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.•When Kathy arrived at the house in Hayes, it was the constable who answered her knock.She shook her head, looking over Kathy’s shoulder at Ogilvie sitting ashen in the patrol car, the white van with the search team parked behind, and said in a murmur, ‘Alzheimer’s, I’m afraid.She’s cheerful enough, just can’t remember things.I had to remind her who Nigel was.She seemed to think he was still at school.’The search of Mrs Ogilvie’s home made Kathy feel grubby.It was a small, anonymous detached house in a leafy suburban street, which gradually came to life at the intrusion of the police vehicles.The garden was meticulously groomed, the interior fastidiously tidy.If this is worthy of police time, it seemed to protest, then we’re all in trouble.And indeed the only guilty secret they found was a small and rather embarrassing collection of pornography in Nigel’s bedroom—he was something of a rubber fetishist, it seemed.Apart from that he seemed to lead a pretty boring life, Kathy thought; small wonder he’d found Marion Summers entrancing.They found no trace of chemicals, but there was the computer, of course, to be taken away and examined.Nigel watched from his bedroom window as it was carried out to the van, then abruptly turned to Kathy.‘You may find some more pictures on the computer, now I come to think of it,’ he said stiffly.‘It had slipped my mind.One afternoon I happened to see Marion get on a bus in Piccadilly.On impulse I hailed a taxi and told the man to follow the bus.I said my daughter was on board, and I wanted to make sure she got to her destination safely, without her being aware of me fussing.He probably didn’t believe me.We followed her to Hampstead, a pleasant little mews cottage.I didn’t stop.I took a picture and told the driver to drop me at a tube station.’‘Do you know the address?’‘Um, I believe I do recall.It’s 43 Rosslyn Court.’‘Did you go there at other times?’‘Certainly not.’‘We shall find out if you’re lying again, Nigel.’They left to the twitch of curtains in the neighbouring houses, a heavy red sun sinking in the cold western sky, and made their way back into town, to the offices of the publishing house where Ogilvie worked.There they searched his desk and confiscated his computer.His work colleagues seemed rather excited to discover that dull Mr Ogilvie was a man of mystery, of interest to the police.Kathy waited with the team until it was finished, impatient to move on, to discover if they really had found Marion’s refuge at last.tenWhile the patrol car and van sped off back to West End Central, Kathy headed up to Hampstead.The mews was a secluded street not far from the heath, number forty-three a small detached two-storey, red-brick house with Victorian sash windows and ornamented chimneys.The bell tinkled faintly through the stained-glass panel in the front door.There were no lights on in the house.Kathy was fairly well hidden from neighbours by trees in the street and a trellis arch at the front gate, and the streetlights were dim and far apart; a discreet entrance.When there was no reply she used the bunch of keys they had found in Marion’s bag to open the door.The house had a mildly stale, musty smell, as if no one had opened a window for a while.Kathy trod softly down the carpeted hall, checking a room fitted out like an office on the right, then a sitting room and kitchen at the rear, overlooking the tiny paved courtyard.Then she went back to the stairs in the hall and quickly made sure there was no one in the two bedrooms and bathroom above.Everywhere she had an impression of brand-new, stylish fittings and furniture, and an almost obsessive tidiness.She returned to the ground floor, to the kitchen.It was small, but immaculately fitted out with the latest Miele appliances.She found a light switch, suddenly bathing the granite worktop in light.Everything was in its place apart from some things left out on the bench beside the sink—a six-pack of juice bottles, two removed, one of which stood open beside a half-filled glass of orange liquid, a saucer containing a small amount of white powder sitting on a set of kitchen scales, and a teaspoon.They were the only things in the whole house that weren’t neatly stowed away.She pulled latex gloves from her pocket and crouched to take a closer look.The powder was crystalline, more like fine sugar than flour.Would Marion have added sugar to the juice because of her diabetes? But there was something about it that didn’t look quite like sugar either.She straightened and backed away, then got on the phone for a scene-of-crime team.‘I’ll wait outside in the car,’ she said, and made her way back down the hall, taking with her the half-dozen envelopes she found in the wire mail basket hanging at the back of the front door.They were all advertising material, only one, from a local hair salon, addressed to Ms M.Summers, the remainder to The Occupant.The forensic team had been on stand-by, and arrived quickly.Kathy briefed the Crime Scene Manager at the front steps.‘This is the home of Marion Summers, the woman who was poisoned in St James’s Square on Tuesday.I’m interested to know if anyone else has been living here or visited her recently.Also, there’s some white powder and bottles of juice in the kitchen.I’d particularly like a chemical analysis.It’s possible there may be poisons here.’She put on disposable overalls along with the others, and showed them the powder in the kitchen.‘Not sure what it is,’ the manager said, squinting at it.‘No.I might phone our pathologist.He’s been looking into this.’‘Good idea.We’ll keep out of here until he’s seen it.’Sundeep was very interested.‘I’ll come straight over, Kathy.And you must be careful about fumes.Best you stay away until I get there.’She rang Brock, then began a closer inspection of the house, starting with the ground floor room at the front, which Marion had clearly been using as her office or study.The walls were white, the furniture and fittings modern pale timber and chrome, functional, elegant, and very new [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]