The Marx Sisters (34 page)

Felix Kowalski related these details in a normal voice, and when Gurney probed and questioned his account, responded quickly with an air of confident reasonableness. Nevertheless, Brock, from the other side of the room, thought he detected the unnatural glitter of shock and adrenalin in the man’s eyes. And something else. Whenever his interrogator looked away, Kowalski would flick up his eyes and glare at him, only softening his gaze once Gurney returned his attention to him. Brock recalled this vividly from the interview which he and Kathy had had with Kowalski the previous September in his father’s empty shop. It was the flicker of an intense anger. Why anger? It seemed an odd, almost involuntary response, as if anger had rooted itself so deeply in the man that it had taken the place of fear, shame and guilt.

For half an hour Brock watched silently as Gurney tried to shake Kowalski, then he got up quietly and left.

There were endless waves of nausea. Each time the brain struggled through the nightmare dark into consciousness it was only to achieve a few moments of agonized retching, hot with curry and bile, and then to slide back into the foul dark again. The eyes wouldn’t open, and the struggle went on with her unaware that Brock was there, frustrated at his inability to help her.

When finally the retching stopped, the brain was overwhelmed by a sensation of clammy claustrophobia. It tried to tell the mouth to cry out a warning.
Someone is trying to suffocate me
. But nothing came, and the brain slid away into darkness.

Brock watched her become calm at last, falling back into sleep. He sighed, nodded to the nurse and left.

Brock and Gurney spoke in the corridor outside the interview room.

‘I can’t shake him on any of it. He’s a superior little prick. He talks as if he’s not got a worry in the world.’ Gurney didn’t try to hide his anger from Brock, just as he hadn’t from Kowalski.

Brock thumbed through a draft record of the interview to date and nodded. ‘Well rehearsed, I should imagine. I’ll have a go now, Bren. Does he know about his mother?’

‘Doesn’t seem to. He evidently hasn’t contacted his wife in the past twenty-four hours.’

‘All right, let’s keep it that way for the time being.’

When Brock took the chair opposite him instead of Gurney, Felix Kowalski gave a little smirk to himself. He believed that Brock and Gurney were intending to use a nice-cop, nasty-cop routine, and he was reassured by their predictability. When Brock asked him what he could possibly find amusing in his present circumstances he looked away without answering.

However, Brock didn’t offer him a cigarette, or try to reassure him that his co-operation would somehow be appreciated and rewarded. Instead he went back, coldly and without emphasis, over details of Felix’s statements to Bren, of his movements the previous day, and on the day of Eleanor’s death and key dates before that. It seemed to Brock, as he studied Felix’s face during his responses, that the effect of the adrenalin was beginning to fade and that he was having more difficulty controlling his voice.

They finally reached Kowalski’s account of Kathy’s fall. Brock paused, staring at Felix with an intensity that made him shift in his chair. When Brock spoke again, his voice remained quiet, yet Kowalski found that it was difficult to focus on anything else, as if it were filling the room.

‘The piece of wood you used has fibres of your gloves at one end where you gripped it, and fibres of Sergeant Kolla’s coat at the other where you hit her on the shoulder. There is also her blood on that end of the timber, over the fibres, where you hit her the second time, across her knuckles,
from which the surgeons have removed splinters of wood, from your weapon.’

Brock was improvising, in the absence of a forensic report, but he had studied the length of timber closely and knew that he was close enough to the truth. Listening to his accuser, a phrase entered Kowalski’s head which he could not drive out:
dies irae
, the day of wrath.

The room, which had been formed by subdividing a larger space into four small offices, was barely large enough for the two detectives to carry out their search without getting in each other’s way. When the night security man showed Brock to the place, they had already gone through all the books which filled the metal shelving on both side walls, and were now on their hands and knees, one going through a stack of files and student essays heaped in the corner below the tiny barred window, and the other pulling up sections of the vinyl tile floor coverings. Brock squeezed in and the detective pulling up the floor straightened up to show him what they had so far.

‘None of the books on your list, sir. But this one is interesting.’

The officer handed Brock a battered old copy of
Scouting for Boys
. Brock frowned.

‘Open it, boss.’

