Part 9 (2/2)

She began to tell Brock about him, but then stopped, listening to his breathing. This time he really was asleep.

Later, sitting at home in front of the blank TV, nursing a gla.s.s of wine, Kathy was glad he hadn't heard her account of John Greenslade. It hadn't been quite right, betraying the lack of resolution in her own mind. Her first impression of him on Friday morning, when she'd come upon him talking to Emerson in the hotel lounge, was almost of recognition, as if she'd met him before or seen his picture somewhere. She'd liked the look of him, his intelligent eyes and pleasant smile. She'd found him attractive, and perhaps he'd realised it and had tried to use it against her. For after that first meeting he had behaved like one of those murderers she'd heard about but never really encountered before, haunting the scene of the crime, trying to insinuate himself into the investigation, eager to help. Or was she reading too much into it? Was he just naturally curious and, as he'd claimed, interested in her? Either way, she thought she was going to have to find out more about him.

He'd described himself on his entry card as a university professor, so she googled Montreal University and came up blank. Then she looked for other Quebec universities and found him at McGill, where there was an a.s.sociate professor in the field of Renaissance philology by the name of John Greenslade. Renaissance philology-what the h.e.l.l was that? There was no photograph.

ELEVEN.

Towards noon the following day, Tuesday, the first day of June, Toby Beaumont and Deb Collins were standing in the bay window of their office, watching the police activity in the square. Behind them, John put his head around the office door.

'What's all the excitement?' he asked.

'Police,' Deb said. 'At it again.'

'What are they up to now?'

'Goodness knows,' she replied, and turned back to her accounts. 'The woman inspector, Kolla, has been next door at the Moszynskis' for a couple of hours now with some other serious-looking types. I suppose she'll be calling in here again.'

'Mm. Makes the day interesting, I suppose.' John glanced at the photographs on the wall. 'Don't you miss the excitement of the old days, Toby?'

'No, old son,' Toby said, with such a tone of weary resignation that both John and Deb shot him a cautious look. 'Too old for that now.'

John pointed to one of the framed photographs on the wall. 'I was wondering who this young guy is? You've got several shots of him.'

Toby turned from the window and stared at where John was pointing. 'A very fine soldier,' he said heavily.

'That cap badge-isn't that the SAS?'

Then John noticed Deb staring at him with a frown. She gave a little shake of her head and said, 'And what can we do for you today, John?'

'Ah yes. I was thinking I should have at least one really good meal while I'm in London. I wondered if you could recommend somewhere around here.'

'Yes, we've got a list. If you wanted somewhere really special you could try Frazer's in the King's Road. Expensive mind. Going on your own?'

'No, I thought I'd take a friend. Do you think we'd get in tonight?'

'I'll ring up for you if you like.'

'Thanks.'

They turned at the sound of the front door bell, and Kathy walked in.

'Ah, Inspector,' Deb said. 'We thought you might be paying us another visit.'

''Fraid so, Deb,' Kathy said. 'I'm going to have to speak to everyone again. Would it be possible for me to use the lounge?'

'Be our guest,' Toby said. 'We'll get you a pot of coffee.'

'That would be wonderful.'

'Could you do me first?' John asked. 'I'm going to have to leave shortly.'

'Fine.'

They crossed the hall to the guests' lounge and sat facing one another. He looked at her expectantly as she took out her notebook and an electronic recorder.

'Well now, Mr Greenslade, I have to inform you that this is an official interview which I'll be recording. Okay with that?'

'Sure.'

She asked him his full name, age, address, employer and mobile phone number. 'What are you doing here in London?'

'I'm attending a conference at University College on cla.s.sical philology.'

'Which is?'

'It's about the interpretation of old texts.' He saw the doubt on her face. 'Renaissance texts mainly.' Then he added, 'Quattrocento.'

'Quattrocento,' she repeated slowly, writing it down, making the word sound pretentious. He took a breath, wanting to explain, but she moved on abruptly. 'And when did you arrive in London?'

'Monday the twenty-fourth, a week ago yesterday.'

'How did you choose this hotel?'

'Well, I was booked into some place off the Edgeware Road that was one of the conference organisers' recommendations, but I didn't like it very much, so after a few days I moved here.'

'When exactly?'

'Um . . . Friday it would have been. Yes, Friday.'

'Why here?'

'Well, I read about Nancy Haynes' death and I was curious. The newspaper report mentioned where she was staying, and I wandered over to take a look, and thought, this is nicer than where I am, and asked if they had a free room, which they did.'

'And it was free because it was Nancy Haynes' room.'

'I guess so.'

She let that hang for a moment, and he began to feel uncomfortable.

'Why were you curious about Nancy Haynes' death?'

'It just struck me as rather odd, I suppose.'

'So you wanted to sleep in her bed?'

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