They sat in silence again. Kathy thought of Laura Beamish-Newell, her brother and her lost child, and adjusted her perception of the woman in the light of these new facts. If Rose was pregnant when she died, would Laura have been aware of it? And how would she have reacted?
Brock said quietly, ‘Tell us about Alex Petrou, Gabriele.’
She shrugged. ‘He was not a nice man. He was working here in Vicenza at a private clinic in which my father holds an interest.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I had forgotten that it was Stephen who first made Papa consider investing in such a place. Anyway, my father mentioned this man who was causing difficulties for the clinic, a scandal. He said he was like a virus, contaminating everyone he came in contact with — men and women. And when he said that he must be made to leave, to go far away, before the reputation of the clinic was fatally damaged, I thought what a fitting present it would be for Stephen and Laura to receive such a person. It could be my final message to them both.’
She ground out her cigarette with her heel and lit another. ‘I met him and told him that he would be in big trouble if he remained in Italy. I said that, for the sake of my father, I could help him get a new job in England.’
‘And he agreed to that?’ Kathy asked.
‘I gave him some money and I insisted that I drive him to France to make sure he crossed over. He had to go to Rome first to get his papers from the British embassy. I told him things about Stephen. I knew that Stephen wouldn’t be able to resist him.’
‘You mean Stephen is bisexual?’ Kathy said.
Gabriele looked uncomfortable. ‘He … I knew that he found young men attractive.’ The corners of her mouth turned down with distaste. ‘I don’t think he ever … But perhaps these things become more difficult to deny, to control, as one gets older.’
‘You don’t believe it likely that Petrou could have killed himself?’ Kathy asked.
She stared at her beautiful finger-nails for a moment. ‘I think suicide was probably the only thing that he would not have been capable of.’
When Kathy mentioned on their return to the car that she had never visited Venice, Gabriele insisted she couldn’t leave without having done so, since it was so close. As they drove through Mira they found a pay-phone and Gabriele made a call to some friends and arranged to meet them for lunch.
Mists still shrouded the distance when they caught their first glimpse of the golden city, magically suspended in the lagoon, the unreality of its presence only heightened by the heavy odour of the oil refineries in the still air. They drove across the causeway and found a parking place in one of the autorimesse by the Piazzale Roma, then took the vaporetto along the Grand Canal as far as the Accademia, where the queue for the gallery waited patiently around the perimeter of the little square. They crossed back over the canal on the Accademia bridge and followed Gabriele through a labyrinth of narrow lanes until she brought them to an inconspicuous doorway in the sheer wall of a building. They entered and found themselves in a restaurant with a terrace overlooking the Grand Canal. Two people, a man and a woman, were waiting for them at a table on the terrace, greeting Gabriele and her companions with great warmth.
Gabriele came to life in their presence, her face glowing with enthusiasm and the formerly stiff movements of her fingers expanding into flowing gestures of her whole body as she talked to them. Kathy sat back, soaking up the warmth of their company and of the spring sunshine. She turned to Brock and said, ‘This is magic’
He peered at her over the top of his mafioso sunglasses and nodded, sipping contentedly at his vodka and tonic ‘Yes. Better enjoy it while we can. It’s back to the real world tomorrow.’
Later that afternoon in Vicenza, after they had parked the Polo near the West Gate and walked with Gabriele back to the piazza where they had first waited for her, she stopped at the doorway of the Palazzo Trissino-Montanari and turned to Brock, offering her hand. ‘Do you think I was very bad, sending that man to Stanhope?’ she asked.
‘I think it was fate,’ he replied.
And to Kathy, after Gabriele had shaken hands and disappeared into the shadows of the courtyard, he added, ‘A Greek tragedy.’
22
They drove down to Rome the following morning, catching an Alitalia flight back to Heathrow in the early afternoon. As if to ram home the contrast, the Home Counties were once again blanketed by ominous black clouds, into which the plane’s passengers descended reluctantly. The world below was struggling through darkness, drenching rain and a baggage handlers’ dispute. Brock and Kathy finally emerged from the arrivals concourse and tried to work out where they had left their cars in the medium-stay car park. When they had found them, he turned to her. ‘I think you should follow me back to my place, check what’s been happening before you go to Crowbridge. You never know.’
She did as he suggested, trying to keep him in sight through the spray and heavy traffic on the M4, then across the river and through the inner boroughs until they reached Matcham High Street and the archway into Warren Lane. They parked in the courtyard and ran for Brock’s front door, leaving their dripping coats on the pegs inside and taking the stairs up to the study. Brock lit the gas fire and went to make a pot of tea, while Kathy stood in the window bay looking out over the lane and the railway cutting. It seemed much longer than three and a half weeks since they had made toast here and watched the snow swirling outside this window. If she had been able to go back to that Saturday morning in the car with Gordon Dowling and elect to abandon the search for Brock’s house and leave well alone, she thought, sadly, that she would have done it. Not because she thought she was wrong, but because the price had just been too high. She began to tick off in her mind all the people who had paid for her unburdening herself to Brock — Brock himself, Gordon, Belle Mansfield and poor Rose. Four people, and herself — five lives disrupted. Not to mention Rose’s killer.
‘Just bills.’ Brock had been opening his mail while he’d been waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Why don’t you ring your place and see if there’ve been any messages? Will there be anyone there at this time?’
Kathy looked at her watch. It was half past four. ‘Hard to say. I’ll try.’
The number rang several times before Patrick, out of breath, answered. ‘Kathy, you’re back! How did it go?’
‘Magic. I brought the social committee something to cheer them up. Have there been any messages, do you know?’
‘Yes — three, I believe. A woman rang yesterday. I think the name’s on the pad here, hang on … yes, Penny Elliot.’
‘Oh yes. Did she say anything?’
‘Just to ring her when you got back. Your aunt also rang.’ ‘Aunt Mary?’
‘Yes, from Sheffield. Same message, to ring her when you got back.’
Kathy sighed. ‘Anything else?’
‘This bloke called round at the weekend. A real hard man, a Geordie. Wouldn’t give his name.’
A chill went down Kathy’s back. ‘What did he want?’
‘Well, he wanted to know where you were. Jill answered the door, and when she said she didn’t know, he came out with this story that you were looking after something of his that he really needed right away. She said she couldn’t help and pretended we didn’t have your key, but he said you’d given him a key and told him to go on up and find the thing he wanted. He just pushed his way past Jill, but I arrived at that point and stopped him. He was pretty bloody arrogant, in point of fact. We weren’t sure what to do for the best. He went away eventually.’
Kathy’s heart was pounding. What did she have in her room? ‘You did the right thing, Patrick. He isn’t a friend of mine, and I haven’t given him a key.’
‘Christ!’
‘Has he been back?’
‘Not as far as I know. But there’s been a car parked across the street for a couple of days now, with a bloke inside reading the paper. Not always the same man.’