, and disappeared inside.
Kathy stood in the background in the shade of one of the large plane trees of the central gardens, watching the gathering. A few looked as if they were residents of the square, setting aside their Sunday papers to show their respect or see what was going on; some were media, including a TV camera crew and van; and others, lone men in suits mainly, appeared to be there in an official capacity. Several of these were clustered around Emerson and she speculated on which might be from the American Embassy, or representing the British government. Then a newcomer arrived, breaking into that circle to introduce himself, and Kathy recognised him with a start, his glossy bulk and prominent silk pocket handkerchief bringing back uncomfortable memories. Nigel Hadden-Vane, Member of Parliament, had figured in a previous case of hers concerning the criminal family of Spider Roach. Hadden-Vane had been instrumental in destroying the careers of both another MP and a Special Branch officer with whom Kathy had been involved. She wondered why he was here. Was he someone important in the Home Office now, or the Foreign Office? She would have to check.
They were moving inside, and Kathy followed, into the cool dimness of the little church. The organ was playing something solemn and classical, Bach perhaps, and she accepted an order of service from Garry and took a seat in a pew towards the back. She noticed Hadden-Vane say something to Garry, gesturing to a space in one of the front pews, before sitting down next to Emerson.
It seemed as if the congregation was complete and the service might begin, the vicar moving to the centre of the altar steps, when he paused and stared down the nave towards the doors, and heads turned to look. Two men were entering, both wearing black suits, white shirts and black ties. One was of middle height and age, with curling hair at the back of his balding head and a conspicuous large gold watch on his wrist. The other was younger and much larger, built like a bouncer, elbows out, head shaved. There was something slightly alien and chilling about the pair of them, and the church went very quiet, the rustle of papers fading away, as Garry got to his feet and led them to the vacant seats at the front.
The service was simple and dignified: a couple of hymns, a couple of readings, some words from the vicar and a short and moving eulogy from Emerson. Then they were moving out into the silent square and across the street to the gates of the central gardens, where Julie and Destiny were waiting with trays of champagne and canapes. Kathy wasn’t alone in noticing that the two latecomers remained in their pew until the church had emptied, and then strode away down the street.
‘Who were those two?’ she heard a woman asking Toby, who was standing with Emerson, shaking hands.
‘Our neighbours, my dear.’ Toby raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, the Russians!’ the woman said. ‘So that’s them.’
Nigel Hadden-Vane was working the crowd, Kathy saw, or at least that part of it which looked important, nodding vigorously, gesturing with his champagne glass, mopping his flushed face with his blue pocket handkerchief.
‘Hello again.’
Kathy turned and saw John Greenslade standing beside her, watching her intently, as if he’d been studying her.
‘Hello. I didn’t see you there.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t stay away-Toby would never have forgiven me. He’s done them proud, hasn’t he? He deserves a medal, but I guess he’s already got plenty of those.’
Kathy couldn’t decide whether he was being genuinely appreciative or mildly sarcastic. It was hard to tell with him, his quiet voice seeming to leave itself open to different interpretations, as if testing her response.
‘Yes, he seems to have organised it with military precision.’
‘Exactly.’ John broke into a warm smile, as if she’d said something witty. ‘The whole team was up at three this morning, getting all this ready. I heard them from the top floor-that’s where my room is. I’m a light sleeper, I guess.’
‘Are you getting to see a bit of London?’
Another smile, as if he was really pleased by her interest. ‘Yes, actually. Let’s see, I’ve been to Tate Modern, the National Portrait Gallery, the Courtauld…’
‘How about the Two Chairmen?’
He looked at her blankly. ‘I don’t think-’
‘It’s a pub in Westminster, at the end of Queen Anne’s Gate.’
He stared at her, his mouth open. ‘Ah. You did see me. I was afraid you might have. How embarrassing.’
Kathy stared back, saying nothing.
‘I… was intrigued,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve had a bit to do with the police in Montreal-nothing nefarious, you understand. At least they haven’t managed to arrest me yet.’ His grin faded as he saw her stony expression. ‘Yes, well, anyway, I was curious, how things were over here. You gave me your card with the address, and I went to take a look. Kind of enigmatic, I thought, the building, for a police office. Anyway, I fancied a beer and stopped at the pub down the street, and then you walked in.’
When she still said nothing he looked down at his feet and scuffed the gravel. ‘No, that’s not quite the truth. At least, not the whole truth. There was another reason.’
‘And what was that?’
He looked up with a frown and met her eyes. He shrugged. ‘Well, you know.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You. I was interested in you.’
You cheeky bastard, she thought. For a moment he seemed rather young and vulnerable. How old was he? Twenty-eight, she remembered from the immigration record. He made her feel older than her years.
‘Inspector!’
She pulled her eyes away and saw Emerson advancing towards her, his hand on the arm of another man.