‘Why not? Aren’t all developers rapacious, rotten and ruthless?’
‘No, of course not. Slade is quite a gentleman actually. First City isn’t one of these new high-risk development outfits that have sprung up in the last few years. And they’re not the Mafia either. They’ve been around in the City for a long time. Slade’s father started after the war with his fiftypounds demob money and built First City up to be one of the biggest development companies in the country. They don’t need to prove anything. There’s no way Slade would be involved in something like that.’
‘All right, not Slade, then. One of his people who can see a problem and would like to get it out of the way.’
Bob frowned and stared at his red shoes. ‘Come on, Bob.’
‘Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t, but there’s only one bloke here would have the nerve, I reckon.’ He came back to the table and pointed to a name on the list. Danny Finn.
‘Launching a big building project is like, I don’t know, launching a war. There’s a lot at stake, and a lot of people who have to perform. Just walking down Jerusalem Lane now you can feel it, can’t you? A great powerful machine in motion, the feeling of things in progress, of important choices and decisions being implemented. And the machine has to be controlled.
‘Slade is above all that. He’s the boss, shaking hands, making deals, negotiating with the people outside, the banks and tenants. And people like Quentin Gilroy, and us, the consultants, are too much a part of it, building it, trying to solve the problems it presents. So First City needs someone who can get in there and make sure that everyone else is performing. Someone who is close enough to the machine to feel it tremble, hear it cough, who has oil on his hands and a pair of big boots on his feet for kicking people when the times demand. That’s Danny Finn. He’s a Glaswegian, and you’ve got a lot of ground to make up with him if you haven’t been born in the Gorbals, haven’t been thrown out of work at least once on Christmas Eve, and haven’t had to fight your way out of a waterlogged trench against a drunken navvy swinging a shovel at you.’
Bob sat down and spread his hands out on the table in front of him.
‘I’ve got a lot of time for him.’ He smiled to himself. ‘He likes to go on a bit, usually in the pub, about his underprivileged origins, although now of course, being worth a lot to First City, he lives in an expensive house in Esher. I teased him once that he was a traitor to his class, and he was outraged. “A traitor to the working class, laddie? Never!” and I said “No, Danny, I mean the middle class.” He never forgot that. Always mentions it when we meet: “Here’s the laddie called me a member of the fucking middle classes.”
‘He has a heart of gold in many ways, if he likes you. But he can also be a rough bastard. I remember what he did to Herbert Lowell once. Herbert was doing some building for them, and was being even more pompous than usual, throwing his weight around, and he’d complained a couple of times to Slade about Danny getting out of line. So Danny decided to punish him. We’d arranged a site visit to the project, which was half built. I remember it was a bitterly cold day and dark, with a wind so that you couldn’t unfold the drawings outside the site hut. Danny had noticed on a previous occasion that Herbert wasn’t very good with heights, so he insisted that we go up to the top, up one ladder, then another, then a third.
‘At the top there was a gap between two parts of the building, about six or seven metres wide, with this beam across it, maybe so wide.’ Bob spread the thumb and little finger of his hand apart. ‘Danny marched off across the beam. There was nothing to hold on to. Herbert hesitated, and I could imagine what was going through his mind. The wind was cutting into us and there were flurries of snow in the air. I was right at his shoulder and there was no room to turn. Finally he set off, concentrating on the beam, trying not to look beyond it into the void.
‘Halfway across, Danny suddenly stopped, and turned to face Herbert. “Well, Mr Architect,” he said, “what’s your opinion about that manhole down there?” and he pointed to the ground that seemed miles below our feet. Herbert looked, and just froze. He simply couldn’t move. He was totally paralysed.
‘We had to organize a crane with a big bucket on the end to come up for him. The whole site came to a stop to watch the architect being lowered to the ground in a concrete bucket. It made a terrible mess of his cashmere coat.’
‘I see,’ Kathy said, ‘but would he terrorize some old ladies who were holding things up? Or even bump them off?’
‘No.’ Bob hesitated, shook his head. ‘No, I’m sure he wouldn’t.’
He frowned and stared at his hands.
‘Well, thanks anyway, Bob. One other thing. Did you hear any more about those books you saw at Eleanor’s flat that time-the ones that your friend Judith was so interested in?’
‘Well, yes, I did in a way. A couple of months ago somebody rang me up about them. The call came out of the blue. A man. Said he was a book dealer. He said he had bought these books, and understood I had been interested in them, and was I still? I told him it wasn’t really me who was interested but my friend, and I gave him Judith’s name, address and phone number at Princeton. He didn’t tell me who he was.’
‘Did you recognize the voice? Could it have been Mr Kowalski?’
‘The owner of the bookshop? No, it certainly wasn’t him. I didn’t recognize the voice at all.’
‘We may need to speak to Judith. You’d better give me her address too.’
‘Sure, but she’s here, you know.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, in London. At least she was a couple of days ago. I got this message from her on my answering machine wanting me to contact her. She was staying at a hotel in Knightsbridge. I rang back and she wasn’t there, so I left a message. Then when she didn’t get back to me I tried again later that evening. They said she still hadn’t got back and I asked them to give her the message to ring me whatever time she got in. She never did, and after that I didn’t try again. To tell you the truth I felt I’d done enough running around for her the last time she was over here.’
‘Which evening was it you rang the hotel?’
‘Night before last. Tuesday.’
‘Have you got the number? I’d like to try it now, please.’
‘Sure.’ Bob found it for her and brought a phone over from a side table.
The hotel receptionist was helpful. ‘She checked out this afternoon, madam.’
‘Oh, I’d been hoping to catch her this evening.’
There was a pause at the other end while the woman looked something up. ‘Yes, she had booked to stay another couple of days, but apparently she had to return to the United States earlier than expected.’
‘She went to the airport?’
‘I believe so, madam.’
Kathy rapidly dialled the airport police at Heathrow and identified herself. Judith Naismith had booked on the 7.10 p.m. British Airways flight to New York, boarding in twenty minutes. She had already checked in and passed through to the departure lounge.
‘Hold her there, will you? I’ll get back to you within ten minutes.’
She dialled again, this time the Yard, and spoke to Brock.
‘Right, Kathy,’ Brock said after she’d explained, ‘tell them to pull her off the flight and hold her till we get there. I’ll pick you up where you are as soon as I can.’
Brock peered through the glass panel in the door of the detention room. Beneath a bright fluorescent light a uniformed policeman sat impassively at a bare table with arms folded. Opposite him stood Judith Naismith. She leant over the table, one hand propping herself up, the other resting on her hip. Although only a murmur could be heard through the door, she was clearly haranguing him. She had straight, shoulder-length ash-blonde hair, and was of similar build to Kathy, slim and of medium height, but her body was more angular, her gestures more explosive. When they went inside, Brock noticed her sharp and humourless eyes, and decided that Dr Naismith was going to be a formidable customer.