Dark Mirror (16 page)

They heard an exchange of voices, then Douglas returned with a tray of glasses, followed by an elderly woman and a teenage girl, both dressed in thick coats and scarves. ‘Sophie, Joan and Emily want to go out. Tell them it’s lunchtime, for God’s sake.’

‘I can’t stand another minute in the house,’ the older woman said imperiously. ‘The smell of paint is making me quite ill. Emily and I are going out for some fresh air. If we feel hungry we’ll get something ourselves.’

‘Joan, can I introduce you to Detective Chief Inspector David Brock,’ Sophie said. ‘From Scotland Yard. This is Dougie’s mother, Lady Joan Warrender, and our daughter Emily.’

‘A policeman! What have you done now, Dougie?’ the old woman cried. ‘Stealing from your shareholders? Plundering the vicar’s collection box?’

Warrender gave a pained smile. ‘It’s about that research assistant of Sophie’s, Mother. You heard, didn’t you?’

‘Oh yes!’ Lady Warrender was instantly contrite. ‘I’m so sorry. How awful. And you’re leading the investigation into her death?’

‘An inspector of mine is the senior investigating officer on the case. She’s away at the moment, and I answered Mrs Warrender’s call. Did you know Marion?’

‘Only to say hello to. Emily knew her better, didn’t you, dear? She helped you with your school assignment.’

The girl nodded. She was a plainer, awkward version of her mother. ‘I liked Marion a lot,’ she said softly.

Douglas poured the wine into three glasses as Joan and Emily left, then announced that he would take a sandwich up to his study
and go through his mail. Sophie and Brock returned to her office in the conservatory room.

They sat, Brock admired the wine, then said, ‘You mentioned William Morris’s arsenic mine in Tavistock. Could Marion have gone to visit it?’

‘Not that I know of. It closed down many years ago. I shouldn’t think there’s much to see there now. Why?’

‘We’re puzzled by where the arsenic that killed Marion might have come from.’

‘But surely that will follow when you discover who gave it to her. Do you have a suspect?’

‘The forensic evidence seems to point to Marion having deliberately mixed and taken a poisoned drink herself. We found arsenic in her kitchen.’

‘What?’ Sophie looked bewildered.

‘You find that hard to believe?’

‘Yes, I do. I would never have imagined Marion was suicidal. Did anything drastic happen to her while we were away?’

‘We’re trying to find that out. Were you aware of a man in her life?’

‘No, she never spoke of one. In fact she never said much about her private life.’ She frowned, thinking. ‘I have absolutely no idea where she could have got the arsenic from.’

‘Did she ever talk about the place where she was living?’

‘It was a student flat in Southwark, I believe.’

‘She moved from there about three months ago. She never mentioned a house in Hampstead?’

‘No. It seems I didn’t really know her at all.’

‘Earlier you seemed guarded when you were talking about her tutor, Dr da Silva.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I was. He’s a highly respected scholar of international standing, and the author of the definitive book on
Rossetti. But I felt from what Marion said that the relationship between them wasn’t as it should have been.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘I was only getting one side of the story of course, but from Marion’s odd remarks, she seemed to feel that he was an oppressive figure.’

‘Might they have been in a sexual relationship, do you think?’

‘She never hinted at it, but I suppose it’s possible.’

‘When she left her student flat in Southwark she seems to have told no one where she went, as if she was trying to escape from someone. Could that have been Dr da Silva?’

Sophie Warrender spread her hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘What about this man? He’s her stepfather, name of Keith Rafferty.’ Brock showed her his picture. ‘Mean anything to you?’

‘Oh . . .’

Brock saw the start of recognition in her face. ‘You know him?’

‘Once, as Marion was leaving, we were at the front door together and I noticed a white van parked on the other side of the street. The driver’s window was open and he was staring across at us, and I thought what a mean-looking character he was. It was this man, I’m sure of it. I remember Marion suddenly drawing back into the house, looking very pale. She said she didn’t feel well, and I made her sit down and got her a glass of water. Later I called a taxi to take her home. The van had gone by then.’

‘When was this?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. This year, I think. January or February.’

Brock drained his glass. ‘Well, thanks for your help. I’d better go now. Please let me know if anything else occurs to you.’