He did so, and found that the centre of the book had been neatly cut out, the hollow refilled with a wad of banknotes.

‘Almost a thousand quid, in twenties and fifties mostly,’ the detective said.

‘Anything else?’

The man shrugged. ‘What you’d expect, really—teaching materials, class lists, stationery. Diaries for the past three years, but they only seem to have class times and staff meetings, stuff like that. And a bottle of whisky, nearly
empty, in the top drawer of the desk. The one that locks. With his passport.’

Brock took the passport, the old type with stiff covers, issued in 1983, valid ten years. There were visa and entry, stamps for Poland for 1983, and an entry stamp for Toronto, Canada, dated 1 September 1989. Brock picked up the diary for the previous year, and thumbed through to the beginning of September. There was an entry ‘Scarborough Conference’ for 31 August, and the following seven days were crossed through.

It was almost 4 a.m. by the time Brock reached Felix Kowalski’s home in Enfield. The lights both upstairs and downstairs were ablaze. Three cars were parked at the kerb and in the driveway. Felix’s wife, Heather Kowalski, was sitting in the kitchen with a uniformed policewoman, while the detectives with the search warrant roamed about upstairs.

Heather’s face was pale and drawn, framed by locks of auburn hair which she tucked wearily behind her ear from time to time. After speaking to the team upstairs, Brock joined her, accepting the offer of a cup of tea from the WPC.

‘Your father-in-law is in the room at the end of the landing, is he, Mrs Kowalski?’

She nodded. Her hair fell forward and her fingers went up automatically. Then they dropped to the table and swept away some grains of sugar which had fallen on its surface. Everything in the kitchen was meticulously in its place, Brock noticed.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we’ll have to disturb him so that we can have a look in his room. Maybe you could help move him to the back room when they’ve finished there.’

‘He doesn’t seem to know where he is, anyway.’ She sounded drained. ‘They won’t need to disturb little Adam again, will they? He took so long to get back to sleep last time. He was frightened.’

‘No, they’ve finished there. I am sorry about this. You’ve no idea where else we could look for books?’

She shook her head vaguely.

‘Has your husband had any particular financial or personal problems lately, Heather?’

She stared at him for a moment. Her plain features seemed permanently set in a look of resignation, now emphasized by a lack of make-up and the pallor of fatigue. Another little shake of the head.

‘I do appreciate how co-operative you’ve been, and I know how tired you must be, but I want to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. I think you must want that too. Have you and your husband been having difficulties lately?’

Her eyes winced and slid away. He suddenly wished he had Kathy there with him to do this.

She lowered her head, but said nothing. He waited, sipping his tea.

Eventually she said softly, ‘He was very upset by what they did to him in the reorganization at the Poly a few years ago.’

‘Really? What was that?’

‘His subject was Russian Culture and Politics, you see, in the Department of Russian Studies.’ She gave a bitter little smile, as if that should speak for itself. Brock wondered if the gesture was her own, or more likely a loyal imitation of the sort of look her husband would have given.

Seeing that he didn’t seem to follow, she explained, ‘They closed the department down. The government decided they no longer needed Russian departments. The Poly reorganized all the people they didn’t want any more into a new Department of General Studies. Felix ended up teaching things that didn’t interest him to all the most stupid students, who were even less interested but just needed to pick up extra units. He’s very bitter about it.’

‘I see. Still, he manages to get away a bit. At least they
send him to conferences from time to time.’ She looked up anxiously at him and he held her gaze. ‘This last one, at the University of Nottingham, wasn’t it? And the one last September, in Canada.’

She looked startled, ‘Canada! No . . . No.’ She smiled at his mistake. ‘Last September he went to Yorkshire—to Scarborough.’

‘There’s a Scarborough in Canada too, Heather. In Toronto. I rather thought that was the one he went to.’

‘Oh no! No, he certainly didn’t. He’s never been across the Atlantic. Neither of us have.’ She gave a little laugh, with fatigue and relief.

The brain tentatively ordered one eye open. There was Brock.

‘What a mess,’ he said, sadly shaking his head.

The brain ordered the mouth to do something. ‘Bringing me flowers again?’ it croaked.

‘From all of us. Can I do something?’

