Stung, she unfastened her seatbelt and got out of the car, and then, looking back in through the window, she caught a glimpse of him checking his watch impatiently before he waved and took off. She stared after him and thought she saw a familiar shadow draw out behind him as he crossed the junction down the street, but this time she didn’t phone him.
Sunday, a dark overcast morning, and Kathy woke after a disturbed sleep. The knot of tension in her stomach was still there, and she found she couldn’t swallow the coffee she made. There was only one cure she knew of, and that was work, so she took an empty tube train into the city and walked to Queen Anne’s Gate. The offices, too, were deserted and she felt like an intruder in the silent building.
Loose ends, Brock had said. She went back over her case notes and identified a few. They still hadn’t been able to contact the owner of the red BMW sports car she’d seen in Tallow Square, a Mrs Coretta Wilkins with an address in Chigwell, and Kathy tried the phone number again without success. They had no record for Mrs Wilkins,whose car hadn’t been reported stolen,and it seemed that her improbable presence there must be coincidental. Then there was Mrs Lavender, whom Father Maguire and Brock had mentioned from the old days in Cockpit Lane, but hadn’t been on Michael Grant’s list. She could try to track down people who worked at the old Studio One club on Maxfield Street where the three victims used to go, or trace ‘Rhonda’, who had possibly had a boyfriend called Robbie, perhaps the third and most elusive victim. Or she might find out more about Teddy Vexx and Jay Crocker, and their dodgy laundrette.
She worked for five hours with little success, finding nothing that stirred any real interest in her, until the silence began to get her down. She switched off her computer and left, walking across St James’s Park to Trafalgar Square and on past Leicester Square to Gerrard Street where she had a quiet meal in a tiny Chinese restaurant she knew. Afterwards she went to a movie, feeling as if her life were on hold, waiting for something significant to happen.
The following day she was called to a meeting with the Crown prosecutors,and it wasn’t until the early afternoon that she returned to her desk, determined to draw up a report for Brock, along with a request to be taken off Brown Bread. There was one new bit of information waiting for her on her computer, a list of car numbers courtesy of the Greenwich Rainbow Coordinator, taken from the golf club camera in Shooters Hill. Comparing them with her list of numbers of interest was what her old schoolteacher would have called busy-work, but there was a kind of mindless entertainment in it, like playing a poker machine, hoping for a random match. When she had eliminated all the numbers known to belong to Roach family members she had a list of their visitors’ cars for the past six days.Unfortunately this didn’t cover the night of the Singhs’ intimidation,for the camera tape had been reused since then,but in any case, there was no sign of Vexx’s Peugeot or Crocker’s Mondeo on the list. She began to run checks on the unknown numbers and soon came to one that made her sit up-Mrs Wilkins’ red BMW had been a frequent visitor to The Glebe.Kathy checked the times.
Not just any visitor, but an overnight visitor no less, on three of the last six nights.
Encouraged, Kathy continued to check numbers. Several were innocent enough-a plumber, a messenger service, guests for Sunday lunch who lived nearby. Then Kathy hit another jackpot, and this time she felt that little dizzying adrenaline shock that people describe as heart-stopping. She checked the number again. It occurred four times, twice coming and twice going, both late at night, after midnight, in the early hours of Sunday and before that on the previous Wednesday. A Subaru, registered to Tom Reeves.
She took a deep breath, then got on the phone to Greenwich, requesting digital copies of the camera images for a number of the times recorded.They said it would take a couple of hours if it was top priority and she told them it was, giving DCI Brock’s name. Kathy waited, heart thumping, then rang down to the front desk to see if Tom had signed in that day and was told that he’d been there since noon. She forced herself to complete her check of the car numbers, then saved the file with a new password and began her report for Brock, no more than a list of key facts, the way he liked it.
The file of requested images finally arrived on her computer and she opened the first, for the early hours of Wednesday morning, when he’d turned up exhausted at her flat. And there he was, no mistake,his face caught behind the windscreen by the streetlight opposite the golf club entrance, and beside him, smiling prettily, Miss J’Adore. Then she checked the most recent image, just the other night, after the concert and their quarrel-same again, with the same dark-haired girl. In each case there was a second image taken less than an hour after the first,showing the Subaru emerging from the lane leading to The Glebe,the driver now alone in the car. And then she realised who Miss J’Adore was.
Kathy moved on to the other images she’d requested, of Mrs Wilkins’ BMW, and there was the girl again, behind the wheel this time. She should have thought of it, she told herself-wasn’t Coretta a Greek name? Coretta Wilkins was probably an aunt or cousin of Magdalen Roach, Miss J’Adore herself, who’d been borrowing her car.
‘You bastard,’ Kathy whispered, staring again at the image of Tom and Magdalen in his Subaru.‘You stupid bastard.’ She pressed the key for a print.
She found him in the basement ‘Roach Room’. He was sitting tilted back in his chair, feet up, hands behind his head, contemplating the photos on the wall when she opened the door, and he reacted with a jump, swinging himself upright.
‘Oh, hi, Kathy. How are you?’
She closed the door behind her.‘A bit clearer now, Tom. Here, I’ve got another picture for your rogues’ gallery.’
He reached for it with a smile. ‘Oh, thank-’ He froze as he took in what it was.‘Fuck.’
‘Is that what you do with her?’
He stared at her, mouth open.
‘An eloquent answer. I’m going to see Brock.Want to come?’
‘No!’ He leapt to his feet.
‘What, this is all a terrible mistake, this is not what it seems? Don’t insult me, Tom. There are other pictures.’
‘My God. How . . .Who?’
‘Never mind.’ Kathy reached for the print and turned away. ‘I think I’ll see him myself first.’
Tom rushed towards her, and for a moment she thought he was going to grab her, but instead he threw himself between her and the door.‘Kathy, listen, don’t do anything until you’ve heard what I’ve got to say. Please.’
She considered a moment, then said, ‘All right, but it had better be good. One false note and I’m off.’
He took a deep breath.‘Sit down, please.’ He went back around the table and took his own seat.‘I’m not going to stop you leaving, but it’s very important that you hear me out. It wasn’t my idea to target Magdalen.’
‘Target? Is that what you call it in the Branch?’
Tom held up his hand. ‘Just listen. What I told you about wanting to get out of Special Branch was true-I can’t get on with my boss, and he’s been making things difficult. So when he offered to loan me to Brock for the Brown Bread investigation I was very happy. Then when Brock made it plain that he was going after the Roaches, I had a quiet word with one of my mates in the Branch. He said he’d heard something about another operation against them.’
‘What operation? We haven’t heard about this.’
‘I don’t know, it’s probably in the past. My friend had the impression it might have originated outside the Met. MI5 maybe, or the JIC. Anyway, he felt it could be useful my being here, in Brock’s team, in terms of my career.’
‘As a spy.’
‘No, no. I’ve had no contact with these other people, if they exist, and I haven’t been talking about Brock’s investigation. It isn’t like that, Kathy. I may be able to help him, and us too.’