24
Bren Gurney was back in top gear when Brock and Kathy returned to Jerusalem Lane, issuing instructions over the phone in Brock’s office while munching something held in his big paw.
‘Brass monkey weather,’ Brock complained as they bustled in. He stopped and sniffed the air. ‘That bacon sandwich smells good, Bren. Where’d it come from?’
‘Mrs Rosenfeldt’s Sandwich Bar next door, chief.’ Gurney put down the phone. ‘Chip butties and mushy peas the specialites de la maison.’
‘What! That’s sacrilege! What happened to Rosenfeldt’s Continental Deli?’
‘Swept away by market forces, chief. She did a careful market survey among the DCs here and the lads on the site over the road, got a few recipes from them, did a few sample tastings, and now she’s flogging greasy bangers and mugs of hot soup as fast as she can churn them out. She’s taken on two girls and she’s making a killing.’
‘Unfortunate choice of words,’ Kathy said, smiling.
‘You’re allowed to use phrases like that when you’re in Serious Crime, love. Sets people’s teeth on edge.’
‘Never mind about that,’ Brock said gruffly. ‘Get someone to fetch me one of those bacon sandwiches. No, better make it two.’
‘Yuck.’ Kathy curled her lip in disgust, and Brock began shuffling guiltily through the mail on his desk.
When Gurney returned, Kathy told him about their meeting with Judith Naismith.
‘You believe her?’ he asked sceptically.
‘Yes, I do. At least I believe that what she told us was probably true, although it may not be all she knows. I think she sees us now as being at least a possible route to the stuff she wants, and probably the only way of authenticating it when it turns up.’
‘Do you have a list?’
Kathy gave him the list of book titles that Judith had written out for them.
‘Mmm,’ Brock said, speaking with his mouth full. ‘Better get it typed up and some teams out straight away. Every second-hand and antique book dealer. That’s got to be top priority.’
Kathy nodded.
‘I don’t know.’ Gurney was still unconvinced.
‘A dozen books, Bren,’ Brock said, ‘worth five thousand pounds each. That’s a reasonable motive for putting a couple of old ladies to sleep.’
‘But so traceable,’ Bren objected. ‘What professional dealer is going to get involved once they realize where they’ve come from?’
‘Hence the need to contact Judith Naismith. Get rid of them out of the country.’
‘But what do we really know about this dealer? That he’s male and that he knew how to contact Bob Jones. How? In fact how do we know it wasn’t Bob Jones?’
Kathy shook her head doubtfully.
‘All right, then,’ Bren continued, the bit between his teeth, ‘whoever it is, he contacts Naismith and she tells him that she really wants something else, something that Meredith had that was even more valuable than the books. A manuscript, probably wrapped up in old newspapers or something so you wouldn’t even realize you had it. What does he do? He tries the sisters, and they tell him they haven’t got anything and to get lost. So then he contacts…?’ Gurney raised his eyebrows and looked at Kathy.
‘Meredith’s next of kin,’ Kathy said.
‘Mr Terry Winter, exactly.’ Gurney folded his arms with satisfaction. ‘So now our Terry knows about the manuscript. And he knows he doesn’t have it. So it’s got to be at Jerusalem Lane. He tries every way to get in there to search for it, but the old dears hardly ever go out. Eventually, as the date for Naismith’s trip gets closer, he has to break into his own house in Chislehurst to get his keys to Jerusalem Lane, and then pay his aunts a night-time visit. Eleanor’s the best bet for having the stuff. It was probably in a suitcase under her bed. She wakes up and sees him groping around, and he has to kill her to silence her. Then he makes off with the manuscript. It’s too late to get to Naismith or the book dealer by this stage, but it doesn’t really matter. He can wait. And the beauty is that when he finally does produce it, he can say he inherited it directly from his mother, and Naismith’s provenance is intact. No wonder he can afford Connell!’
Brock wiped his mouth and beard with a paper napkin appreciatively. ‘Good as far as it goes, Bren. Where is the manuscript now, then?’
‘In a security box in the bank, or a left-luggage locker, or with a friend-the missing Geraldine maybe. It’s the first murder that bothers you in casting Winter as the villain, isn’t it, chief?’
Brock nodded. ‘Winter is a spoilt boy who’s never really grown up. I think his mum was still number one. He might try to manipulate her, exploit her, even bully her, but I can’t see him killing her. And besides, he’s got a plausible witness who says he was never within five miles of Jerusalem Lane at the relevant time.’
‘All right. But we’ve been assuming that both sisters were killed by the same person. Why? If Winter did the second, he would want it to look like the first, for which he has an alibi, right?’
‘Who killed Meredith, then?’
‘I don’t know. I think we’ve got to start from the beginning again with that one.’
Brock frowned. ‘Kathy?’
‘There’s something in what Bren says, sir. I’ve always been uncomfortable about not getting to the bottom of what was happening to Meredith before she died. Of course her depression could have been due to Terry putting pressure on her, but I always thought it was more than that-something to do with her life here in Jerusalem Lane. It’s difficult to imagine it now, with them all gone, but the atmosphere was so real, and so intense. They were like characters from some weird melodrama, all so passionate, and all locked together in this little street. Do you remember Dr Botev, and the impression he gave that he knew what had happened to Meredith? And Mrs Rosenfeldt and her dark hints about the Nazis? We put all that to one side. But maybe… I don’t know.’
‘Go on,’ Brock said.
‘Well, maybe they all knew things were coming to an end here, and maybe someone had some final score to settle with Meredith.’
They were silent for a moment, until finally Brock spoke. ‘All right, we know where Mrs Rosenfeldt is. See if you can trace Botev, Kathy. Bren, we’d better get hold of the records from the local CID of that break-in at the Winters’ house. And let’s find those damned books!
‘One other thing,’ he added as they got to their feet. ‘If your theory is right, Bren, about Winter stealing the papers from Eleanor, he probably has to assume that Peg knew Eleanor had them. In which case he won’t really feel safe to sell them until Peg is dead, too.’
Peg received them with her usual radiant composure. She was seated at a table by the window of her hotel room, letters and sympathy cards spread over its surface.
‘People are so very kind,’ she sighed, picking up a card. ‘The Stoke Newington Socialist Guild. How very thoughtful of them to write.’
Kathy felt not for the first time that Mrs Blythe was rather enjoying all the attention coming her way. ‘Peg,’ she began, ‘we were speaking to Judith Naismith this morning.’
The old lady smiled blankly at her. ‘Naismith? Should I know her?’
‘She came to see you and Eleanor, about your books and other papers.’
‘Oh, the dreadful American academic woman!’ She frowned. ‘I’m afraid we had very little time for her.’
‘She told us about her theories. We had no idea you three sisters were the descendants of such a famous man.’
Peg puffed up with pride. ‘Oh,’ she preened coyly, ‘we didn’t advertise it, you know. And these days, being the great-granddaughter of Karl Marx is rather like what it must have felt twenty years ago to be the last descendant of the Tsar Nicholas-you know, a historical relic from a bygone, irrelevant and very unfashionable age.’