‘Water,’ she whispered. He held the tumbler to her lips, she sipped, felt sick, retched and fell back exhausted. The brain decided that was enough, and switched everything off again.

Felix Kowalski had begun to withdraw behind his bandages.

‘Nothing,’ Gurney said wearily. ‘We’ve been over it all again. Any news of Kathy?’

‘I just saw her. She came out of the anaesthetic at 2 and has been sleeping since. She woke briefly when I was there. They say she’ll live. Bloody lucky.’

They went in and Brock took the seat opposite Kowalski again. He noticed the shadow under the unbruised eye, and a slight shake in the unbandaged hand.

‘Sit up and drink your tea,’ he barked abruptly. ‘Tell me about Toronto.’

Kowalski blinked at him in surprise.

‘Toronto, yes, Toronto. What did you go there for last September?’

Kowalski’s mouth hung open stupidly for a moment as he tried to read Brock’s mind. Then he mumbled something.

‘What?’

Kowalski cleared his throat. ‘Get stuffed.’

‘Last September,’ Brock persisted, ‘just before Meredith Winterbottom died.’

Kowalski snorted, shook his head.

‘The time your wife thinks you were at a conference in Yorkshire. I’ll find out, Felix. I’ll find everything out eventually. Better tell me now.’

He was rewarded by a blaze of anger which burst from Kowalski’s red-rimmed eyes. He tried to get to his feet, swearing furiously. Gurney pressed him back down with one hand on his shoulder, and he subsided, trembling. The anger died away, and when he regained control, he muttered, ‘You can’t connect me to Meredith Winterbottom’s death, and you know it.’

Brock paused before answering quietly.

‘Well, we know that, Felix. Your mother’s already confessed to the murder of Meredith Winterbottom. She was arrested on Saturday afternoon. Didn’t you know?’

Felix rocked back in his chair as if he had been struck. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. ‘No . . . No. That’s impossible.’

‘Not in the least. We established that the times you gave us for when your mother was on her own that afternoon were wrong. Then we found out about her visit to Mrs Rosenfeldt, and following that Mrs Winterbottom. When we went to see your mother on Saturday afternoon she knew what we’d come for. She confessed to killing Meredith.’

‘No,’ Felix repeated, shaking his head. ‘It isn’t possible.’ It sounded more a statement of fact than of belief. Brock leaned forward, watching him closely.

‘Why? What do you know, Felix? What possible doubt could there be?’

But Felix had withdrawn. He sat rigid in his seat, staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes.

‘Felix!’

‘No . . .’ He shook his head furiously, then said no more. Brock sighed and looked at the wall clock.

‘5.35. All right. Give him a bed. I’ll see him again at 9.’

He got to his feet as Felix was led away. ‘Let’s get a couple of hours ourselves, Bren. I’m beginning to feel my age.’

‘I might get over to the hospital, chief; see how Kathy is.’

‘There’s not much point at present, Bren. Why not leave it to the morning? I need you with your wits about you.’

‘What do you reckon to him?’ Gurney nodded towards the door through which Felix had been taken.

‘I think that he’s trying to decide whether to save his mother, or just let her drown.’

‘You think he can save her? She confessed to cover for him?’

‘Something like that. You know, I used to think that organized crime was complicated. It’s peanuts compared with this lot.’

Brock, feeling better for a couple of hours’ sleep, knocked on the door marked ‘Head of Department’. There was an indistinct sound of a voice from inside and he went in. He introduced himself and Gurney. Dr Endicott looked up from the papers on his desk with an anxious, preoccupied frown. His face had deep lines cut around the mouth and brow which contrasted oddly with his smooth skin, as if he
had been prematurely aged all of a sudden. He was dressed in the careful neutrality of a businessman.

‘Yes?’

‘I’d like some information about a member of your staff, Dr Endicott. Felix Kowalski.’

‘Felix? Is he in trouble?’

‘He’s helping us with an inquiry. There’s just a couple of things you might be able to confirm for us.’

‘I really don’t know that I can do that. If he’s in trouble . . . a colleague. Also, I’m due at a meeting at 9.15, so I don’t have time at present. Perhaps you might make an appointment with my secretary.’