‘Marie,’ Adam Kowalski said wearily, ‘we must be hospitable to our guests. They have come all the way from London. Make a cup of tea
… please.’
Grumbling, his wife left the room.
‘She means well,’ Kowalski said without much conviction to Brock, who stayed where he was. Then, turning to Kathy, he said, ‘No. I didn’t know. I’m sorry for the lady, and for her sisters.’
‘Could you tell us what you were doing in London?’
‘We went up to clear the last of the stuff from my shop. We actually sold it about six months ago, but the new owners allowed us time to remove the stock. They said they weren’t ready to let the place again yet, so they didn’t mind as long as I was responsible for insurance of the contents.’
‘Excuse me, sir, you said “we went up”. Was your wife with you in Jerusalem Lane, too?’
‘Yes, we both went.’ Kowalski shifted his gaze around the room as he spoke, avoiding eye contact. Every so often he would look at the window, as if considering an escape out into the sunlit morning. ‘We’d arranged to sell the last boxes of books to a dealer in North London, so Marie and I went up to town on the train last Saturday and stayed overnight with our son, Felix, in Enfield, and then he helped us sort and pack on Sunday morning and load up the van he had hired. We delivered the boxes to the dealer, and then returned to the shop to tidy up. Then we went to the station and caught the train home. We left the shop at about 4, because I remember we worked out that that would give us plenty of time to catch the 4.46.’
‘So your son was also in the area on Sunday afternoon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember seeing anyone, anyone at all, in Jerusalem Lane between, say, noon and 4 that afternoon?’
Kowalski thought, his eyes travelling back to the window. Eventually he shook his head. ‘No, we were in the back room of the shop for most of the time till 1 and then we left, and returned around 2.30, I should think. I don’t remember seeing anyone in Jerusalem Lane. It’s very quiet on a Sunday afternoon.’
‘A man in a bow tie?’
He shook his head.
‘Do you remember ever seeing a man wearing a bow tie in the area?’
Kowalski shrugged. ‘No.’
‘A customer, in your shop? About two or three months ago?’
He looked startled. His eyes darted to Kathy and then veered away again quickly when he saw her staring intently at him. ‘Oh. A customer, you say? Well, you may be right, I do seem to recall… Was there something special about him you were interested in?’
‘Just tell us about him, please, Mr Kowalski.’
The pale skin of Kowalski’s head coloured slightly. ‘I do seem to remember a customer with a spotted black and white bow tie, some time ago. I think… that he came back later, perhaps.’ He looked hesitantly at her.
She nodded, as if she knew this. ‘Go on.’
‘Oh, six or seven weeks ago, I’d say.’
‘What was his name?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’ His expression had become vague.
‘What did he want?’
‘Well, I seem to remember that he bought something the first time.’
‘And the second?’
‘I’m not sure. I think not.’
‘If he did buy something the first time, you might have his name on your books?’
Kowalski looked doubtful. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, not unless he particularly wanted me to look out for something for him.’
‘But if he used a credit card?’
‘I wouldn’t have a record of that now.’
‘Well, could you describe him?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I just remember the bow tie.’
‘Young, old? Tall, fat?’
‘Youngish, I think.’ He shook his head, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t really remember.’ He was becoming slightly flustered. He seemed to search in his mind for something to give her, to satisfy her. ‘When he came in the first time he was looking for something… travel, no… art
… No-architecture books, that was it, architecture books.’
‘And you sold him some?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’
His wife bustled back into the room, carrying a tray with four cups of milky instant coffee.
‘You like sugar?’ she asked Kathy, thrusting a cup at her.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well, don’t stir it, then.’
Her husband’s gaze shifted uncomfortably away back to the window.
She answered Kathy’s questions about their visit to Jerusalem Lane curtly, confirming her husband’s account. Like him, she could remember seeing no one in the area, and she knew of no one who wore a bow tie. She hadn’t been in the shop when the man her husband remembered had called.
‘I wouldn’t say anything against the departed’-Mrs Kowalski’s thinking had evidently moved on while she had been in the kitchen-‘but it doesn’t really surprise me.’
‘Oh?’ Brock prompted mildly.
‘She could drive you mad, that woman.’
Her husband opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. ‘Oh, Adam won’t say it, but she nearly drove him into the grave last year, spreading vicious stories about him. He nearly had a break-down. Our friends tried to persuade her to stop. Felix spoke to her. But she was so stubborn! Wouldn’t be told. It was one of the reasons we began to think about leaving the Lane. Oh yes, I can quite imagine she could have driven somebody to do something desperate!’
‘Your family had a serious quarrel with her, then?’ Kathy asked.
‘No, no,’ Adam Kowalski broke in anxiously. ‘She had meant to help me. It was all most unfortunate. She dragged up things from the past which were best forgotten. She didn’t understand what she was doing.’
‘She wouldn’t be told! She was a stubborn old busybody who liked to organize other people’s lives.’
‘Marie!’ her husband protested. ‘She’s dead!’
Mrs Kowalski snorted and lifted her coffee cup to her mouth. When she returned it to the saucer, she raised her chin defiantly, her pose of righteous indignation somewhat spoiled by a skin of milk sticking to her upper lip.
‘When was the last time either of you had any contact with Mrs Winterbottom?’ Kathy asked.
Mr Kowalski shook his head. His wife said, ‘It was months ago. I don’t think we could have exchanged words since Easter.’
‘Didn’t you say goodbye to them when you left the Lane?’
‘No. There was a little farewell party for us in the Croatia Club, but they didn’t come.’
‘What is the Croatia Club, Mrs Kowalski?’
‘Oh, it’s just a social club which people started years ago, when we first came to the Lane. It wasn’t only for Yugoslavs-that was just a name. It was for anyone in the Lane who wanted to have a chat or play a game of cards. It has a room over the Balaton.’
‘Does everyone in the Lane belong?’
‘No, no. In recent years not so many people go any more. People have left or passed away, you know.’
‘Who came to your party?’
‘Oh, the Bolls, Mr Witz, Brunhilde Capek, Dr Botev for a while. I don’t know, people came and went.’
‘Mrs Rosenfeldt?’
‘No, she wasn’t there.’
‘Did Mrs Winterbottom discuss you selling your property, or talk about selling her own?’
Both the Kowalskis looked surprised. ‘Oh no,’ Adam said. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t do that.’ He smiled confidentially, modestly pleased with himself. ‘We were approached to sell, along with Konrad Witz, by someone who wanted to combine our two properties into one. We got a good price, you know, but the buyer asked us to keep it to ourselves, about selling, for as long as possible. We didn’t tell anyone we were going until a month or so ago. Certainly not Meredith.’
Kathy put her half-finished cup down. ‘Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time. If you remember anything else, you will call us, won’t you? Here’s my card. And we’ll need to talk to your son. Can you give us his address and telephone number?’
Adam Kowalski wrote down his son’s details on Kathy’s pad. ‘He’s a lecturer at the London Polytechnic. Probably he could speak to you after work. Maybe in the shop. He still has the key.’