Dark Mirror (3 page)

‘I’ve never seen that before,’ Pip said as she hung up. Kathy thought she was referring to the autopsy, but then saw that she was staring at Marion’s mobile, whose buttons she’d been working. ‘No call log, no phone book—no numbers listed at all.’

‘Maybe it’s brand new.’

Pip held it up for her to see the scuffed surface of the cover. ‘She must have wiped the memory.’

‘We’ll have to check the phone records.’

Kathy drove them back to the Scotland Yard annexe at Queen Anne’s Gate where Brock’s team was housed, and dropped Pip outside. ‘I want you to get on to the PNC. You’re looking for reported cases of suspected poisonings, drink-spikings leading to illness or death, unexplained deaths that could have been down to
poison, anything like that. Use your imagination. If Sundeep’s right it’s possible that other cases may have been misdiagnosed. Start with the London area in the past seven days. Also any mention of arsenic.’

Pip looked downcast. ‘You’re not sending me back to the office as a punishment for feeling dodgy back there, are you?’

‘Of course not. We all feel like that the first few times.’

She managed a pale grin. ‘All right, boss. I’m on it.’

T
he librarian approved of the detective as soon as she introduced herself in the entrance hall. They were physically similar for a start, both women lean in build, with blonde hair cut short. The inspector’s name, Kolla, was intriguing, and she wondered where it came from. It made her think of the Kola Peninsula in Russia, and she imagined it having some Nordic source. Her own name, Rayner, was originally Danish. She identified with the police officer’s manner, too—friendly, brisk and searching, she felt, for nuances in the replies she gave. And perhaps that was to be expected, for the professions of librarian and detective were not so dissimilar, were they? Both processing information, seeking cross-references, patterns of order in the blizzard of data.

‘I phoned the hospital first thing this morning and got the terrible news that Marion had died,’ the librarian said. ‘I was appalled of course, we all were, although we realised that something
was very seriously wrong. I’ve never seen anything like that before.’ She shook her head sadly.

‘Did you know her well, Ms Rayner?’

‘Gael, please. She’d been a member here for over a year now, and we often exchanged a few words when she came in, which was fairly frequently in recent months—I’d say two or three times a week. We had a sandwich together once, when we bumped into each other in a café nearby.’

‘She didn’t eat here?’

‘There are no facilities for food or drink in the library at present, although we are in the process of expanding—you’ll probably hear the builders before you go. But there are several coffee shops within a few blocks of here.’ She hesitated. ‘Is that relevant? It wasn’t food poisoning was it?’

Kathy said, ‘It seems to be a possibility, yes. I understand she was returning from lunch when she collapsed. Do you have any idea where she’d been?’

‘No, but I can give you a few names of places to try. Only she had been feeling a bit unwell lately, and she was a diabetic. I told the ambulance officer. I just assumed . . .’

‘They’re still doing tests. We haven’t been able to trace her next of kin yet. Can you help? Do you know of a partner, relatives?’

Gael thought. ‘Well, she was Scots—she had a rather attractive soft accent. She didn’t talk much to me about herself, just her work. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t married, but I think there was a boyfriend, though I don’t know how serious. I noticed a new ring one day, and she said it was a present. It looked expensive, but it wasn’t an engagement ring. Have you tried the university?’

Kathy nodded. ‘We have an address in Southwark.’

‘Really? I thought . . . She mentioned a traffic hold-up at Swiss Cottage one day, and I just assumed she lived up there. Let me check our records.’ She went to a computer and typed, then
looked up. ‘No, you’re right. Stamford Street. Unless she moved recently and didn’t tell us.’

‘Did she have any particular friends here, people she might have spoken to?’

The librarian shook her head. ‘Not that I’m aware of. She just came here to do her work. She was writing a thesis on the Pre-Raphaelite painters and poets; Dante Gabriel Rossetti mainly, I gathered, and William Morris—she was particularly interested in him—and their wives and lovers.’

Kathy looked around, at the classical columns, the leather furniture, the other visitors. ‘Do you get many students here? It’s not an ordinary public library, is it?’

