‘Mr Witz?’
‘That’s me.’ He came out from behind his counter towards them.
‘We’re police officers, investigating the death of Mrs Winterbottom.’
‘I thought so.’ He smiled affably at them. ‘I already told your detective what I was doing at the time.’
‘Yes. You were in church.’
He beamed. ‘At my niece’s wedding in Northwood, twenty miles away, taking the wedding photographs. You want to see the pictures?’ He was teasing her.
‘No, thank you. We’d like some information on a quarrel between Mrs Winterbottom and the Kowalskis next door. Concerning his past in Poland during the war.’
‘Who’s been telling you that rubbish?’ He was suddenly angry. With his pink cheeks and white hair growing in big tufts around, and out of, his ears, he looked like a burly and malignant little gnome. ‘There was no quarrel, just a small misunderstanding, which some busybody women in this street like to blow up for mischief.’
‘Who?’
‘Ach!’ He turned on his heel and stamped back to his place behind the counter.
‘Believe me,’ he waggled his finger at them, ‘you’re wasting your time if you think Adam Kowalski, or anyone else for that matter, would kill Mrs Winterbottom for such a stupid reason.’
‘Wasn’t that the reason the Kowalskis were selling up?’
‘What?’ He looked at her incredulously. ‘Of course not! Adam sold his place on the same day I sold mine, and for the same reason, because it is time to retire, and take things easy. He should have done it long ago.’
As they turned to go, Kathy suddenly stopped and asked him, ‘Can you recall anyone around here who wears a bow tie, Mr Witz? Someone who visits, someone’s relative maybe?’
He shook his head, still grouchy. ‘Bow ties aren’t that unusual. But I don’t remember anyone special.’
‘All right. Thanks for your help.’
He shook their hands with a better grace.
‘When did you both sell, Mr Witz?’ Brock asked.
‘Back in February. It was a sunny day like today when Adam finally made up his mind.’ The gnome snorted. ‘But it took him another three or four months before he finally managed to get permission from that Marie to come to the pub with me to celebrate.’
He suddenly frowned and scratched his ear.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘That’s funny. That day… when he was about to close up the shop to go out to celebrate, Adam had to serve a customer. I remember how impatient it made me, waiting outside in the Lane. And I remember the man was wearing a bow tie.’
Kathy’s spirits rose the further they got from central London. It was a bright, clear day, the sun gleaming off the paintwork of cars, sparkling off their chrome. As they got closer to the sea, the sky became imperceptibly more brilliant, lightened by reflection from the sheet of water which lay ahead. Kathy took a pair of sunglasses from her shoulder bag and put them on. It was the sort of day that always seemed to come towards the end of the summer holidays when she was a child, glowing and bright, made achingly poignant by the knowledge of the dark autumn, dark suburbs and dark school to which she must inevitably return.
Brock was in good form, chatting amiably about the eccentricities of his colleagues and his computers, and then, when they were past Tunbridge Wells and into the woods and farmlands of the Sussex Weald, lapsing into silence as they absorbed the unfamiliar scenery. The Kowalskis had bought a small house on the east side of Eastbourne, on the Pevensey road. A two-storey semidetached on a 1930s estate. Its upper storey enjoyed a limited view eastward down the English Channel, towards the Strait of Dover. Severely pruned rose bushes struggled in beds on the small patch of lawn. Mrs Kowalski opened the front door.
‘Good morning.’ Brock beamed. ‘Splendid day! We phoned yesterday from London. Metropolitan Police.’
She glared suspiciously at them, and they felt obliged to produce their warrant cards. She led them into the front room.
Mrs Kowalski was a small, peppery woman who appeared to be highly protective of her husband. ‘What do you want to see him for?’ she shot at them as soon as they sat down.
‘Perhaps we could explain when he arrives. Is he not at home?’ Kathy, her good mood broken by the woman’s antagonism, spoke with careful politeness.
‘He can’t walk. He’s hurt his foot. He’s upstairs and can’t come down. Ask me your questions.’
‘Perhaps we could go upstairs to him, then,’ Kathy persisted. They faced each other in obstinate silence for a moment, until Mrs Kowalski snorted and got to her feet.
‘Come, then.’
The front upstairs room was furnished as a small sitting room, which became uncomfortably overcrowded with the four of them in it. Adam Kowalski was seated in a cane chair by the window, which had a shallow bow front and was hung with heavy dark curtains. Beside him stood a telescope trained at the shimmering sea on which hovered several long grey ships. The gauntness of his frame was emphasized by the length of his right leg which stuck out stiffly to one side, the foot encased in plaster. As Brock and Kathy entered the room, he tried to struggle to his feet and the newspaper on his lap slid to the floor.
‘Don’t get up, don’t get up.’ Brock went over and shook his hand, despite an attempt at a blocking move from Mrs Kowalski.
The two visitors sat together on a sofa while Mrs Kowalski positioned herself on an upright chair between them and her husband.
‘You follow the shipping movements up the Channel, then?’ Brock indicated the page of the newspaper lying on the floor.
‘Yes.’ Kowalski gave a faint smile. His eyes were rimmed with pink, and his skin was like pale, translucent parchment. He spoke slowly, with a scholarly precision. ‘The novelty of a view of the sea.’
‘We’ve never lived beside the sea,’ Mrs Kowalski broke in. She seemed to feel it necessary to underscore his account with her own more combative statements. ‘That’s why we came here. A complete change. Why not? It’s what we’ve always dreamt of.’
Kathy looked around at the awkwardly furnished room. ‘What did you do to your foot, sir?’ she asked, hoping to return the conversation to Adam Kowalski.
‘ He didn’t do anything to it,’ his wife intervened once again. ‘It was that clumsy son of ours who dropped a box of books on it and broke a bone.’
‘It was a small accident.’ Kowalski fluttered long fingers to mollify her bad temper. ‘But painful.’ He smiled bravely at their visitors.
‘Would that have been at the weekend, then, sir?’
He frowned. ‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps I should explain why we’re here.’
‘About time,’ Mrs Kowalski said crossly.
‘Did you know that Mrs Winterbottom in Jerusalem Lane died on Sunday?’
This stunned Mrs Kowalski into silence. She turned and looked at her husband, as if to see from his face whether he knew and could therefore be accused of not keeping her informed. But there was no sign of foreknowledge. In fact, no sign of anything.
‘The circumstances of her death aren’t clear at the moment, and so the police were called in. We are interviewing everybody we can find who was in the area of Jerusalem Lane between the hours of 2 and 4.15 last Sunday afternoon. We understand that applies to you, Mr Kowalski.’
‘You mean… somebody killed her?’ Mrs Kowalski spoke in hushed tones, her eyes round.
‘We’re not sure yet.’
‘But why else are you involved? Oh, my God! Meredith Winterbottom!’
‘You had no idea about this, sir?’ Kathy inquired.
‘Of course he didn’t. Are you blind?’
Kathy bit her tongue, and turned to Brock. ‘Sir, the news has probably been a bit of a shock. Maybe if you and Mrs Kowalski went and made some tea…’
Mrs Kowalski looked with horror at the big frame of Brock. ‘I stay here!’