opposite directions.
‘It doesn’t really settle anything, though,’ Kathy said. ‘They could have been describing the Sunday before last. Say Winter left her after an hour or so, and went to call on his mother to have another go at persuading her to sell the house. He went in to 22 and found her fast asleep on herbed. Just looking at the cantankerous old bird snoring away there, he knew she’d never change her mind. She was going to sit it out and he’d see his quarter of a million crumble to dust. He’s fuming. He goes into the kitchen for a drink of water, and he sees a plastic bag. He’s seen warnings on the TV about how easy it is to suffocate by accident with a plastic bag. He takes it back into the bedroom and discovers that they’re right, it is easy. Then he goes back to New Cross.’
‘So you see him as a villain?’ Brock smiled.
‘Damn right.’
‘And her too? I owe you a drink by the way. Not at all the scarlet woman.’
‘No. I think she’d protect him, but she wouldn’t murder. I think he returns in a state. He tells her that when he went to see his mother he found her lying dead on her bed with a plastic bag over her head. He thinks she killed herself. He says he took the bag off and put it in the kitchen bin, but then worried that he shouldn’t have. He panicked and left. He’s in a state of shock. He begs her not to contact anyone until he’s had time to think it through. He delays until he hears from his wife that his mother’s been found and the police are on the scene. Now he tells his girlfriend that he can’t admit that he was there, and anyway there’d be no point. She agrees to cover for him.’
Brock nodded. ‘Plausible.’
The pathologist’s report arrived shortly afterwards. Analyses of blood and vital organs had revealed no poisons. The moisture on the inside of the plastic bag was confirmed as Meredith Winterbottom’s saliva, and the hairs were also hers. Dr Mehta’s conclusion was as he had indicated on the phone the previous day—cause of death unable to be determined by anatomical or toxicological analysis, but evidence compatible with asphyxia of some form. The coroner had now agreed to release the body to the family for cremation on the following day.
‘Fair enough.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘Well, I’ve had my fill of life’s tangled web for one day. I think I might go back to the Yard and play with my computer for a while. All right with you?’
‘Of course, sir. I thought we might go down to the seaside tomorrow, to visit somebody else who was in Jerusalem Lane on Sunday afternoon—Adam Kowalski, former professor of Cracow, now resident of Eastbourne.’
9
As on the previous evening, Kathy went by Jerusalem Lane on her way home. This time she saw it not as the temporarily emptied setting for the Doré etching, but rather as a piece of nineteenth-century London in the final moments of its life. Suddenly its presence appeared incredibly robust and indelible, every angle and texture an essential part of the reality of the neighbourhood, like the presence of an old and characterful relative whose imminent passing seems inconceivable.
She walked to the south end of the Lane, where number 22 stood close to the junction with Marquis Street. She had thought of checking on the two sisters, but when she saw the light on in Mrs Rosenfeldt’s deli, she went there instead.
The skeletal figure of Mrs Rosenfeldt responded to the bell. She recognized Kathy and acknowledged her with a tight smile.
‘How are you, Mrs Rosenfeldt?’
‘Well enough.’
‘How about Peg and Eleanor upstairs? Have you seen them today?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve been up a couple of times. So have Mrs Stwosz and Miss Pemberton. I think they’ve had enough visitors. They’ll be better after the funeral tomorrow.’
‘Yes, well, they’re lucky to have plenty of good friends.’
‘Ah . . .’ Mrs Rosenfeldt clucked her tongue. ‘And what about . . .’ She nodded her head
‘It doesn’t really settle anything, though,’ Kathy said. ‘They could have been describing the Sunday before last. Say Winter left her after an hour or so, and went to call on his mother to have another go at persuading her to sell the house. He went in to 22 and found her fast asleep on herbed. Just looking at the cantankerous old bird snoring away there, he knew she’d never change her mind. She was going to sit it out and he’d see his quarter of a million crumble to dust. He’s fuming. He goes into the kitchen for a drink of water, and he sees a plastic bag. He’s seen warnings on the TV about how easy it is to suffocate by accident with a plastic bag. He takes it back into the bedroom and discovers that they’re right, it is easy. Then he goes back to New Cross.’
‘So you see him as a villain?’ Brock smiled.
‘Damn right.’
‘And her too? I owe you a drink by the way. Not at all the scarlet woman.’
‘No. I think she’d protect him, but she wouldn’t murder. I think he returns in a state. He tells her that when he went to see his mother he found her lying dead on her bed with a plastic bag over her head. He thinks she killed herself. He says he took the bag off and put it in the kitchen bin, but then worried that he shouldn’t have. He panicked and left. He’s in a state of shock. He begs her not to contact anyone until he’s had time to think it through. He delays until he hears from his wife that his mother’s been found and the police are on the scene. Now he tells his girlfriend that he can’t admit that he was there, and anyway there’d be no point. She agrees to cover for him.’
Brock nodded. ‘Plausible.’
The pathologist’s report arrived shortly afterwards. Analyses of blood and vital organs had revealed no poisons. The moisture on the inside of the plastic bag was confirmed as Meredith Winterbottom’s saliva, and the hairs were also hers. Dr Mehta’s conclusion was as he had indicated on the phone the previous day—cause of death unable to be determined by anatomical or toxicological analysis, but evidence compatible with asphyxia of some form. The coroner had now agreed to release the body to the family for cremation on the following day.
‘Fair enough.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘Well, I’ve had my fill of life’s tangled web for one day. I think I might go back to the Yard and play with my computer for a while. All right with you?’
‘Of course, sir. I thought we might go down to the seaside tomorrow, to visit somebody else who was in Jerusalem Lane on Sunday afternoon—Adam Kowalski, former professor of Cracow, now resident of Eastbourne.’
9
As on the previous evening, Kathy went by Jerusalem Lane on her way home. This time she saw it not as the temporarily emptied setting for the Doré etching, but rather as a piece of nineteenth-century London in the final moments of its life. Suddenly its presence appeared incredibly robust and indelible, every angle and texture an essential part of the reality of the neighbourhood, like the presence of an old and characterful relative whose imminent passing seems inconceivable.
She walked to the south end of the Lane, where number 22 stood close to the junction with Marquis Street. She had thought of checking on the two sisters, but when she saw the light on in Mrs Rosenfeldt’s deli, she went there instead.
The skeletal figure of Mrs Rosenfeldt responded to the bell. She recognized Kathy and acknowledged her with a tight smile.
‘How are you, Mrs Rosenfeldt?’
‘Well enough.’
‘How about Peg and Eleanor upstairs? Have you seen them today?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve been up a couple of times. So have Mrs Stwosz and Miss Pemberton. I think they’ve had enough visitors. They’ll be better after the funeral tomorrow.’
‘Yes, well, they’re lucky to have plenty of good friends.’
‘Ah . . .’ Mrs Rosenfeldt clucked her tongue. ‘And what about . . .’ She nodded her head
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