Dark Mirror (17 page)

‘We have to consider every eventuality. So you don’t think it’s likely?’

He pondered, stroking his chin. ‘Well, it’s a pretty astounding notion. I wouldn’t have thought of her as the suicidal type. That would be a gruesome way to do it, surely? I mean, she wasn’t stupid. She was rather fascinated by early, tragic death, I suppose. As I mentioned to you, I felt her enthusiasms were a little . . . overripe, one might say—hysterical even.’

Kathy felt her dislike of Tony da Silva’s smugness growing, and had to warn herself not to let it cloud her judgement. ‘Do you recall anything specific in recent weeks? Anything that in retrospect might be taken as a warning, a cry for help?’

‘Not really. She did go on at length about poor old Lizzie Siddal and her death. She took an overdose of laudanum, you know. That’s opium, morphine. I suppose you’ve checked that wasn’t how Marion died?’

‘It seems it was definitely arsenic. Well, if there’s nothing else . . .’ Kathy got to her feet, noticing again the row of his
Rossetti biographies. ‘I must get a copy of your book, Dr da Silva.’

‘Oh, please . . .’ He leapt to his feet and snatched one from the shelf. ‘Be my guest.’

‘Well, I must pay for it.’

‘Don’t be silly. Your first name is Kathy, yes? With a K?’

‘Yes.’

He opened the cover, took a felt pen from his desk and wrote with a great flourish, then snapped it shut and handed it to her. ‘It’s my pleasure. Oh, and, er, I loaned Marion some of my own books and papers. I suppose they’ll be at Rosslyn Court. Could I make arrangements to pop over there and pick them up?’

Kathy sensed anxiety beneath the casual question and said, ‘Not in person, Dr da Silva. At least not for some time. Perhaps if you gave me a list of the things that are yours I could take a look.’

He flushed and muttered that he’d do that.

When she got outside into the corridor, she opened the book and read his inscription:
To Kathy, with enormous admiration for your work, Tony da Silva
.

She wrinkled her nose, wondering what he’d written in Marion’s copy.

It occurred to her that Tina Flowers might know if Marion had a computer so she tried to phone her, but she wasn’t at Stamford Street, nor was she answering her mobile number, and Kathy returned to Queen Anne’s Gate and her paperwork. An hour later Tina rang.

‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Is there news?’

‘I just wanted to ask about Marion’s computer, Tina. What did she use?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I never saw it.’

‘What about you, do you have one?’

‘Yeah, a laptop.’

‘How did you give her the work you did for her?’

‘Mostly it was photocopies and handwritten notes, but I did email her stuff sometimes.’

‘She didn’t give you any computer disks to keep for her, did she?’

‘No. Has something happened? Have you found anything?’

Kathy hesitated, then said, ‘Did Marion say anything at all, well, odd when you spoke to her that last time, on Tuesday morning?’

‘Odd? No, I’ve gone over in my head everything she said, and she seemed normal.’

‘Not depressed, then?’

‘No, quite the opposite. She was happy. Everything was going well for her.’

‘Did you ever hear her talk about suicide?’

‘Well, yes, about the characters she was researching. I was supposed to look out for suicide references. It was on my list of key words, remember?’

‘Yes, but I mean at a more personal level. Did she ever talk about wanting to kill herself ?’

‘No, of course not. She wasn’t like that. Why do you ask?’

‘We’ve found where she was living, Tina—a house in Hampstead. She never mentioned that?’

‘No.’

‘Inside we found evidence that she mixed her own drink that day, lacing it with arsenic.’

‘No!’ Tina’s voice choked off abruptly, and Kathy heard the sound of a gasp or sob. Then she came back on. ‘No, I don’t believe it. She’d never do that. You’ve made a mistake.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ The girl’s voice was suddenly hot with angry protest. ‘That’s the easy way out, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Blame Marion, she can’t answer for herself. Nobody else gets upset.’

Kathy waited a couple of beats, then said, ‘That’s not how we work, Tina.’

‘She would
never
have killed herself.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She was too smart. She had her life together. Despite . . .’

‘Despite what? Who?’

Tina didn’t answer at first, her breathing harsh down the line. Then, ‘If you won’t find out what happened, I will,’ and she hung up.

