‘Great view.’ She looked out at the sweep of water.
‘I hope it wasn’t too far.’
‘No.’ She’d been glad that the place he’d suggested was some way up-river from the office. ‘I’ve heard of this place, of course. But I’ve never been here.’ Not at these prices, she thought.
‘I’m very glad you’ve come. Really, I didn’t think you would.’
The smile of course, racy and ironic like . . . well, Belmondo perhaps, or even Tom a little. She made a mental note to work that one out later.‘I’m not sure why I did.I mean,we’re not interested in each other’s private lives, are we? And we can’t talk about work. Doesn’t leave much to fill in the odd hour.’
He laughed.‘We never had any trouble filling in the odd hour, Kathy. I did mean what I said on the phone. Since Daniel . . . Okay, you’re not interested, but I got to thinking, if it had been me instead of him, what would I look back to, most of all? And what came into my mind was you-no, don’t look at me like that, it’s true.You were very important to me. And I thought how sad it would be if we never had another chance to sit together at a fine white tablecloth with a glass of wine, and talk.’
As he spoke, using that persuasive voice, Kathy realised that the differences she’d noticed in him had disappeared and he now seemed the same as he’d always been. Or perhaps he was a little more mellow, a little less obvious in making known what he wanted. He had no difficulty in finding funny, neutral things to amuse her with. The river was a cue for a story of an evening with fellow lawyers (no mention of wives) on an evening cruise, being serenaded by a famous operatic soprano, whose improvised stage at the stern had buckled under her considerable weight, almost tipping her into the river. The theme of punctured human dignity led on to a courtroom story from his early days, and then to a convoluted account of a meal with a senior Tory member of parliament (wives included this time), whose well-known habit of ending a good story with a flourish of his pocket handkerchief had come unstuck when the handkerchief, like a magician’s prop, had been followed by a pair of ladies’ black silk knickers-not, so his wife calmly observed, her own.
The food was excellent too-French new wave, he said, as if he’d read her mind about Belmondo. An hour passed in no time, then another, before he looked regretfully at his watch and called
for the bill.
‘You mentioned gossip on the phone,’ Kathy said.
‘Did I? Oh yes,there was something . . .But you were right,no shop. There is one thing I will say, though. It’s absolutely ridiculous that you’re still at the same rank as when we . . . as before. I mean, it just makes me angry, Brock keeping you tucked under his wing at DS when everybody knows you’re the best thing he’s got, far better than Gurney. I mean, he won’t be there forever, Kathy, and when he goes . . . It could be sooner than you think, they’ll move someone in, maybe already have . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s the way big organisations work, Kathy. I know. You’ve got to look out for number one.’
‘You didn’t buy me lunch to give me a lecture on ambition, Martin.What is this all about, really?’
‘I told you what it was. I realised I was mortal, and couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing you one more time.’
He gave her a lift back to the West End and left her, mystified. Altruism wasn’t Martin’s style, and though he’d always been generous, there was always a motive.
Brock chose a spot towards the back of the waiting crowd and to one side, where he could see the arrivals without making himself obvious. One by one, then in a steady stream, they came around the corner, bent to their laden trolleys, eyes expectantly scanning the confusion of bobbing faces. Then she appeared.
If he’d intended it as a test of his own feelings, it would have rated as a complete success.The sight of the familiar face,the intelligent searching eyes, the determined chin, instantly dispelled all the doubts that had haunted him these last months and sent a warm surge of blind relief and affection through him. He saw with concern the fatigue in the shadows around her eyes, and began to push towards the end of the railings so that he could wrap his arms around her and tell her that it was good, so very good, that she was home at last.
Only she wasn’t pushing a trolley,and then he saw her face light up, not at him, but at someone on the far side of the crowd. Then he saw two children break out of the crush and run forward into her arms. Suzanne’s grandchildren, he realised, followed by a smiling woman he didn’t recognise. He watched Suzanne embrace her too, then turn to make a gesture of introduction to the man pushing the trolley behind her. He shook hands all round, grinning broadly; a tall man, tanned and good-looking, fitter and younger than Brock. The crowd shifted and surged and Brock lost sight of them, then he saw them off to the side, talking together in an excited cluster before moving together towards the exit doors, the woman explaining with hand signs where her car was parked.
He stood for a while, a fixed point in the swirling mass, letting the bitter sick feeling subside, then he followed them out into the chilly afternoon.
Kathy made her way to the office of the Streatham Rainbow Coordinator, who set her up in front of a monitor to watch the tapes of the junction at the end of the Singhs’ street. There was a gap of half an hour between the two appearances of the Mondeo, the second timed just a few minutes after the elder Singh had made the online plane bookings for his son and daughter-in-law. In both clips it was apparent that there were two occupants in the vehicle, bulky men who seemed to fill the car’s interior.
On the way back to Queen Anne’s Gate,Kathy got a phone call from Tom. He sounded rushed and there was a lot of background noise, as if he was in a train station.
‘How’s it going, Kathy?’
‘Fine, I’m just heading back. I found one or two-’
‘Great, me too. Look, I’ve only got a minute . . . Oh, got to go. See you later.’
‘Where-?’ But he was gone.
Back at the office, Kathy tapped on Brock’s door. He was at his desk, bent over a file, one of a stack of faded buff folders of a type she hadn’t seen in years.
She sat down and told him what she’d learned and he listened in silence.
‘So Michael Grant is right,’she said.‘We can show a connection between Roach and suspected drug dealers in Cockpit Lane. Should we tell Trident?’
‘Not yet,’ Brock murmured. He seemed still absorbed in whatever he’d been reading.‘What other checks can you make on Vexx and his crew?’
‘Phone records, and I could speak to the lad, George Murray, try to find out why he was spying on us.’
Brock nodded.‘Yes, do that.’
‘What’s Tom up to, do you know?’
‘He’s been spending time with Grant’s research officer. Apparently they’ve got quite a lot of stuff-press cuttings, company information, things like that. But he’s not sure if any of it will help us.’
She turned and left, thinking how tired and preoccupied he looked.
There was a pile of material on Kathy’s desk relating to two other cases she’d put on hold. Now they needed urgent attention, a file report and preparation for a court appearance at the impending trial for another murder case, and several phone calls and a briefing document to the CPS in relation to a serial rapist.She sat down and worked through till almost nine before she headed home, picking up some Chinese on the way.
She was sitting on her sofa in front of the TV when she jerked upright, conscious of having fallen asleep. The empty plate was on the coffee table in front of her, a subtitled movie playing on the screen. Then a rap on the door. She assumed that was what had woken her. She got up stiffly and looked through the spy hole to see Tom’s face grinning back at her.