Dark Mirror (35 page)

‘Any ideas?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

He watched her go back to her desk and thought,
She’s up to something
. He knew her well enough after all this time.

•

Kathy didn’t have much longer to wait. As she sat down with a fresh cup of coffee her mobile phone rang, the number she’d given Sheena Rafferty. It was Keith, sounding all the more shifty for trying to appear guileless.

‘Yeah, erm, look . . . I was thinking about what you were saying to Sheena the other night, and it made me put two and two together, like.’

‘And what did you come up with?’

‘Eh? Well, some things began to make sense. You were talking about Warrender, right?’

‘Was I?’

‘Well, I know he was Marion’s squeeze. I think I may be able to help you with your inquiries.’

‘That’s very public spirited of you, Mr Rafferty. You’d better come in and see us.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Mr Warrender has got friends all over the place. I just want a little chat, somewhere neutral. You know the Swan in Lambeth?’

‘Okay, but I’ll have a colleague with me.’

‘No, don’t do that. Just you and me, okay? Make it five, tonight.’

•

The pub was dimly lit and almost deserted, the air sour with stale beer. The publican didn’t look up as she came in, both he and a customer at the bar engrossed in their newspapers. She spotted Rafferty sitting at a small table in a far dark corner with a pint of bitter in front of him and, to her surprise, Nigel Ogilvie at his side, sipping anxiously at a Bloody Mary. Kathy went over to the pair.

‘Wanna drink?’ Rafferty said nonchalantly.

‘Not from you I don’t,’ Kathy replied. She sat on a stool facing them and took a tape recorder out of her coat pocket.

Rafferty waggled a finger at it, frowning as if at her bad manners. ‘This is for your ears only, darling. I don’t want my words floating around CID and God knows where else.’

Kathy placed it on the table but didn’t switch it on. ‘All right. What’s the story?’ She looked pointedly at Ogilvie, who flinched and busied himself with a cocktail stirrer in his glass. The left side
of his face was still puffy and discoloured from the incident in the library and he seemed to have lost weight inside his raincoat, which was buckled up as if for a rapid exit.

‘After I saw you,’ Rafferty said, ‘I got to thinking about one or two things.’ He leaned forward to interpose himself between Kathy and Ogilvie, who shrank further into his coat. ‘About arsenic, for instance.’

‘What about it?’

‘A month ago I was in my local and got chatting to this bloke. He bought me a drink and asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a driver for a fireworks company, and eventually, when we’d had a few, he asked if I could get hold of fireworks cheap for some friends of his. He said they built their own rockets, for a hobby. He mentioned the sort of stuff they’d be interested in—black powder mainly, but other chemicals too. He mentioned arsenic.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘No, not really. I thought he might be a cop, trying to set me up. They do that you know.’ Rafferty smirked. ‘He had that look about him. But you never know.’ He reached for his pint, gulped, smacked his lips.

‘So what did you do?’

‘I said I could find out, but I’d need some money up front, my search fee. I asked for a fifty and settled for a pony. He said there was a deadline—some competition they were going in for—and we agreed to meet the next night at the pub. I thought about it and decided not to get involved. The next evening I parked the van outside the pub and took a couple of pictures of him when he arrived. Insurance, in case he got difficult; I thought I could ask around about him.’

Rafferty opened his wallet and took out two photographs. The first showed a man illuminated from a streetlight overhead,
his features mostly in shadow, the second in profile in the pub doorway, both blurry. Kathy didn’t recognise him.

‘Anyway, when I told him I couldn’t help him, he didn’t make a fuss.’

‘So when was this, exactly?’

‘Four weeks ago? About that.’

Two weeks before Marion died. By then she and Douglas Warrender knew about the baby.

‘Did you find out who he was?’

‘Didn’t try. Said his name was Benny, that’s all I know.’

‘You met a man in a pub who maybe wanted to buy arsenic? Is that it?’

‘Hang on. After you called round the other night, I thought about it again. Who was this bloke? Who were his friends? And I also thought about that other thing I was supposed to have done, beating up old Nigel here. So I went to see him.’ He clapped an arm around the unhappy Ogilvie. ‘Go on, Nigel, tell the inspector.’