‘No, no, this is a private library, the largest independent lending library in the world. It was started by Thomas Carlyle, who got fed up with conditions at the library at the British Museum, and with not being able to borrow their books. Gladstone and Dickens and others agreed with him, and they established the London Library. You’ll find more students at the British Library, now that they’ve opened their reading rooms to undergraduates, and at the university libraries of course, but we get a few PhD students here wanting to access the specialised areas of our collection, although they have to pay our membership fee. People in need can apply for a grant of up to half of that from our Trust, but I don’t know if Marion did. Do you want me to check?’

‘Yes, that might be a good idea.’

‘You’re interested in her finances?’ Gael’s eyes grew sharp with interest.

‘Just curious. I get the impression she wasn’t hard up—for a student, I mean.’

‘Yes, I agree. She had very nice shoes. I couldn’t help noticing.’

She gave a rueful smile, and Kathy asked, ‘When she collapsed, what happened to her bag, do you remember?’

‘It fell on the floor I think. Yes, in fact her things spilled out. We gathered them up and gave them to the ambulance officer.’

‘Is it possible that anyone tampered with her phone?’

Gael shook her head. ‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Well, I’d better have a word with Mr Ogilvie.’

‘He’s waiting up in the Reading Room, where it happened. I’ll take you.’

They climbed the carpeted stairs to the next floor, and entered a double-height galleried space, its walls lined with books. Several dozen readers were working on long tables or consulting periodical racks and catalogue consoles. Gael took Kathy across the room towards a middle-aged man sitting in one of the armchairs with a heavy volume on his knees. He struggled to his feet as he saw them approach.

‘Nigel, this is Detective Inspector Kolla.’

They shook hands. The man was plump, with pink chubby hands and face, glossy black hair swept flat, a dark suit and tie. His eyes sparkled at her through large glasses. Like a mole, she thought. The librarian left them to get the information on membership grants, and Ogilvie led Kathy over to the spot where Marion had collapsed, describing, with some relish she thought, exactly what he’d witnessed.

‘So she was just returning from a lunch break?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Any idea where she took it?’

‘Well,’ the pink tip of his tongue flicked across his lower lip, ‘as a matter of fact I think I do, yes. Let me show you.’ He led the way to the large windows on one side of the room overlooking St James’s Square. Kathy stood at his side, seeing the gardens, the trees in bud and the equestrian statue.

‘I was stretching my legs, and came to the window and happened to notice her out there, in that seat to the left of the statue. See?’
He pointed. ‘She was reading, and there were paper wrappings at her side, as if she’d been eating a sandwich.’

‘Did you notice a drink?’

‘I think . . . yes, I’m fairly sure she had a soft-drink bottle.’ He nodded eagerly at Kathy, very pleased with himself. ‘She got to her feet and dropped her rubbish in that bin down there before coming back into the library. A few moments later she was writhing in agony on the floor.’

He’s enjoying this, Kathy thought. ‘Did you see anyone else in the square?’

Ogilvie pondered, shook his head. ‘No, I can’t say I did.’

‘Would you happen to know if she bought her lunch from around here?’

‘I’m afraid not. Is that significant? About her lunch?’

‘I’m just trying to get a picture of her last movements, Mr Ogilvie.’

‘Oh, come, Inspector! There may be something I’ve seen that could help you, if only I knew what you’re looking for. You must tell me.’

‘Anything you remember may be useful. Did you see her using her mobile phone yesterday?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Kathy got him to describe exactly what happened when Marion reached the Reading Room.

‘Who gathered up her belongings?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember.’

‘If you think of anything else just contact me on this number, will you? Thanks for your help.’

She gave him her card, and then as she turned away he gave an odd little skip and leapt after her to say in an intimate whisper, as if he didn’t want any of the other readers, who were trying to listen in to their conversation, to hear, ‘She was interested in poisons, you know.’

Kathy spun around. ‘What?’

‘Ah!’ He stepped back quickly, eyes bright, perhaps just a little alarmed by the look on Kathy’s face.

She looked past him at the others watching them, and drew him over to an empty table in the corner of the room. They both sat and she pulled out her notebook. ‘What about poisons?’

