When he arrived in the office at 9, Brock phoned George Hepple at his Croydon office, leaving a message for him to return the call when he arrived. He rang back shortly before 10.
‘Sorry to bother you again, Mr Hepple. It occurred to us that with you and the Kowalskis selling up, there might be other property movements going on in Jerusalem Lane. Are you aware of any?’
There was a pause.
‘Yes. I don’t think it’s any secret that there is, in point of fact, a proposal for some redevelopment in the Jerusalem Lane area before the council planning committee at this moment.’
‘A council development?’
‘No, it is a commercial project, by a private development company. Do you want their name?’
‘Yes please.’
Again a pause.
‘First City Properties.’
‘How many properties in the block have changed hands over the past few years, would you say, Mr Hepple?’
‘I really couldn’t say, Chief Inspector.’
The solicitor seemed considerably less loquacious this morning.
‘An estimate. Ten per cent?’ Silence. ‘Fifty?’ More silence. ‘Ninety?’
‘I’m sorry, I really can’t say,’ the solicitor said at last. ‘I think you will find that quite a few residents of the area, getting older, have decided to take advantage of a buoyant property market to retire elsewhere.’
‘I see. And Mrs Winterbottom? Had she considered such a move?’
The solicitor’s conversational speed seemed stuck in its slowest gear. There was another pause while he considered the question.
‘She had considered it, yes.’
‘She sought your advice?’
‘No.’
‘You gave her advice?’
‘I really don’t think this is of any relevance to your inquiries, Chief Inspector. Any such conversations between Mrs Winterbottom and myself are a private matter.’
‘No, Mr Hepple, they are not. And the coroner I think will take the same view when an inquest is held. However, I believe you’ve answered my question. Good morning.’
The phone went down at the other end without a reply. Brock tucked himself into a corner between a sandstone wall and a cluster of pink granite columns which carried the ribs of a Victorian Gothic vaulted ceiling. He kept out of the way of the streams of people hurrying across the echoing hall to the various waiting rooms and the courts. After ten minutes he saw Kathy emerge from a corridor on the far side of the hall, then pause to talk intently to a man in a pinstripe suit. Brock didn’t recognize her at first. The fair hair which she had worn yesterday drawn back into a band was now brushed loose. She was wearing a smart black houndstooth jacket and short black slim skirt, and he had taken her for a solicitor or officer of the court.
The man she was talking to had his back to Brock, who could make out thick dark hair curling over a white collar. The man was relaxed, poised, in contrast to Kathy, who seemed agitated, her hands gesturing impatiently. All the same, Brock thought, with some little stab of envy, they made a fine-looking couple. Young, fit, confident, vigorous
… His left shoulder, which had been giving him trouble off and on for years, chose this moment to get cramp. He groaned, straightened away from the cold stone and reached over with his right hand to massage the pain.
Kathy was shaking her head, and suddenly the man reached down and took hold of her hand and held it. He half turned towards Brock, who could see that the face, though handsome and intelligent, was not quite as young as the thick hair and well-tailored figure had suggested from the back. There was a slight chubbiness about the jowls and under the eyes, and lines around the mouth.
‘Martin Francis Connell,’ Brock muttered to himself. ‘Solicitor, squash player, father of four. Married to Lynne Connell, daughter of Judge Willoughby.’
He eased himself out from his niche and walked quickly down the broad flight of grey granite steps to wait for Kathy outside in the sunshine.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Oh fine. Formality, really. Where are we going?’ Kathy asked.
‘Mayfair. To the offices of First City Properties. It seems they’ve bought up most of Jerusalem Lane, one way or another, over the past couple of years. Oh, and Detective Constable Mollineaux seems to have been doing a good job stirring up Terry Winter. He phoned demanding to know why Mollineaux was pestering his managers, and when I told him, he went rather quiet and asked if he could see us again. I said we’d see him at your office at 3.’
‘Great. I’ve a feeling we’re going to nail him.’
She said it with some vehemence, and Brock glanced across at her.
‘Possibly, but not necessarily for doing in his old mum. And how did your dinner go last night?’
‘Oh.’ Kathy stared balefully ahead at the traffic. ‘It didn’t. Something came up.’
‘Sorry. Nothing serious?’
She shot him a look which made him grunt and change the subject.
‘Fill me in on Adam Kowalski, then. A collaborator, you said?’
Kathy nodded and began to fill out the brief account she’d given Brock over the phone.
The plate-glass door to the developers’ offices had no handle and was locked. As they pushed it tentatively, a female voice issuing from the chrome grille in the marble wall panel instructed them to enter.
The door slid open, revealing a small marble-lined lobby. Ahead of them was a narrow, open lift. They got inside and eyed themselves in its smoky glass walls as it rose to an upper floor. Reception was lined with the same dark marble. Its impressively sombre effect was spoilt by the display on the walls of some rather garish watercolour impressions of modern office blocks. A young woman sat at a large toughened glass table, her long legs crossed beneath a surface on which nothing much appeared to be happening. She looked as if she wasn’t long out of some expensive private school.
She eyed them coolly, like a face from the cover of Vogue.
‘Mr Slade’s secretary will be along in a moment. Would you like to take a seat?’
Brock and Kathy subsided into soft black leather cushions. Recessed downlighters in the smoky silvered ceiling picked them out in pools of light, so that they felt like scruffy artefacts on exhibition in an upmarket gallery. Copies of The Estates Gazette bound in clear perspex covers were to hand on glass side tables.
Mr Slade’s secretary was considerably more mature and more functional than the receptionist. She led them down a timber-panelled corridor and knocked at an unmarked door.
‘Come.’
Derek Slade was in his shirtsleeves, his tie loosened at his neck. He was a powerful-looking man in his midthirties, who looked each of them directly in the eye, shook hands firmly, sat them down courteously and ordered coffee.
‘Have we met before, Chief Inspector? Your face looks familiar. No? Well, this is an unusual visit.’ His voice managed to sound both circumspect and quietly forceful. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever been interviewed by detectives from Scotland Yard before.’
Both Kathy and Brock were trying to process his accent in the automatic English way, without success. It seemed both classless and placeless.
‘Yes. Thank you for seeing us so promptly, sir,’ Brock led off. ‘We’re conducting inquiries into a possible murder, and you may be able to give us some background information on the circumstances of the victim.’
‘Really? Is it someone I know?’
‘Meredith Winterbottom.’
Slade looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think the name rings a bell.’
‘Of 22 Jerusalem Lane, WC2.’
Slade’s expression didn’t change. He just stared for a moment at Brock.
At that moment the phone at his elbow burbled discreetly. He lifted it.
‘No calls, Valerie… Oh? All right, I’ll speak to him.’ He smiled apologetically at Brock. After a brief exchange he hung up.
‘My solicitor. A colleague of his wanted to warn me that you might be calling on me. Intriguing. So, how can I help?’
‘We understand,’ Kathy said, ‘that your company has been buying property in the area of Jerusalem Lane. Can you tell us how much of the block you’ve actually acquired to date?’