There was no satisfaction in listening to Marie’s confession. On the contrary, it made Kathy feel deeply depressed. She had immediately sensed a great tension in the little woman, and as soon as Brock made it plain that they knew about her visit to Mrs Rosenfeldt on the afternoon of Meredith’s murder, the words began to tumble out of her in a low, breathless torrent, as if the effort of holding them back had become unbearable.
She had called on Mrs Rosenfeldt to pass the time until Adam and Felix returned. Their relationship had never been warm, rather distant in fact, but Marie thought it only polite to say goodbye to her neighbour. She was shocked to discover the depth of Mrs Rosenfeldt’s hatred of her husband and herself. It was like a physical blow, which left her for a moment stunned.
Then Mrs Rosenfeldt said that Meredith Winterbottom felt the same way. That Meredith was determined to expose her husband’s war crimes. Those were the words she used. No matter where they went, the evil of their past would, one day, be exposed for all the world to know.
Marie left Mrs Rosenfeldt’s apartment in a state of shock, and walked slowly back to Jerusalem Lane. Gradually, the terrible injustice of Mrs Rosenfeldt’s accusations filled her mind. At first she couldn’t believe that Meredith-an intolerable busybody certainly, but not malicious or vindictive-could really intend to persecute them in this way. Then the prospect of their retirement haunted by such ghosts rushed through her imagination. She was overwhelmed by despair, then indignation, and finally anger. She determined to have it out with Meredith. She marched down to number 22, rang the bell, and when no one answered, opened the door and stormed straight up to Meredith’s flat.
At this point Marie paused in her account. She looked rapidly at each of the other people in the room, at Kathy writing in her pad, and her husband staring fixedly at the wall, and finally came to Brock who held her gaze, looking, so it seemed to her, straight into her soul. The hands clasped upon her lap shook. When she began to speak again, it seemed the words no longer wanted to come, but had to be forced, struggling and shameful, out into the room, where they were frequently interrupted by choking sobs.
She described how she found Meredith asleep on her bed. As she looked down at the still figure it occurred to her that there was only one way to ensure that her husband’s last years would not be haunted by the past. She thought of using a pillow, but then recalled the television advertisements that warned of the dangers of children playing with plastic bags. She went into the kitchen, and put on a pair of pink rubber washing-up gloves beside the sink so that she wouldn’t leave fingerprints. Then she found a plastic bag in a drawer. She returned to the bedroom and slipped it over Meredith’s head without difficulty. Meredith passed away peacefully within a few minutes.
On her way out Marie noticed a plastic carrier bag tucked under the bed, containing books. She looked inside and thought she recognized the old and valuable books which Adam had told her about. On an impulse she took them with her. She didn’t mention the books to Adam or Felix when they returned, but later contacted a dealer through the Yellow Pages and sold them. She couldn’t recall his name.
Throughout all this, Adam had sat without moving. It was as if he had heard nothing, although Kathy thought she could detect tears in his eyes.
Brock made Marie repeat the final part of her story, from when she had left Meredith’s bedroom. She used almost exactly the same words as in her first account.
Brock charged her formally with the murder of Meredith Winterbottom, and told her that they would take her back to London with them, where she would be held. He advised her to contact a solicitor. Inevitably this turned out to be Mr Hepple. She had to be helped out to the telephone in the hall to leave a message with his answering service.
When she returned she said, ‘Felix must look after his father now. You must tell him to come.’
Kathy made the call to Enfield. A tentative female voice answered.
‘Mrs Kowalski? Can I speak to Mr Kowalski, please?’
Felix’s wife was hesitant. ‘Who is this?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Kolla from the Metropolitan Police. I need to speak to Mr Kowalski urgently.’
‘Oh.’ More hesitation. ‘He’s away at present. At a conference.’ She spoke uncertainly, as if she found talking on the phone a problem.
‘Well, could you tell me where? Maybe we can contact him.’
‘I’m not sure. It’s at the University of Nottingham… What is this about? Has he been involved in an accident or something?’
Kathy took a deep breath. ‘No. It’s his parents, Mrs Kowalski.’
‘Oh no. What’s happened?’ The woman’s voice sounded flat, defeated.
‘His mother is being detained by the police in connection with a serious offence. She wants your husband to look after his father while she is in custody.’
‘Custody?’
‘I’m afraid so. Look, would it be easier if we took Mr Kowalski senior back up to London with us? I’ll give you an address and a phone number, and you can make arrangements with your husband to pick him up later this afternoon, say around 4.’
They drove back in silence, the old couple like statues together in the back. In the event it was their daughter-in-law who was waiting for them when they arrived, and who took charge of the old man. She hadn’t been able to get a message to Felix yet, she explained, as the conference sessions had finished for the day, although they hoped to contact him when he came in for his evening meal with the other delegates. She had a little boy, about four or five, clutching her hand and she looked drained, as if there were already so many things to cope with that she could hardly bear to find out what this was all about. Brock and Kathy left her talking with Mr Hepple, whose cup was obviously brimming over. Brock had some difficulty being civil in response to the solicitor’s ebullient greeting.
On their return to 20 Jerusalem Lane they found Bren Gurney in almost as good a mood as Mr Hepple. His earlier hunch had been dramatically vindicated, and he felt entitled to some measure of triumph. He himself had had no luck with his own lines of inquiry. The plumber who had worked on Caroline Winter’s kitchen had died of a heart attack just two months before, and no trace of the missing books had been found either, although, as he pointed out to Brock, half the places they visited had been closed for the weekend.
‘Yes,’ Brock nodded resignedly, ‘we’re not going to get anywhere further with that until Monday.’
‘All the same,’ Gurney grinned, ‘this clears the way to charging Winter with Eleanor’s murder.’
Brock shook his head wearily. ‘No Bren, sorry, not yet. You yourself said that his girlfriend will likely as not change her mind about being with him that night. It’s all too circumstantial. Let’s get that damn book dealer first. Find out who he contacted and how much he told them.’
Gurney made as if to argue, then changed his mind and shrugged. ‘All right, chief.’
Brock gave a little nod. ‘See you Monday, Bren.’
Kathy gathered her things together to follow her colleague downstairs.
‘Eleanor’s funeral is tomorrow afternoon,’ she said to Brock. ‘I think I may go.’