Brock took another mouthful of beer. ‘Bliss,’ he murmured.
‘You mean he might actually have been in the building all the time we were carrying out our investigation?’
‘It’s conceivable. Or maybe he was tipped off to leave as soon as there was a hint of trouble or scandal.’
Kathy shook her head. ‘The office staff, Beamish-Newell — they would all have had to lie to us, cover up. They provided the lists.’
‘Yes. And if there was one of them there at the time Petrou died, there could have been others.’
‘Hell!’ Kathy pursed her lips with annoyance. Brock admired her mouth — a strong mouth, he thought, determined.
‘That would completely undermine the whole of my investigation, Brock. Are you sure?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt to have a look at their files, look at their bookings, find out the names of the Friends.’
Talking had restored Brock somewhat, and he was beginning to feel almost normal again.
‘You mean, break into the office? Could you do that?’
‘I’d rather not,’ Brock said. ‘I thought you might be able to have a go. Their records will all be on the computer. Ben Bromley’s keen on that sort of thing, I should imagine. The office has two new machines, and he has another on his desk. Couldn’t your systems analyst hack into them?’
‘Belle Mansfield? I’ve no idea.’
‘Why don’t you give her a ring and find out?’
‘Now?’
‘Finish your lunch first, Kathy, before it gets cold.’
While she ate, Brock pulled the sheaf of Stanhope brochures that Bromley had given him out of his pocket and began thumbing through them. One of them, an annual report, had photographs of some of the principal figures: Beamish-Newell, Bromley and, above them at the top of the page, the Chairman of the Stanhope Foundation and its associated companies, Sir Peter Maples.
Kathy pointed with her fork. ‘That’s the one who was in Bernard Long’s office with Beamish-Newell and Tanner that time when Gordon Dowling and I were pulled off the case. I knew I recognized him from somewhere.’
‘Really? So he’s not just a figurehead. Bromley certainly implied that he took it all very seriously.’
‘Should I know about him?’
‘If you read the business section of your paper. He’s what the Express likes to call a “Eurotycoon”. Interests in lots of areas, seriously rich.’
Kathy put down her knife and fork. ‘That’s as much as I can manage,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of Belle.’
When she came back she saw that Brock was clutching a ticket. She smiled to herself but made no comment.
‘Any luck?’ he asked.
‘I got her. She isn’t sure if she can help. The computers would have to be connected to a phone line, you know, to receive electronic mail or fax messages. Then any computer outside with a modem could communicate with them. And then it would depend on how the system had been set up, how security-conscious our comedian was.’
‘Comedian?’
‘Mr Bromley. Didn’t he try to tell you any of his awful jokes?’
‘He began to. So, is she going to have a go?’
‘Apparently, it’s possible the Stanhope computer would record the number of anyone calling in. She doesn’t think it would be a good idea to use one of the police computers or phone lines.’
‘Ah.’
‘Number forty-two?’
Brock glanced up at the call from the bar and signalled. The barmaid came over and placed in front of him a plate of steak-and-kidney pie, chips and mushy peas. ‘Brown sauce, dear?’
‘Please.’ He looked at Kathy. ‘Might as well be hung for a goat as a sheep.’
‘Sheep as a lamb, isn’t it?’ Kathy grinned.
‘Whatever. So what’s the answer?’
‘Belle says her marriage is in need of a boost. She suggests she gets her mother-in-law to come and look after the baby at home while she takes her husband away to have a night of wild sex at some hotel, in the name of Mr and Mrs Smith of course. She’ll take her laptop, which has a modem, and which she can plug into the hotel’s phone line.’
‘That sounds good. Tell her it’ll be my treat.’
‘She can’t go tonight, but maybe tomorrow if her husband and mother-in-law are free. But anyway, she says access to the files will probably be protected by a password. She wondered if you could find out before she tries to break in.’
‘How?’
‘Each operator probably has their own password, maybe their initials or something like that. She wonders if you could watch them when they open up the computer first thing in the morning.’
Brock nodded, munching away.
‘Good?’
‘Wonderful. It restores your perspective on life. I think Beamish-Newell uses starvation to exercise personality control over his patients. One other thing, Kathy. Did you ever find out about Petrou’s financial situation? If he was doing rich people favours, presumably he was doing it for money.’
Kathy shook her head. ‘We never got that far.’
‘His estate may have been wound up by now. Maybe something could be found out about it discreetly.’
Brock drained the pint glass, wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and got to his feet. ‘I’d better be going,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow morning. What have they got you working on this week?’
‘There’s a tyre-slasher on the loose in Crowbridge. It makes a great start to the day to have to interview another dozen or so angry people who’ve had their cars done during the night. Best if you ring me at lunchtime, say between one and two. I’ll make sure I’m in the office.’
The cold air outside was like a sharp slap in the face. Brock took a deep breath and hurried across the street, ducking into the bookshop he’d noticed opposite the Hart Revived. At least no one from the clinic had seen him coming out of the pub. The doorbell tinkled behind him and he looked around. The shop was newly painted and some of the shelves were bare. A woman at a small counter was talking energetically on the phone at the same time as she was wrapping a book for a customer. A man wandered through from the back of the shop and languidly said as he passed her, ‘The van’s arrived, dear.’ She covered the mouthpiece and urged, flustered, ‘Couldn’t you deal with them, darling?’ but he ignored her and moved to the shop window, where he shuffled one or two of the books on display.
Having found it impossible to find any words of his own in response to Grace Carrington’s tragedy, Brock had hoped to find someone else’s words to say to her instead, but as he looked along the shelves his heart sank. He recognized one or two titles which dealt with the subject of death, but doubted whether he would have got much comfort from Waugh’s The Loved One or a collection of the metaphysical poets, were he in her situation.
‘Can I help you?’ The man at the window had come over to him, presumably to avoid having to deal with the van. His wife finished with her phone conversation and customer, and hurried out to the back.
‘I’m having difficulty finding a present for someone. She’s not going to be around long.’
‘Going overseas? How about something on scenic Britain?’
‘No, she’s going to die.’
The man blinked and looked appalled, as if Brock had said something in very poor taste. ‘I … I’m not sure I can be of much help. Our religious section is over there.’ He waved a hand and hurried off to the counter, where he busied himself with a publisher’s catalogue.
Brock was about to abandon his search when he saw a long-forgotten title. He pulled it down from the shelf and turned to the opening words.
The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders …