‘So who might use that?’ Mariner asked, cutting to the chase.
‘As far as I know it’s not a domestically used product,’ Rick said. ‘But it would be used anywhere where industrial-scale painting goes on; anywhere that surfaces need to be cleaned afterwards, maybe a paint shop or something like that.’
‘OK, thanks, Rick, that’s been helpful.’ Mariner was studying the report again and considering the implications of what Fraser had said, when a shadow fell across his desk and there was a tentative knock on the door. He looked up to see PC Solomon.
‘Come in.’ Mariner gestured to the chair opposite him. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine, sir, thanks,’ Solomon said, lowering his considerable bulk.
‘Not easy, making that kind of discovery,’ Mariner said. ‘Are you coping all right with it?’
‘Yes, sir, I think so.’ Solomon was clutching his notebook.
‘What have you got for us?’
‘I was assigned the house-to-house on Mrs Silvero’s street,’ Solomon said. ‘I thought you might want to know this.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘The woman who lives next door to Nina Silvero, Audrey Patterson. There was no one at home when I first went round, so I had to go back this morning. It might be nothing but -’
‘Go on,’ Mariner prompted.
‘She was out working in her back garden a couple of weeks back when she overheard what she called a “heated exchange” between Nina Silvero and her stepdaughter.’
Suddenly Mariner was interested.
‘She said that basically it sounded like Rachel Hordern was asking for money, a loan so that she and her husband could start some kind of business enterprise.’ Solomon read from the notes he’d taken. ‘Nina Silvero refused, the two of them argued for a bit, and then Rachel left.’ He looked up again at Mariner. ‘I thought you might want to speak to her.’
‘You thought exactly right,’ said Mariner, lifting his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Well done, Ralph. You just got yourself another Brownie point.’
Audrey Patterson had been Nina Silvero’s neighbour for thirty years, she told Mariner as they sat in a conservatory overlooking her garden, and, Mariner deduced, was probably about the same age. The shoulder-length hair would have long since ceased to be naturally ebony, but her face was smooth and unlined. She had agreed to see Mariner before her Thursday-afternoon yoga class and was dressed in preparation for it in a plum-coloured velour track suit.
Audrey had been devastated by what had happened to Nina. ‘I feel terrible, because Ray and I always try to be good neighbours. We were out at a church function the night she died, but we were at home all day on that Monday, so we must have been going about our business here while she was lying in the kitchen -’ She broke off, unable to say the word. ‘I feel dreadful about it.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ Mariner reassured her. ‘We’d all like the gift of x-ray vision sometimes. But I understand you overheard an argument between Nina and her stepdaughter quite recently.’
‘Yes, it was a couple of weeks ago. Rachel and the baby came to stay for the weekend.’
‘Not Rachel’s husband?’ asked Mariner.
‘No. Rachel visited her mother quite often - every couple of weeks or so - and I think it was more difficult for Adam to get away.’
‘And you overheard a disagreement?’ Mariner prompted.
‘Yes, it was on the Sunday afternoon. I think little Harry must have been having a nap because I noticed that the back curtains were drawn. I wasn’t eavesdropping, I couldn’t help but hear.’ She was keen to make that clear. ‘I was doing some weeding in the flowerbed just down here -’ she indicated an immaculate border just beyond the window ‘- and they were out on the patio, and speaking quite loudly.’
‘So you heard exactly what was said?’ Mariner checked.
‘Oh, yes. Nina was saying, “I can’t do it any more. I’ve given you what I can and I’ve got my own old age to think about.” Then Rachel suggested that Nina could sell the house and get somewhere smaller, but Nina wasn’t having any of it. She said, “This is my home,” and I remember thinking, good for you. Rachel always was rather spoiled, especially by her father. Not long after that, I saw her and the baby leaving.’
‘Do you think Rachel and Nina parted on good terms?’ Mariner asked.
‘Oh I think so.’ She seemed sure. ‘I saw Nina a few days later and she said what a lovely weekend they’d had.’
‘She didn’t mention the argument?’ Mariner asked.
‘Oh, no. We’ve been neighbours a long time but we don’t interfere with each other’s business.’
Pity, thought Mariner. ‘You must have been aware of who came and went at Nina’s house, though,’ he said.