When they reached the front door, Sophie Warrender said, ‘I hope this doesn’t sound out of place, Chief Inspector, but I gave
Marion a number of my books and research notes to work on while I was away. I really will need to get them back before too long. Will that be a problem?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Tell you what, I’ll get my inspector, DI Kathy Kolla, to contact you and she can work something out.’

‘I’d be so grateful.’ She shot Brock a dazzling smile, then closed the front door.

•

That evening, in the Long Bar of the National Theatre and afterwards over supper, Brock told Suzanne Chambers about Marion and her connection to Sophie Warrender. Suzanne was as shocked and intrigued by the circumstances of Marion’s death as everyone else, but it seemed there was another reason for her interest. She had read all of Sophie Warrender’s biographies and greatly admired them, but eventually, after a couple of drinks, she admitted that what had originally drawn her to them was the discovery that Sophie was married to Suzanne’s first great love.

‘What, Dougie Warrender?’ Brock looked surprised, then laughed.

‘What’s funny?’ Suzanne stiffened.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ he said rapidly.

‘Did you see him today?’

‘I did, actually. A powerful man, bit flustered from the trip back from Corsica. They have a house there.’

‘In St Florent, yes.’

‘You know all about them, don’t you? You haven’t been stalking him, have you?’

She coloured a little. ‘Of course not. I saw her on TV once, authors talking about where they do their writing, and she mentioned the house in Corsica, and the one in Notting Hill. But
I knew it already. When I was thirteen my best friend at school, Angela Crick, lived next door to the Warrenders on Lansdowne Gardens. I spent a magical summer staying with Angela while my parents were overseas, and fell madly in love with Dougie. He was older, about seventeen, very dark and brooding, my Mr Darcy. They’d just come back to England from India, where Dougie’s father had been a diplomat of some kind. It was my first big passion. His cousin was staying with him at the time, I remember, and he fell for Angela. I wonder what happened to Angela? I remember being devastated when I heard that the Warrenders were moving to New York, but they held on to the house in Notting Hill, apparently. And now you’ve been there, and have actually met them all.’

She looked wistfully into her glass. For a moment, as she had been talking about the Warrenders and the house in Lansdowne Gardens, the memories of those days had come back so vividly, the intensity of the feelings of her youth allowing her to briefly pull away the dulling blanket of years. She thought of Brock’s amused reaction to her confession about Dougie Warrender, and wondered if she would be terribly disappointed if she bumped into him again. Probably she would; they probably wouldn’t even recognise each other.

T
here was a mood of new beginnings on Monday morning at Queen Anne’s Gate. Detectives who had been seconded to Counter Terrorism Command had returned and were ready for new assignments. Bren and the others looked refreshed, hyped up by their spell away. They gathered in the incident room for Brock’s morning briefing, several of them clustering around Pip, whom Kathy noticed as she walked in.

The young DC came over to her and said meekly, ‘Am I forgiven?’

Kathy smiled, pleased to see the girl back on her feet. ‘It was my fault, Pip. I should never have let you go in there alone. Let’s just put it down to experience.’

‘I heard they’ve dropped charges against those guys. I can’t believe it. What about Marion? You’ll let me go on working with you on that, won’t you?’

‘Looks like there’s nothing to work on.’ Kathy told her what they’d discovered at the house in Rosslyn Court. Pip was shocked and started to protest, then fell silent with the others as Brock walked in, carrying a tall stack of files.

‘I hope you all had a good weekend,’ he began, ‘because there’s a heap of stuff to clear up now.’

She
had
had a good weekend, Kathy thought, though it seemed suddenly remote. Guy Hamilton had joined up with them, at Nicole’s insistence, and he’d been good company. He was a structural engineer, he’d told them, waiting to be posted back to a project in the Gulf States.

Brock gave Kathy three files, all liaison jobs with overseas forces through Interpol, tracing fugitives believed to be in London. She wondered if this was him having a little dig at her weekend trip. Without explanation he switched Pip to work with another pair of detectives, and she shot Kathy a penitent look.

When the meeting was over Brock drew Kathy aside and handed her a note summarising his meeting with Sophie Warrender. ‘You should meet her. In fact I said you might take her to Rosslyn Court to collect books and papers that she’d lent Marion.’