‘Well . . .’ Ogilvie briefly met Kathy’s eyes, then took a keen interest in his cocktail stirrer again. ‘What I told you about the attack on me in the London Library, it wasn’t the whole truth. I mean, I didn’t know who the man was, but I did know why he was there. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid. He warned me, you see, in no uncertain terms, to tell no one. He even said that he’d hurt Mother. But I wanted to tell you, and when Keith came to see me . . . well, it wasn’t just my word against a total stranger anymore.

‘You see, when Marion collapsed, in the confusion, I picked up a computer memory stick I noticed lying on the floor, meaning to hand it in. Only I forgot about it till later, and then I thought I should open it, just to see whose it was, so that I could return it to them. I soon realised that it had belonged to Marion, and that it contained private correspondence with a lover. I’m afraid—I
didn’t mean to, you understand—I read enough to get his name, “Dougie”, or Douglas Warrender, and the fact that he lived in the Notting Hill area and had an office very close to the library.’

Kathy listened without comment to this tale, probably larded with half-truths and omissions to make it flow, and imagined how greedily Ogilvie would have pored over every detail of Marion’s correspondence.

‘So I contacted him direct, in order to return it to him.’

‘For a price.’

‘Certainly not!’ Ogilvie puffed up in outrage. ‘Although I did feel that his reaction was one of suspicion, rather than simple gratitude. In fact I became quite wary, and insisted that he come to the library to pick it up, where I felt safe. I told him to come to the front counter at midday, where I would meet him. However, at a quarter to, when I was still in the book stacks, I was approached by a man I’d never seen before, who said he’d been sent by Mr Warrender. But far from offering me thanks, this man was threatening and abusive, and when I objected he became actually violent. He hit me several times and threw me down the stairs, before he left with the memory stick.’

‘So it wasn’t Keith here who hit you?’

‘No.’ Ogilvie raised his chin defiantly. ‘I told you that before.’

‘What did this man look like?’

‘Him.’ He pointed a chubby finger at the photographs. ‘That’s him, the same man. In his late forties perhaps, with grizzled hair. A Londoner by his accent. A very tough character. That’s what persuaded me to tell you, when Keith showed me these pictures. Now you can do something about it. Only, I’ll need protection. If they ever find out I’ve spoken to you . . .’

‘We can’t prosecute this man for attacking you without your evidence, Nigel.’

‘No! I don’t want that. Keith said . . .’ He looked anxiously at
Rafferty. ‘He said it would help you, if I told you this, with your main case, Marion’s murder. That’s all I want.’

‘And you’ve done that, Nigel. Good lad.’ Rafferty patted him on the shoulder. ‘Now piss off.’

Ogilvie scrambled to his feet, ducked his head and made off. Kathy looked back at his departing figure and caught a glimpse of the face of the other customer at the bar, before he shifted away behind his paper. Brendan Crouch, Rafferty’s partner in crime.

She turned back to Rafferty. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? We caught you on camera at the library at the time he was attacked.’

‘Yeah, I was there, but I didn’t do it. Fact is, I knew Warrender. I happened to see him with Marion one day, in the West End, having a drink together, all very cosy. I thought, what’s she doing with an old bloke like that? It’s not right. I was thinking of Sheena, see? How she’d feel about it. So I kept an eye on them, and when she left I spoke to him, asked him what his game was. You’ve spoken to him, have you? Smooth bugger, yeah? He told me that they were just good friends, but to keep it to myself, slipped me a few quid and said he might be able to put a bit of work my way. That’s why I was at the library that day. He asked me to meet another guy at the back entrance to lend a hand to pick up some merchandise from someone inside. I was to make sure the negotiations weren’t disturbed. Only I got held up in traffic and I was late. By the time I got there it was all over. I heard the fuss and scarpered.’

He saw the doubt on Kathy’s face and leaned closer, dropping his voice, his breath beery. ‘Listen, I’m just trying to be helpful, okay?’ He tapped the photographs. ‘I don’t know who this guy is. Maybe he’s nothing to do with Warrender. Maybe you can’t use it. But I could be more helpful.’

‘Go on.’

‘Maybe I could arrange for arsenic to be found in Warrender’s car, or on his clothes. Would that help?’