Kathy turned back to her files, trying to concentrate, and was immediately interrupted by another phone call—it was a man’s voice, a Scot.

‘It’s Donald Fotheringham, Inspector. We spoke on the telephone last Wednesday, if you remember, when you called Bessie Wardlaw, Marion Summer’s auntie.’

The minister, Kathy recalled. ‘Ah yes, Mr Fotheringham. How is Mrs Wardlaw?’

‘Awfy frail, I’m afraid, and quite distraught over Marion’s death. It’s been in the
Sunday Post
, you know, and the
Glasgow Herald
. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Here?’

‘Aye, here in London. I came down on the sleeper. Bessie asked me to try to find out what really happened. She wanted me to speak to you in person. I hope that will be possible.’

‘Yes, yes of course. Where abouts are you, exactly?’

‘I’ve got myself a wee room in a hotel near Euston. I can hop on a bus and be with you any time you say. Maybe I could buy you lunch. Would it be too dreadful to suggest a sandwich in St James’s Square?’

Beneath the sombre tones, Kathy thought she detected a little quiver of eagerness in the minister’s voice, as if he was finding his mission rather exciting.

‘That’ll be just fine. One o’clock?’

•

She spotted him straight away, a tall, rather gaunt figure standing alone beside the equestrian statue. He wasn’t wearing a dog collar, but she had the sense of a stranger in a strange land, taking it all in.

She introduced herself and he transferred a plastic bag to his left hand and they shook.

‘Good of you to see me,’ he said. ‘So this is the place . . .’

Kathy pointed to a bench. ‘That’s where she had lunch, and over there is the library where she collapsed afterwards.’ She pointed to the frontage of the London Library, shouldered into the corner of the square by its grander neighbours.

‘Ironic.’ He nodded at the figure on the prancing horse. ‘She told me once she hated King Billie. She hated the Orange lodges. I believe her father was a member of the number one lodge down in Kilwinning.’

They walked over to the bench and sat down. It was in full sun and felt warm, as if someone had just been sitting there. Kathy was surprised at how much more foliage there was on the trees after less than a week.

‘He left Marion and her mother when she was young, didn’t he?’ Kathy asked.

‘Aye, so Bessie told me. Marion was two. It shaped her life, I suppose, growing up with no father, and a mother whose parenting skills were . . . somewhat lacking, shall we say?’

‘Yes, I’ve met Sheena.’

‘How is she? Bessie wanted me to ask.’

‘Well enough. Works in a supermarket in Ealing. She still seems devoted to Keith Rafferty. Do you know him?’ She showed Fotheringham his picture.

‘No, I don’t believe he ever came up to Scotland. Tell me, that looks like one of those official police photos. Does he have a record?’

‘He does.’

‘Ah. Bessie suspected as much. Sheena was a bit evasive about her husband’s background.’ He seemed about to say more, then changed his mind and reached into his carrier bag. ‘I got one smoked salmon sandwich and a vegetarian one. And two different cans of pop. Please take your pick. I’m happy with either.’

‘I was glad you were there when I phoned Bessie. I’m afraid I gave her a shock.’

‘Och, she’s coping, but she’s had heart problems and has to be careful. Very upset about Marion, of course, but she doesn’t show much on the surface. Quite the opposite of her younger sister.’

‘Bessie was very attached to Marion.’

‘Oh aye. Mind you, it wasnae all plain sailing. She took Marion out of shame at how Sheena had neglected her, and there were some stormy times when the girl moved in, I can tell you. Marion was out of control, and it took all of Bessie’s willpower to bring some discipline into her life.’

Out of control
. It was a phrase that seemed at odds with the picture Kathy had of Marion. ‘Had she been abused?’

Fotheringham hesitated. ‘I wouldnae put it quite like that. But she couldnae stay at that school, not after what happened.’

Kathy raised an eyebrow and the minister sighed. ‘I don’t like to rake up these old stories, now that Marion has so tragically passed away. She was a different person then—wilful, headstrong. She formed a passionate attachment to one of the male teachers.
We were never sure exactly how it was reciprocated, if at all, but one night she painted their two names in huge letters across the front of the main school building, with an obscene word between. You can imagine the mothers dropping their bairns off the next morning and seeing it. It was all around the town in minutes. Marion was fourteen years old. The teacher was suspended, his wife left him, and two weeks later he hanged himself.’