There was something about the way he said this that alerted Kathy. ‘So you want me to go on with that?’

‘Loose ends,’ he said vaguely. ‘If you’ve got time.’

‘I’ll get onto it. So you’ve taken away my little helper.’

He smiled. ‘I thought you might like a break.’

Kathy returned to her desk and put a call through to Sundeep Mehta. His advice was precise. ‘The heavy metals persist in the body. If she had a history of taking arsenic, it’ll be recorded in her hair, fingernails and bones. I’ll check. But Kathy, this was a massive, lethal dose. Was she an impulsive woman?’

‘That’s not my impression, Sundeep.’

‘Well, I’ll get back to you.’

She settled down to read through the new files, and made a start in following up the most promising leads. All the same, her mind kept returning to the house in Rosslyn Court. Alex Nicholson’s comments about the absence of a computer stuck in her mind, irking her for not noticing it sooner. Eventually she rang the secretary at the university and asked her if she could think of anywhere else Marion might have kept personal possessions. Karen explained that postgraduate students were provided with individual lockers. She apologised for not thinking to mention it before. Kathy said she’d come straight over.

When she arrived Karen took her to the postgraduate students’ office, a large room with a rank of computer stations to one side and a table and whiteboard at the other. A sink and coffee-making facilities stood in the far corner, next to a bank of grey metal lockers. Karen took her master key and opened one which had Marion’s name written neatly on a label. It was completely empty.

Kathy stared at the void in disappointment, then turned to Karen. ‘Is there anywhere else Marion could have kept things?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Do you know if she had a computer of her own?’

‘Sorry, no idea. We could ask.’ They went around the room, questioning the half-dozen students working at the keyboards. No one knew.

‘How about Dr da Silva, is he here?’

‘Monday . . . he doesn’t have any lectures today.’ She looked out the window. ‘Car’s here. Maybe he’s in the library, or his office. Shall I check?’ She dialled a number on the phone on the central table and spoke a few words. ‘Yes, he’s in his office. He says to go on up. Know where it is?’

‘Yes—thanks, Karen.’

Da Silva answered her knock, swelling up a little as he showed her in, as if wanting to become larger. ‘Welcome,’ he murmured. ‘Please sit down. Any developments?’

‘Possibly. It’s a bit early to say. We found where Marion was living, in Hampstead.’ She watched his reaction closely.

‘Really? Hampstead? Where abouts, exactly?’

‘Rosslyn Court. Know it?’

‘Yes, I believe I do. I’m . . . amazed, frankly.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Well, it’s an expensive address. Not exactly student digs.’

‘Where do you live, Dr da Silva?’

‘Me?’ Kathy thought there was a flush of colour in his face. ‘Not far from there, actually. I live in Hampstead Garden Suburb, just up the road.’

‘That is a coincidence.’

He gave her a little frown. ‘Was it any help, finding where she lived?’

‘Possibly. But I wanted to ask you again about Marion’s access to computers. Surely she would have had one of her own? A laptop, maybe?’

‘Well, I told you this before—I really don’t know. I can’t remember her ever bringing one to our sessions.’

‘Do you have anything of hers?’

‘Eh?’ He looked startled, drawing himself upright in his chair. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I just wondered if she might have left anything with you for safe keeping—computer disks, say, or electronic copies of her documents, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, I see. No, nothing like that. She gave me printouts of her work mostly. I’ve kept those. Once or twice she emailed drafts to me.’

‘I’ve looked in her locker downstairs.’

‘Locker?’

‘The postgraduate students are given lockers.’

‘Are they? I didn’t know.’

‘Anyway, it was empty. Can you think of anywhere else she might have left anything?’

‘Sorry.’ He raised his hands helplessly.

‘We’re wondering if it’s possible she might have taken her own life, Dr da Silva?’

‘What, with arsenic?’ He looked genuinely astonished. ‘You’ve got to be joking, surely?’

‘Why do you say arsenic? I didn’t mention that.’

‘You certainly did to Dr Ringland. He tells me you wanted to know if she could have taken arsenic from his lab.’ He gave her a teasing smile. ‘Or indeed if
I
could.’