‘Sometimes, of course,’ she said.
‘Do you ever remember seeing any male visitors?’
‘Not recently,’ Audrey said. ‘Just after Ronnie died, there was a man who came to the house now and again.’
‘A workman?’
‘No, he was too well dressed for that. I did wonder at the time what kind of relationship it was. None of my business, of course, but it did seem a bit soon to be taking up with someone else. But he stopped coming after a few months.’
‘Do you remember what he looked like?’ Mariner asked.
Audrey sighed. ‘Not really. This was a long time ago.’ A squirrel scampered across the lawn, distracting her momentarily. ‘I think he was quite tall and well built, with dark hair, though balding a bit. He drove quite a big car; a Rover or something like that.’
Sitting in his car out on the street, Mariner made a phone call, and on his way back to Granville Lane he took a detour to the offices of Mercer, Brooke and Hanley, an old and well-established partnership that had offices in a Georgian villa on the Harborne side of Five Ways. Outwardly a traditional law firm, Nina’s solicitor, Sarah Wagstaffe, clearly brought the glamour to the practice. She took Mariner into a refurbished modern office that overlooked the car park.
‘Have you been Mrs Silvero’s solicitor for long?’ Mariner asked.
‘About seven years. Nina was one of my first clients. I took her on from Mr Brooke, by mutual agreement of course.’
‘And did you have much contact with Mrs Silvero?’
‘We’ve met about half a dozen times. She has been very conscientious about keeping her will up to date, so I last saw her shortly after her grandson was born. A sensible woman.’
And lucrative client, Mariner thought, but he kept that to himself. She had copies of the will ready for Mariner to take, and on the way out they passed an older man in reception.
‘Ah, this is Mr Brooke,’ Sarah introduced them.
It occurred to Mariner as he shook Brooke’s hand that he vaguely fitted the description of the man Estelle Waters and Audrey Patterson had seen. ‘What sort of car do you drive, Mr Brooke?’ he asked.
‘A Range Rover,’ said Brooke, understandably taken aback by the question. ‘Always have done.’
Mariner took the will back to Granville Lane where he and Knox pored over copies, Knox glad of the respite. Nina Silvero, it transpired, had been generous in her donations to charity, including the police benevolent fund, so it didn’t appear that she bore any grudges there. The ballet school, along with any profits or losses, was bequeathed to Susan Brady, and, apart from a sum to be put into trust for her grandson, the remaining estate, running into several hundred thousand even before the house had been sold, would go to Rachel Hordern.
‘The ballet school is an interesting one,’ Mariner remarked.
‘In what way?’ said Knox.
‘
Along with profits and losses
,’ Mariner quoted. ‘Susan Brady admitted to us that it was beginning to struggle. Much better for her to take control of it while it’s still viable and she has a chance of turning things around than wait until it’s in real trouble.’
‘Taking into account that argument, wouldn’t Rachel Hordern have been pretty anxious to get her hands on her cut sooner rather than later, too?’ Knox speculated. ‘You reckon there’s any chance that these two women knew each other?’
‘The stepdaughter and the business partner?’ Mariner hadn’t considered it before. ‘They must be about the same age. I would say there’s every chance.’
‘Perhaps we should find out for sure.’
‘Well, we should bump into them both tomorrow at the funeral,’ said Mariner. ‘Something to look forward to.’
CHAPTER TEN
On Thursday evening, Mariner really had no justification for being in the bar opposite the Brass House language centre other than spying. From where he sat idly turning the icy beer bottle in his fingertips, he had a perfect vantage point for seeing who emerged from the building. As it was he almost missed them because he didn’t immediately recognise the glamorous young woman who emerged arm in arm with a tall, dark young man in a sharp suit. Kat had changed out of her formal work clothes and was wearing a short, clinging dress and high heels, a short jacket over the top. Mariner had never seen her dressed like that before. It made him feel uneasy.
Giles, if this was him, and Mariner was certain that it was, was speaking into a mobile. He wasn’t what Mariner had expected or hoped for; for a start he was younger and better looking. There was clearly some playful banter going on between him and Kat as they came down the steps of the centre and turned to walk along Broad Street. Mariner abandoned his beer and started after them at what he hoped was a discreet distance. As he followed, he watched Giles take Kat’s hand, raise it to his mouth and kiss it.
