On the other side of London, as far to the south of Eros as Kathy was to the north, Brock was working his way through his house, tidying stuff away and putting potentially dangerous things-the toasting fork, the carving knife, the can of rat poison-and fragile things- the sole artwork (a Schwitters tram ticket collage), the laptop, the wine glasses-out of reach of small children, and wondering as he did it if all this was really necessary. He discovered, when he finally sank below the surface of a hot bath, that he really was looking forward to being invaded.
17
B rock woke the next day with somewhat less confidence, and grew more apprehensive as the time of his guests’ arrival drew closer. It wasn’t a bad morning, with a bit of sun breaking through the clouds, but still, day showed Warren Lane in a colder and more realistic light than night, and there was no avoiding the fact that this was not Disneyland.
The party arrived on the dot of nine, as promised. It was one of the things he liked about Suzanne, her determination to stave off slack timekeeping and other symptoms of chaos. And as he helped them in, each carrying a piece of luggage, he recognised immediately that this was exactly what the children needed and responded to. They were a team, each secure in playing their part.
And he realised too that he needn’t have worried about the place not being interesting enough for them, as they followed him, wide-eyed and observant, exchanging whispered comments, up through the house, from the winding stairs and landings lined with books to the living room with its hissing gas fire and bay window projecting out over the lane and the long bench with computers, out to the kitchen with its eccentric collection of gadgets and air heavy with the smell of coffee, then upwards again to their room under the roof. He and Suzanne left them there, marvelling at the height of the beds off the floor, which grandly raised them up and gave them views out of the dormer window, over the little courtyard at the back of the house and beyond the rooftops towards the very distant prospect of Dulwich Park.
They had had an adventurous journey, Suzanne explained over the cup of coffee which Brock had ready for her. Leaving well before dawn, they had, against her better judgement, breakfasted on the road on generous helpings of sausage and eggs. Ten minutes later they had watched the sun rise in a golden blaze through the eastern mist while Miranda brought up her breakfast on the grassy verge. She had done it uncomplainingly, and Suzanne hadn’t had the heart to remind the little figure, grey and heaving, that she had warned her that precisely this would happen if she had a greasy meal while travelling in the car. After that they did the journey in hops, stopping regularly to avoid further incident.
As she explained all this, Brock was further reassured. With her competence and the kids’ resilience, everything would be fine.
‘I feel like a truant,’ Suzanne said. ‘The shop’s so busy, and I’ve just walked out and left them to it, and it feels great.’
‘Me too.’ He smiled.
‘Your case? You’re sure we’re not in the way? The children have been following all the gruesome details on TV. I’m afraid you’re going to get a request for a guided tour of the murder sites.’
Brock laughed. ‘They’ll probably enjoy Silvermeadow. There’s a volcano, you know. Erupts on the hour.’
‘Yes, I’d heard.’
‘We both need a break,’ Brock said. ‘You’re looking tired.’
‘Is that a polite way of saying haggard?’
‘Never.’
He went to her and gave her a kiss, interrupted immediately by the sound of children’s footsteps on the stairs. They assembled side by side in the doorway and the boy asked solemnly, ‘We wondered if we could visit your courtyard, Uncle David.’
‘Of course,’ Brock said, and led the way.
There wasn’t much to see: several large terracotta pots supporting the scruffy remnants of unidentifiable plants, and a wooden bench placed in the corner most likely to catch a little sun. Next to this bench stood the most impressive object in the yard, to which the children were drawn.
‘What do you think that is?’ Brock asked.
‘A bush,’ Miranda said immediately.
‘No,’ Brock said. ‘It’s a tree.’
‘A baby tree?’ she said.
‘A grown-up one. It’s about the same age as me.’
She frowned dubiously, peering more closely at the twisted roots writhing out of the moss in the shallow blue-glazed bowl, the gnarled branches, the layered foliage of pine needles.
‘Well, it looks old, but it can’t be, cos it’s only little,’ she said.
‘About ninety centimetres tall,’ Stewart suggested.
‘It’s like it’s been shrunk,’ Miranda said.
‘Like looking through the wrong end of a telescope,’ her brother offered. ‘Is it a dwarf?’
‘That’s right,’ Brock said. ‘Would you like to know how I did it?’
‘ You did it?’ Miranda said, eyes huge. ‘You made a dwarf?’
He took them into the kitchen, where he hunted through the drawers until he found his roll of bonsai tools, the Japanese branch cutters and root shears and scissors and potting stick and binding wire, and told them how he was able to shrink everything about the tree to scale, except for the needles and cones, which tried to grow to normal size.
‘Isn’t that cruel?’ Miranda asked grimacing. ‘Cutting their roots? Isn’t that like cutting their toes off?’
‘It doesn’t hurt,’ said Stewart dismissively. ‘Trees can’t feel things. They don’t have nervous systems.’
‘How do you know it doesn’t hurt?’ she protested. ‘Just because it can’t scream!’
Brock saw the tear begin to swell into her eye and said gently, ‘That worried me at first, Miranda. But there is a way you can tell that the tree doesn’t mind.’
‘How?’ She sniffed.
‘Because it grows perfectly. It’s as healthy as an ordinary tree, and will live just as long, if it’s looked after. Unhappy trees don’t do that.’
‘Don’t they?’ She looked as if she wanted to believe him, but wasn’t quite convinced.
Kathy phoned the Adelphi again first thing and made her abject apologies to Leon. She wasn’t sure if he really believed her when she said she’d totally forgotten about the train until it was too late, because he said little.
‘I could get a train up there this morning,’ she suggested.
‘Yes.’ He didn’t sound enthusiastic.
‘Well, do you want me to?’
‘What’ll you do if you don’t come up?’
‘Oh, work. I’ve got some things to follow up.’
‘I think you’d better do that, Kathy. You’ve obviously got a lot on your mind.’
They hung on in silence for a moment, then she said, ‘I’ll meet you at Euston tomorrow evening, then. What time does the train get in?’
He told her and they rang off. For a moment Kathy was inclined to get on a train anyway and surprise him, but then she got cold feet and decided against it.
She drove to the Herbert Morrison estate, parking on the high street and walking to Crocus Court. Naomi’s grandmother answered the door and invited her in, though Naomi, whom she wanted, wasn’t at home.
‘She’s working at Silvermeadow this morning, Sergeant. Is there anything we can do?’
There seemed little point, but Kathy showed them the photographs of North and the others anyway. They recognised none of them.