‘You think I was too rough on him, sir?’
‘No, no. Exactly what he deserved, really. You wonder why he bothers, don’t you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, hauling himself off every Sunday afternoon to bed down with some woman whose every bump and wrinkle must be as familiar as his wife’s by this stage. I mean if he can’t even remember the next day whether she gave his dick a suck-sorry, Constable.’ The WPC in the corner smiled and stirred her coffee. ‘You can understand it at first, the excitement, the irresistible temptation, showing off in a big flashy car to some impressionable girl, but by this stage it must be getting a bit of a chore. And it’s going to cost him plenty, one way or another. Probably already has-that new kitchen, for instance.’
‘You think the wife knows?’
Brock shrugged. ‘I mean, I know I’m getting old, but where’s the point at this stage? I suppose the other woman must have her claws sunk deep into him.’ Kathy opened her mouth to object, but Brock carried on. ‘What do you reckon she’s like? Have to be a stunner, I suppose. Glamorous.’
‘That’s a bit of a stereotype, isn’t it?’ Kathy realized she sounded irritable.
‘Yes, maybe. “The other woman.” Could be an intelligent, sensible, attractive woman like… well, like you, Kathy.’ Brock ploughed on, relentless, pretending not to see the look on her face. ‘But unlikely. Why would such a woman go for a sleazy married man like Terry? Almost bound to be some glamorous, vain young thing. Hairdressing salon manageress. All hair and boobs. Let’s take a bet on it.’
Brock lost his bet. Ms Geraldine McArthur was older than Caroline Winter, and not nearly as striking. She had a wide mouth with a generous smile, and wore her dark brown hair in a plain straight bob. She was obviously very worried, but more self-possessed than Winter had been. She also had a better recollection than he had had of the detailed events of Sunday afternoon, which she related to Kathy without protest, and with some considerable, if embarrassed, dignity. Her account of the past tallied with his in every significant respect, although her version of the future seemed rather clearer than his.
‘Terry has been working out with his accountant how things can be settled with Caroline, his wife. It’s complicated, you see, with the loans outstanding for the businesses and the cars leased, and so on. It’s taking him a long time to work out just the best way to do it, so that everyone comes out of it all right. He wants to have that all worked out before he tells Caroline that he wants a divorce, to make it as painless as possible. I think he’s right about that. Only the accountant is being very slow.’
Kathy’s eyes narrowed.
‘His two girls are quite grown up now, so it shouldn’t be too hard on them. I have two boys, six and nine. My husband married again not long after we were divorced, and because he and his wife have a nice home with a garden for pets and so on, and good schools near by, we agreed that the boys would live with them. My flat isn’t really suitable. But when Terry and I get married, I shall apply for custody of the boys.’
‘I see.’
Kathy seemed temporarily lost for words. The rustle of writing in the corner stopped, and for a moment a heavy silence hung in the room.
‘Did you ever meet Terry’s mother, Ms McArthur?’ Brock asked at last.
‘No. I would have liked to. But it didn’t seem possible. She would have been very upset to learn that Terry’s marriage was a failure. Although I think we would have got on after she’d got over the divorce. She was very fond of Terry, and she would have seen how much in love we are. I think she was a generous person.’
‘In terms of money?’
‘Yes. I don’t think she had a lot, but she was very independent, and she was always buying things for Terry and his family. Terry used to complain about her being too generous.’
‘And did Terry ever talk about getting financial assistance from his mother-for his business, or to help with the divorce, for example?’
Geraldine McArthur frowned. ‘No, he never said anything about that.’
‘Or about the possibility of her selling her house?’
‘Yes, he did talk about how unsuitable it was for her, and how she should sell it. She was quite stubborn, I understand.’
From the window of Kathy’s office, Brock looked down on the figures of Winter and his girlfriend as they emerged on to the street. They spoke briefly and then parted, walking away in opposite directions.
‘It doesn’t really settle anything, though,’ Kathy said. ‘They could have been describing the Sunday before last. Say Winter left her after an hour or so, and went to call on his mother to have another go at persuading her to sell the house. He went in to 22 and found her fast asleep on her bed. Just looking at the cantankerous old bird snoring away there, he knew she’d never change her mind. She was going to sit it out and he’d see his quarter of a million crumble to dust. He’s fuming. He goes into the kitchen for a drink of water, and he sees a plastic bag. He’s seen warnings on the TV about how easy it is to suffocate by accident with a plastic bag. He takes it back into the bedroom and discovers that they’re right, it is easy. Then he goes back to New Cross.’
‘So you see him as a villain?’ Brock smiled.
‘Damn right.’
‘And her too? I owe you a drink by the way. Not at all the scarlet woman.’
‘No. I think she’d protect him, but she wouldn’t murder. I think he returns in a state. He tells her that when he went to see his mother he found her lying dead on her bed with a plastic bag over her head. He thinks she killed herself. He says he took the bag off and put it in the kitchen bin, but then worried that he shouldn’t have. He panicked and left. He’s in a state of shock. He begs her not to contact anyone until he’s had time to think it through. He delays until he hears from his wife that his mother’s been found and the police are on the scene. Now he tells his girlfriend that he can’t admit that he was there, and anyway there’d be no point. She agrees to cover for him.’
Brock nodded. ‘Plausible.’
The pathologist’s report arrived shortly afterwards. Analyses of blood and vital organs had revealed no poisons. The moisture on the inside of the plastic bag was confirmed as Meredith Winterbottom’s saliva, and the hairs were also hers. Dr Mehta’s conclusion was as he had indicated on the phone the previous day-cause of death unable to be determined by anatomical or toxicological analysis, but evidence compatible with asphyxia of some form. The coroner had now agreed to release the body to the family for cremation on the following day.
‘Fair enough.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘Well, I’ve had my fill of life’s tangled web for one day. I think I might go back to the Yard and play with my computer for a while. All right with you?’
‘Of course, sir. I thought we might go down to the seaside tomorrow, to visit somebody else who was in Jerusalem Lane on Sunday afternoon-Adam Kowalski, former professor of Cracow, now resident of Eastbourne.’
9
As on the previous evening, Kathy went by Jerusalem Lane on her way home. This time she saw it not as the temporarily emptied setting for the Dore etching, but rather as a piece of nineteenth-century London in the final moments of its life. Suddenly its presence appeared incredibly robust and indelible, every angle and texture an essential part of the reality of the neighbourhood, like the presence of an old and characterful relative whose imminent passing seems inconceivable.
She walked to the south end of the Lane, where number 22 stood close to the junction with Marquis Street. She had thought of checking on the two sisters, but when she saw the light on in Mrs Rosenfeldt’s deli, she went there instead.
The skeletal figure of Mrs Rosenfeldt responded to the bell. She recognized Kathy and acknowledged her with a tight smile.
‘How are you, Mrs Rosenfeldt?’
‘Well enough.’