Lambert faltered. She thought she saw something in him she hadn’t seen before. It was as if he’d let his guard slip for a second. ‘I think I’ll be safe. Keep me updated on what the librarian says.’
Sandra Levinson was prowling the non-fiction floor of the library when Matilda arrived. Matilda watched her from a distance, taken once more by the woman’s beauty: the perfect symmetry of her face, and the elegant grace of her body. It was no exaggeration to suggest that the woman could have made a career in modelling.
As if she’d known Matilda had been watching her all this time, the librarian turned to face her in a slow drawn out movement. Her face broke into a smile on seeing Matilda, the faintest of lines appearing to the side of her eyes. ‘Sergeant Kennedy, hello.’ She carried an edition of A Room of One’s Own, which she placed back on one of the bookshelves. ‘Could I buy you a coffee? I’m dying for a hit of caffeine. There’s a lovely little café down the road.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Matilda.
Matilda noticed the appreciative looks Levinson received as they walked down Lordship Lane, as if she was accompanying someone famous. The woman either didn’t notice the stares, or was so used to them she didn’t bother commenting. ‘Let’s sit outside, what can I get you?’
‘Let me,’ said Matilda.
‘Don’t be silly, I insist.’
Matilda ordered a black coffee, and enjoyed the sunshine as she waited for Levinson to return. She presumed the journey would be a wasted one as she couldn’t imagine Levinson had the most devastating of news to tell her, but at least she could enjoy this one moment of pleasure.
‘There you go. I bought us some pastries, hope you don’t be mind.’
Matilda’s mouth watered as she surveyed the crumbling flakes of the pains au chocolat. ‘Thank you. I won’t tell if you won’t. How are things at the library, how has everyone taken the news?’
‘It’s a little surreal. Naturally, everyone was shocked but I think it’s hard for them to accept the true extent of what has happened. Me included, I’m afraid. I keep looking at the entrance, somehow waiting for Moira to walk through.’
‘I understand completely. These things take time.’ Matilda took a bite of the pastry, a wave of guilt overcoming her as she savoured the melted chocolate within.
‘I really hope I haven’t wasted your time. It was when I told the team last night about Moira that I remembered something that happened a few months back. It was nothing really, but I thought it might help.’
‘Anything you can tell us could help. However trivial it might seem.’
Levinson fell silent, her face taut in concentration. ‘There was a man. I would have thought nothing of it, if it hadn’t been for what he was wearing.’
Matilda placed a hand on the woman’s arm, surprised by the feel of wiry muscle. ‘Slow down. Where was this man?’
‘He was hanging outside the library, nearly every morning when I came to work. Not directly outside but over the road.’
‘When was this?’
‘A couple of months ago. March, April maybe. He was there every morning for a week. I should have notified the police but he wasn’t really doing anything except loitering. I would see him as I went into the library, and then I would check on him from my office window. He would sometimes just leave, but on one day he was there for a couple of hours.’
‘And what did you notice about what he was wearing?’
‘That was the thing,’ said Levinson, a sparkle igniting her eyes. ‘I’m a bit of a shoe snob and I’d noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes from Barker and Co. My husband likes their shoes. And he was wearing beautifully tailored trousers. Nothing unusual about that but he was wearing a hoodie over his shirt. This beaten old black thing and he had the hood up. It just didn’t look right to me.’
‘Did you tell any of the staff?’
‘No, I didn’t want to worry them unduly. You get a lot of strange folk coming in and out of here. They probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelid anyway.’
‘Could you give me more of a description? Did you get a good look at his face?’
‘Only the once. He might have thought no one was looking but I peeked at him through the blinds in my office. He took his hood down for a moment and I saw him then. He was a lot older than I’d imagined, though he was quite good looking. He had a good head of hair, silvery grey. I’m afraid I must have touched the blinds as he glanced up at the window and put the hoodie back on. He hasn’t appeared since.’
Matilda pulled her phone from her trouser pocket. ‘Just bear with me a second, Sandra,’ she said, searching on Google. She found the image she was looking for and handed the phone to Levinson.
‘Yes, that’s him. How did you know?’
Matilda sighed. ‘It’s a long story but thank you very much, that information could come in handy. She saved the image and texted it to Lambert. Underneath, she typed. ‘We need to interview Charles Robinson again.’
It had taken him fifteen minutes to get through the first gate. Now Lambert stood waiting outside the second. His jacket was damp beneath his suit jacket, the early morning sun already blistering hot.
‘Who did you say you were again?’ said the voice on the intercom.
He knew he was being mocked but played along anyway. There was sure to be more than one exit to the house and if he wasn’t polite, he knew Curtis Blake would suddenly be unavailable. ‘DCI Michael Lambert. I have an appointment with Mr Blake.’
‘Please wait,’ said the intercom voice.
Lambert waited another ten minutes before the front door opened. A slim muscular man dressed in a black suit walked down the stone pathway towards him, flanked on either side by two men almost twice his size wearing cheaper versions of the same suit. The man stopped, took off a pair of expensive looking sunglasses and assessed him with a stern glare. ‘Will Atkinson, Mr Blake’s head of security. May I see some ID, Mr Lambert,’ he said, his voice strong and authoritative.
Lambert handed him his warrant card.
Atkinson looked harder than necessary. He was clearly ex-military. He nodded to one of his colleagues, and the steel gate opened.
‘Quite the security set-up you have,’ said Lambert.
Atkinson nodded. ‘It’s important to be safe,’ he said.
Lambert held his arms out as one of the henchmen checked him for weapons.
‘Thank you, please follow me,’ said Atkinson.
The house, a detached property in Hampstead, would be worth millions. Blake owned a number of legitimate businesses, mainly property related, in the capital. It was feasible that he would make some enemies in such a line of work, but the level of security in the house was disproportionately high. The front door was made of steel. Atkinson had to punch in a six-digit pin to gain entry. Both the guards turned away as he entered the code, and Lambert was instructed to do the same. The door led to another gated area. Atkinson unlocked three locks to enter the main area of the house, leaving one of the guards to monitor the front door.
‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Lambert, following Atkinson into a vast dining room where a man sat drinking coffee, talking on a mobile phone. The man looked up and pointed to a chair.
‘Take a seat,’ said Atkinson.
Lambert sat and waited for Curtis Blake to finish his call. The man was in his late fifties but looked older, his leathered face crisscrossed with deep grooves. He was wearing a white linen suit, a crisp