Kathy looked thoughtful, reached for Ogilvie’s glass and took out the plastic cocktail stick. It had a sharp point, for spearing cherries or slices of lemon. She brought it down on the back of Rafferty’s hand, not quite hard enough to puncture the skin. He blanched and his head jerked back, his hand still pinned by the spike.

‘Rafferty, if you so much as think of doing anything so stupid, I’ll have you locked away forever. I’m not interested in your lies. I want the truth.’

She tossed the stick back in the glass.

Rafferty rubbed his hand, his eyes sliding over to his partner at the bar. ‘Fuck you. The truth is that Warrender had Marion killed. We both know that.’

‘Do we?’

‘Yeah. I don’t know why, but he did. Maybe she got too greedy, or wanted him to leave his wife, the usual crap. He tried to make it look like suicide, didn’t he? Fucking weird way to do it, if you ask me. But he’s a scary guy, underneath that smooth suit. I reckon he wanted her to suffer, and for her to know that. And he’s smart and rich. You won’t catch him easily.’

‘What about Tony da Silva? You know him too, don’t you?’

‘Her tutor? Yeah, he contacted me, trying to find out where Marion had moved to. Said it was urgent academic business. Oh yeah, sure.’ He pulled a face.

‘What do you think it was?’

‘Well, he fancied her, didn’t he? And she wasn’t having any.’

‘So maybe he killed her.’

‘Nah. Doesn’t have the balls. And he didn’t know where she lived. Not until afterwards.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I told him eventually, after she was dead.’

‘Yes, he said you gave him a key. Is that right?’

‘Not so as I’d admit it. He phoned me at the weekend, wanting me to tell you, confirm it was after she died. I said forget it.’

‘Of course he could just be using you to disguise the fact that he did know where she lived.’

Rafferty thought about that, then shook his head.

Kathy gathered up the photos. ‘If we can’t identify these I’ll get you to come in to look at some mugshots. Assuming this isn’t just some bloke going for a drink.’

She got to her feet and walked out.

•

When she got back to the office she tried without success to find a match for the man in the photographs. In the end she sent them off to technical support to have them enhanced, and by the next morning she had a reasonably clear large image of his face pinned up on the board, still none the wiser as to his identity. None of the others recognised him, until Bren came in, sniffling and red-nosed, sucking throat lozenges.

‘What’s Harry been up to then?’ he rasped as he passed the picture.

‘You know him?’ Kathy asked. ‘I haven’t been able to find him in records.’

‘He’s not a crook, he’s a cop, or used to be. DS Harry Sykes, retired about four years ago.’

‘Know what he does now?’

‘I can probably find out.’

After making a couple of phone calls he came back with the information that Sykes was now working for a West End brokerage by the name of Mallory Capital.

T
he prince closed the file with a sigh. It had a very smart cover, gold embossed, which he liked, but the contents were impenetrable—bear spreads, cliquets, vanilla options—what did he know of such things? He just wanted to spend the bloody money. ‘Might one smoke, Douglas? One never can tell these days.’

‘Of course, Ricky. I’ll get you an ashtray.’

As he passed the window Warrender glanced down into the street and saw a police car double-parked outside the front door. He gave a little frown, then noticed a solitary man in the central gardens of the square. The figure was clad in a long black coat, with a shock of white hair at its head, and was standing motionless, apparently looking straight up at him. Then the man took a hand from his overcoat pocket and lifted it to his ear. Almost immediately, as if by magic, he heard a telephone begin to ring in the outer office. When the buzzer sounded on his desk, Warrender was almost expecting it.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Warrender, only it’s the police. They say it’s urgent. A Detective Chief Inspector Brock. I tried to tell him . . .’

‘It’s all right, Carol. I’ll speak to him. And get Harry to bring the car round to the front, will you?’

‘I’m not sure I can. The girls downstairs just told me that he’s been arrested.’

‘What’s an iron butterfly again, Douglas?’ There was more than a hint of frustration in the prince’s voice.

‘It’s the four-option strategy, Ricky, with three consecutively higher strike prices and a long or short straddle in the middle. Look, I might get Jason to come and talk you through the technical steps again, okay?’

‘It’s just that Daddy will expect me to know what it’s all about,’ the prince grumbled.

‘Of course. Just excuse me one moment.’

He went out and spoke to his secretary, then took the call at her desk. ‘Hello? Warrender here.’