‘Oh,’ he said, back-pedalling now, ‘it was probably nothing. It’s just that one day I happened to notice her reading a book called
Famous Victorian Poisoners
, something like that. You see, I’m doing research on Lucrezia Borgia myself, for my company. We publish coffee-table books mostly.’ He wrinkled his nose and handed her his card. ‘Anyway, I made some sort of a joke with Marion and she said it was to do with her doctorate.’

‘So you were on first-name terms?’

‘Well, yes. This is a friendly place.’

‘Do you know anything about her circumstances? Partner, family, home?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that.’

Kathy nodded. She felt there was something here, something beneath the surface, but wasn’t sure what. ‘All right. Well, thanks again, Mr Ogilvie. And do get in touch if you think of anything else.’

Kathy rejoined Gael, who told her that Marion had never applied for any financial help. They walked together to the front door, and Gael pointed to a small bunch of white flowers standing in a tiny glass vase.

‘A little memorial,’ she said. ‘Marion brought these in the day before it happened, and knocked them over when she collapsed. Afterwards I retrieved a few of them and put them in water for her.’

‘I’m sorry, this must be the last thing you’d expect to happen in a place like this.’

‘Not recently certainly, but we have had our dramas. Leigh Hunt’s nephew shot himself here, you know.’

From the way she said it, Kathy assumed she should know who Leigh Hunt was. She looked more closely at the flowers. ‘They’re unusual, aren’t they? From her boyfriend?’

‘Not the faintest. She never said.’

Kathy walked out into the bright day, warming up now, and crossed the street into the central gardens. She checked the rubbish bin—empty—and went to the seat that Ogilvie had pointed out. From there she could be seen from many of the buildings surrounding the square. They would all have to be door-knocked. Lunchtime was approaching, and a few people were making their way into the garden clutching newspapers and packets of food, coatless today.

Kathy spoke to them, showing them Marion’s picture. One thought she’d seen the young woman there, but not that week. All this would have to be done more systematically, Kathy realised, and moved off to check the cafés that Gael had mentioned. On the way she noticed brass nameplates with the titles of venerable clubs as well as international companies—the East India Club, BP, Rio Tinto, the Naval and Military Club—which occupied the Georgian and Victorian mansions that lined the square and surrounding streets. She also paused at the small memorial set up in one corner of the square to Yvonne Fletcher, the policewoman who had been shot dead there in April 1984, during a demonstration outside the Libyan Embassy. It made her think again about Sundeep’s fear of a political motive.

No one she spoke to in the cafés remembered serving Marion Summers, nor could they recall anything unusual happening the previous day. There was a florist’s a couple of streets away, but she couldn’t see any flowers like those in Marion’s vase, and the assistant had no idea where they might have come from. Kathy rang Gael and established that someone in the library had a digital camera, and asked her to send pictures of the flowers to an email address she gave her.

She drove across the river to Southwark, near Waterloo station, bustling and noisy with the sound of roadworks after the patrician calm of St James’s Square, and in Stamford Street found Marion’s address, a converted block of self-catering student apartments. There was no sign of the name Summers on any of the mailboxes in the entrance hall, and the woman at the front desk confirmed they had no resident of that name. After a search of her computer she found that Marion had lived there for two years, but had moved on three months previously. The forwarding address she’d given was the office of the university department in which she was enrolled, at the Strand campus on the other side of the river.

Kathy rang Pip.

‘No, boss, I can’t find anything on the PNC.’ She said it with a sigh.

‘See what you can find out about Marion, will you?’ Kathy gave her the credit card and driver’s licence numbers. ‘I want to know where she’s been living for the past three months. Possibly somewhere out past Swiss Cottage. Maybe we can find where those keys in her bag were cut. And find her parents too. And check Missing Persons, see if anyone’s reported her absence last night or this morning.’

‘Okay. Er . . . someone called Rayner just sent me some flowers—pictures, on my email.’

‘Ah yes. I’d like you to find out what they are, Pip.’

‘Pardon?’ She sounded incredulous.

‘Marion brought them in to the library the day before yesterday. Maybe a boyfriend gave them to her.’

‘Oh. Anything else?’