‘Really?’ Kathy tried to square this with the picture she’d formed of Marion.

‘I don’t want to make her sound like a monster. The truth of what happened at the school was never established, and she could be a delightful person, and intelligent, very intelligent. But sometimes, if she was thwarted, a darker side took over. There were times I feared for Bessie after she moved in with her. The neighbours used to tell me about the terrible rows they had. Then finally she seemed to settle down. She made friends with some sensible girls at her new school, and applied herself to her studies. We were very proud of her when she got the scholarship to London. It was the reward for all Bessie’s efforts. And now this. To be the victim of such a thing.’ He shook his head sadly.

‘Mr Fotheringham, I should tell you that new information has come to light which suggests that Marion may not have been murdered.’

‘What?’

‘After some difficulty we found the house where she was living. And inside we discovered evidence that she herself prepared the poisoned juice that she drank here, on this bench.’

The man’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’re not suggesting suicide?’

‘That’s the way it looks.’

‘Oh dear. That’s terrible. Such a death. And so public. Would it have been painful?’

‘Yes.’

‘There was a spell, in her late teens . . . Bessie discovered that she was cutting herself. But we thought she’d got over that.’

They sat in silence for a while as Fotheringham digested this. Then he said, ‘You had difficulty finding her house, you say? Surely Sheena could have helped you there?’

‘No, it seems Marion moved from the student flats where she was living three months ago, and didn’t tell her mother.’

‘That’s strange, is it not? Why would she do that?’

‘We don’t know. We wondered if she was hiding from someone.’

‘Who?’

Kathy shrugged. ‘We considered her stepfather, Keith, but didn’t find any real evidence.’

Fotheringham’s eyes narrowed at her equivocal phrase. ‘I should pay Sheena a visit while I’m here. She was never one of my flock, but Bessie would expect it of me.’

‘Well if you bump into Keith, just be careful. He’s got a short fuse.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. And what about her student friends—is there someone I might speak to? I’d like to be able to tell Bessie something of her life down here.’

‘There’s one, Tina Flowers, you could try. She’s taken Marion’s death hard, and refuses to believe she might have killed herself. It might help her to talk to you, too. I’ll contact her if you like, and give her your number.’

Kathy rose to her feet. ‘Thanks for the lunch, Donald. Keep in touch while you’re in London. Let me know how you get on, and I’ll update you if we get any more information.’

She left him pondering on the bench in the shadow of King Billie. When she got back to her office she found a note with the answer to one of the lines she’d been following up: the present
owner of 43 Rosslyn Court was registered as Marion Summers, as of the twelfth of January. Kathy read the paragraph several times, her pulse quickening. How was this possible? How had a penniless student come to own an expensive house in Hampstead?

Her request for access to Marion’s known email account had not been as successful. It was an MSN Hotmail account, and the data would have to be released by Microsoft in the USA, subject to approval by the FBI, and with all the recent terrorist investigations, delays were expected.

S
uzanne caught the tube to Notting Hill Gate, then walked briskly down the busy thoroughfare of Holland Park Avenue heading west. It was a fine morning for a walk, a breeze sending the clouds scudding overhead, the pavements damp from an early shower. After a while she turned right into the quieter streets of Notting Hill and began to zigzag to the north and west until she came to the curve of Lansdowne Gardens. It was years since she’d been there, and she was amazed at how it had changed, so much so that she almost stopped and turned back, afraid that the memories she treasured would be ruined by this actuality. It wasn’t that the buildings had been redeveloped, nothing like that—she recognised several of the more distinctive ones as she passed. Rather they had all been buffed and scrubbed and painted, extensions tastefully tucked around, gardens immaculately groomed, security discreetly visible. She remembered how it had been that summer she’d stayed
with Angela, forty years before, a scruffy rundown district of old houses in decay, subdivided into bedsits and improvised flats, the warm evenings echoing with the sound of the West Indians’ reggae and the hippies’ Stones. And now look at it. The gloss of evident wealth made her feel vaguely disconcerted, as if the appearance of an old friend had been turned plastic by a particularly exacting face lift.