‘Saw your light on from the street,’ he said, bringing a gust of cold outdoors and other smells in with him. There was a bottle in his hand and his voice sounded loud and cheerful. He gave her a kiss.‘Someone let me through the front door.’
‘Oh . . . I fell asleep in front of the box.What time is it?’
“ ’Round Midnight”.You know that one? Thelonious Monk. Classic.’ He was searching for glasses, humming to himself.
She checked her watch. It was just after three. ‘You sound happy.Where have you been?’
‘Working, working. We never sleep.’ That seemed to be the cue for another melody while he worked on the cork, filled the glasses and collapsed on the sofa.
‘Phew, I’m bushed. Cheers.’
She joined him. She hadn’t seen the shirt before, purple silk with a dark pattern of some kind. Not a work shirt. He smelled of cigarette smoke, and something else.
‘Cheers. Did you drive here?’
He looked penitent.‘’Fraid so.Shouldn’t have.Won’t be able to drive home after this. Can I stay here?’
‘Of course.’
‘Wonderful.’ He put his glass down with a bump that splashed wine across the table, then laid his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes.‘You are wonderful, you know that, don’t you?’
Kathy got up to wipe the spilled wine.‘What was that all about this afternoon, your phone call?’ she asked, but there was no reply and when she turned back he was asleep. She looked down at him for a moment, at the self-absorbed concentration on his sleeping face, and wondered if she really knew him at all. She spread a spare blanket over him and went to bed.
When she got up in the morning he was still there, curled up beneath the blanket. He woke to the sounds of her making coffee and toast, and sat up with a groan, rubbing his face. She handed him an orange juice and he said he was sorry.
‘What happened?’ she asked.‘Where had you been?’
‘Oh . . . I met somebody, had a few drinks. Sorry.Was it very late? Did I wake you up?’
‘Don’t worry. How’s your head?’
‘Nothing a shower won’t fix. Thanks, Kathy.’ He checked his watch with bleary eyes and jumped to his feet. ‘Hell, I’d better move.’
He had a fast shower,pulled his old clothes back on again,kissed her and ran out the door while she was still making breakfast. As she sat at the window munching her toast she contemplated the smell on his jacket. Cigarette smoke, curry and something else, something familiar.She got up and shook out the crumpled blanket on the sofa and a small white handkerchief fell to the floor.It didn’t look like a man’s handkerchief. She picked it up and was aware of that scent again . . . J’Adore, that was it. J’Adore perfume, she was almost sure. She wondered what perfume Michael Grant’s research officer-what was her name? Andrea-wore.
She went to the window and looked down at the car park.
Tom’s Subaru was parked at an odd angle in the corner. She watched him get in, reverse and head for the street, and as he accelerated away she noticed a dark green car take off after him. She reached for the phone and dialled his number.
‘Yes?’
‘Tom . . .’ She looked down at the handkerchief in her hand, then tossed it aside.‘Is there a green Mondeo on your tail?’
‘What? Hang on . . . No, Kathy, don’t think so.’
‘All right. See you later.’
NINETEEN
The following day Kathy was caught up in one of her other cases, her court appearance scheduled and rescheduled in a frustrating series of delays.While she waited she thought about Brown Bread. Her Rainbow success, identifying the Mondeo, had been a small victory, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. The whole business of Rainbow surveillance had previously seemed rather dumb and unsavoury policing, but now she could appreciate its possibilities. Before long the net would be so extensive that they would probably be able to say where any given vehicle was at any particular time and, with the new facial recognition technology, any given person, too. She smiled grimly to herself at the thought of giving the coordinator Tom’s car number and asking where it was at one o’clock the previous night.What was he playing at? Come to that, what was Brock up to? The whole investigation felt directionless and remote.
When the Crown solicitor finally told her in the afternoon that she wouldn’t be called until the following day, she decided to take the long way back to the office.She made her way down to the Old Kent Road, across Blackheath and onto the Dover road, noticing several cameras along the busy route,but not at the point where she turned off to Shooters Hill. When she reached the golf club she turned into the car park and switched off the engine. There had been a spate of car thefts in recent months as well as two burglaries of the clubhouse bar, and Kathy was interested to see cameras covering the building, the car park and, of greatest interest, the entrance gates.
She got out of the car and walked around the clubhouse, seeing no one. The paraphernalia of golf carts and little flags and greens and fairways brought back the memory of an illicit weekend in Norfolk with Martin Connell, long ago. She’d forgotten about the game of golf they’d played, his instructions and guiding hand. The recollection was intense and bittersweet.
The course was deserted, the open ground enfolded by dark woods. She walked up the first fairway and then cut through a belt of dripping trees to emerge on the edge of the returning eighteenth. On its far side she could see the roofs and windows of The Glebe above its encircling wall. Some of the upper rooms had large picture windows, glinting in the reflected light of the low red sun, and balconies, so that their occupants could enjoy views out over the parkland and woods and the stream that had been turned into a picturesque water hazard across the final fairway.
Her phone trembled in her pocket and she turned back into the trees to answer it. It was Tom.
‘Hi, where are you?’
‘Playing golf.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Kathy, it’s not you. Look, I owe you a huge apology for last night.’
‘It’s all right.You can crash at my place whenever you want.’
‘I’d like to make it up to you. Can I buy you dinner tonight?’
‘Fine. How’s it going with Andrea?’
‘Oh great, we’ve had a good day. She’s given me one or two interesting things to think about.’
‘I’ll bet. Smart is she?’
‘Very. They all are, working over here, but she particularly. Oxford degree, you know. I’ll have to get her to show you around.’
‘Good idea. Damn.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Sorry, I trod in something. My feet are soaking wet.’
‘Where are you, really?’
‘I’ll tell you tonight. And you can tell me about Andrea.’
He took her to L’Odeon in Regent Street, which Kathy had to admit made it a handsome apology.When he gave her a hug she found herself sniffing his collar like a jealous lover. No trace of J’Adore. Maybe she’d been mistaken, what with the curry and the cigarette smoke. But then she remembered the handkerchief.What had she done with it? On balance she decided not to bring it up.
She told him about her day and he laughed.
‘You really were on that golf course? Alone? In the dark?’
‘It wasn’t quite dark. But I felt I needed to get to grips somehow with the reality of the Roaches.’
‘I know what you mean. And did it help?’
‘Not really. I couldn’t see much. I didn’t even want to ask the professional if they played there, in case he got suspicious.’
‘They do play there, the three sons and their wives, and some of their children. They’re all members.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Article and picture in the Plumstead Gazette,a family golf competition day last year. The whole clan in their snappy golf gear, the women with dazzling smiles, the men and kids scowling. I feel I know everything about them, and nothing. Like you say, it’s all on paper.’