Mariner tailed them at a distance down a side street and into the entrance to a multi-storey car park. Once in the winding concrete stairwell he lost sight of them and had to monitor their ascent by the sound effects. A flight below, he fell into step with the rhythmic echoing footsteps, until they halted suddenly, and a few seconds of silence was punctuated by the clanging of a door. Mariner bolted up the remaining stairs and pushed open the next exit door on to what he hoped was the right level. Casting about the rows of parked cars, he was just in time to see Kat, fifty yards away, duck into a low-slung sports car. Giles had already vanished and, as Mariner watched, the car, that must have cost upward of thirty thousand, fired up, reversed slowly out of the parking bay and accelerated towards the exit ramp with a throaty roar, giving Mariner more than enough time to note down the registration. It would do for a start.
Leigh Hawkins was popular. There were no reserved seats in the first-floor room of the tiny Edwardian pub and, half an hour before the venue was due to open, the queue snaked down the stairs and into the street. Millie was having to stand and wait on her own as Mariner hadn’t yet showed up. She wondered what was keeping him. Perhaps, despite what Knox had told her, he was seeing that Stephanie again. She hoped so. It would do him good. Having experienced the pleasures of married life first hand, Millie felt it her mission to secure the same happiness for everyone. It was a mystery to Millie, and always had been, why the boss hadn’t been married, with his mandatory 2.4, years ago. OK, he was knocking on a bit now, but he was still an attractive bloke. Even the grey beginning to streak his hair suited him. And she happened to know from very limited personal experience that he was an all right shag. It was such a pity things hadn’t worked out with Anna. It was still a source of some shame to Millie that she was the one who could potentially have jeopardised that relationship for him, but, no, in the end he had managed to screw it up all on his own.
At seven sharp the doors opened and the line began to shuffle forward up the stairs, giving Millie her first glimpse into the gig venue. Seeing how crowded it was becoming, she hoped there wouldn’t be a problem with reserving two seats, though she had her warrant card to back her up should she need it. Most of the punters were middle aged or older, ageing hippies many of them, universally dressed in jeans, T-shirts and open-necked shirts. And all of them, from what Millie could see, were white. She’d long passed the stage where this could make her feel uncomfortable, and she certainly didn’t feel under threat, but it was an interesting observation. Soon she was next in line at the ticket table, and at last Mariner arrived, squeezing his way breathlessly up the stairs past the tail-end of the queue. And, for God’s sake, still wearing his work suit.
‘You know how to blend in, sir, don’t you?’ Millie said, eyeing him up and down as she handed over the money for their tickets. ‘I can see why they never ask you to go under cover.’
‘What? Oh, no time to change,’ Mariner said, distracted.
Tickets bought, they walked into the rapidly filling room and Millie chose a table about halfway back.
‘What are you having?’ Mariner asked. He took Millie’s order and went up to the bar, leaving her to keep their seats.
‘Been somewhere nice?’ Millie fished, as he rejoined her with their drinks, his own already half-depleted.
‘Nowhere interesting,’ he said, with a minimal shake of the head. ‘God, it’s ages since I’ve been in here, I used to come in regularly. But the landlord still keeps a good pint, well half-pint, anyway.’ He looked warily around at the audience. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be your finger-in-the-ear purist stuff.’
And from that, Millie surmised, the subject was closed.
When the band appeared Lucy Jarrett’s husband was instantly recognisable from the wedding photos Millie had seen. ‘Though he’s better looking in the flesh,’ she told Mariner. Lean and tanned in black jeans and T-shirt, with dark, spiky hair, he was every inch the rock musician, his arms branded with elaborate tattoos and a string of beads at his throat. The band was a five piece and, apart from Will, was as predominantly Irish as Leigh Hawkins himself. The eponymous front-man was tall and rangy, his long grey hair tied back in a ponytail, his beard almost white.
The bass player and drummer kept a pretty low profile but the front line was Leigh Hawkins himself, all gravelly voice and acoustic guitar, Will Jarrett on guitar, mandolin, banjo and occasional harmonies and a female singer whose crystal pure voice was a clean counterpoint to the gruff male vocals.