Barry Maitland - The Raven's Eye (Extract)
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Transcript of Barry Maitland - The Raven's Eye (Extract)
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c r i m e F i c T i O N
Cover design: Nada Backovic
Cover photograph: Andy Wadsworth/Trevillion Images
www.crimecity.com.au
barry
maitland
t
he
ravenseye
Riveting, intelligent crime writing rom one o Australias best.Weekend West
A woman dies in her sleep in a houseboat on the Thamestheapparent cause o death, an unfued gas heater. It all seems
straightorward, but DI Kathy Kolla isnt convinced. Both Kathyand DCI Brock run up against opposition in their investigation.
An aggressive new Commander seems to have a dierent agenda,ocusing on the new realities o economic constraints, and
avouring emerging technologies over the traditional policing
methods. Old-ashioned coppers like Brock and Kolla are beingsqueezed out. To make matters worse, theres a new Task Force
moving in on their patch, and a brutal killer, Butcher JackBragg, to be tracked down and caught. Its one o Brock
and Kollas bloodiest investigations yet.
A heart-thumping read, The Ravens Eye gives us Brock andKolla under pressure; its a clash between the menacing ever-
present eye o computer surveillance versus the explosive threato a man with a meat cleaver and a grudge.
Contemporary, brilliant 21st-century police procedural writtenby an acclaimed crime writer at the top o his game.
No one drops so many wonderul threads to a story or ties
them so satisyingly together at the end.The Australian
uspense, intrigue and a web of suspicion put rock and Koaunder eart-stopping pressure
yml
hvy
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barrymaitland
theraven
s
eye
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The characters in this book are fctitious. Any similarity to real persons,living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
First published in 2013
Copyright Barry Maitland 2013
All rights reserved. No part o this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any orm or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,recording or by any inormation storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing rom the publisher. TheAustralian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum o one chapter or 10 per cent o this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution or its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-publication details are available
rom the National Library o Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74331 350 3
Set in 13/17 pt Bembo by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed and bound in Australia by Grifn Press
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The paper in this book is FSC certified.
FSC promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viablemanagement of the worlds forests.C009448
mailto:[email protected]://www.allenandunwin.com/http://www.trove.nla.gov.au/http://www.trove.nla.gov.au/http://www.allenandunwin.com/mailto:[email protected] -
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Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking,
Fancy upon fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking Nevermore.
Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven
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1
Adank white og hung over the canal and spread out
through the bare branches o the trees that lined its
banks to blanket the tall terraces o houses beyond and creep
away down the side streets.
DI Kathy Kolla and DS Mickey Schaeer paused or a
moment on the bridge, taking in the scene below: the dark
boats moored along the towpath like a line o ghostly cons
ading into the gloom; the pulse o lights rom an ambulance
on the street beyond the trees; the huddle o gures beside
one o the boats, their voices mufed by the og. Kathy and
Schaeer made their way to the stone steps and went careully
down to the quay, where they were met by a Paddington CID
detective, DC Judd. He was apologetic. False alarm it seems.
Accidental death. No need to bother you lot.
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Kathy glanced at a middle-aged man in a tracksuit
sitting hunched on a bench urther along the towpath with
a uniormed police ocer and an ambulance man bending
over him.
Bloke rom the next boat, Howard Stapleton, made a
triple-nine call at six twenty this morning to report nding
the body o Vicky Hawke in her boat here on the Hapenny
Bridge reach o the canal. Ms Hawke lived alone apparently.
No suspicious circumstances.
Judd led the way to the stern o the second boat o the
line, on whose dark green fank the name Gracewas painted
in ornate gold and scarlet letters.
Theres been a small crime wave along the canal recently,
Judd explained as they stepped aboard. Burglaries, muggings,
a stabbing, a couple o arson attacks, and weve been underpressure to do something about it, so when the report came
in o a suspicious death someone pressed the panic button and
called Homicide. Watch your head.
They ducked through the doorway and descended a
short fight o steps into a low-ceilinged living space sparsely
urnished with a built-in couch and a threadbare armchair.
Narrow, isnt it?
Judd nodded. Thats why theyre called narrowboats.
Just two metres wide, maybe twenty long.
The claustrophobic eect was exaggerated by the act
that the upper part o the side walls, punctured by a ew
small windows, tilted inward.
Kathy snied the air and coughed, tasting acrid umes.
Yeah, thats what did it. Pathologists with her now.
They moved on down the boat, through a conned
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galley, past a tightly planned bathroom and closet, and came
to the bedroom at the bow, where the orensic pathologist
was packing up his bag at the end o a bed on which a young
woman in a nightdress was curled up as i ast asleep. The
three detectives squeezed into the conned space and stared
down at her, taking in the bright pink complexion, the
impression o deep untroubled rest. Kathy introduced hersel
and Mickey: Homicide and Serious Crime.
The pathologist gave her his card. Not likely to be
o interest to you, I think. She passed away peaceully in
her sleep some time in the early hours. I believe tests will
conrm carbon-monoxide poisoning.
She looks so healthy, Kathy said.
Thats what carbon monoxide does, turns the haemo-
globin cherry red.She would be in her mid-twenties, Kathy guessed, a
plain ace with a slight rown o concentration that made
her look studious. Her body appeared unblemished apart
rom a sticking plaster on her right hand. On a small shel
beside the bed lay a pair o glasses and a book, David Foster
Wallace, The Pale King.
Not as common as it used to be, the doctor went on.
Modern cars with their catalytic converters dont produce
much carbon monoxide any more, so the old way with a
hosepipe rom the exhaust isnt so eective. Unlike that old
beast. He nodded over his shoulder at a squat little stove in
the corner o the room with a metal fue up to the ceiling.
Diesel, Judd said, pointing out the black smears made
by gases leaking rom joints in the fue. She closed all the
windows and blocked o the ventilators to keep the cold
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out, let the heater on and took some sleeping pills. He
indicated an empty oil and glass o water.
Suicide?
Nothing to suggest it, the doctor said. Careless or
incompetent, Id say.
The ace on the pillow didnt strike Kathy as either, but
how could she know?
Judd shrugged. No note. His phone rang and he listened
or a moment. Yeah, yeah, okay, boss. He rammed it back
in his pocket and muttered, Fuck.
Problems?
Yeah, Im wanted.
Thats all right, Kathy said. Well ollow up here.
Thanks, Id appreciate it. Ive called or a photographer
and more uniorms to door-knock. I didnt ask or SOCOs,given the FPs assessment.
Right. Give me your number. She took a note o it and
he let with the pathologist. Kathy put on latex gloves
and went back through the boat, opening cupboards, the
bathroom cabinet, kitchen drawers. The woman seemed
to have ew possessions, all o them neatly stowed away,
suraces clean. Kathy saw only one thing that wasnt strictly
utilitarian, a ramed print on the wall o a rather sinister-
looking black bird. She elt as i she were intruding on
a completely unamiliar lie. What sort o people lived
like this, nomads afoat in the heart o the city? She had
encountered the Regents Canal on another case, a missing
girl whose mother had drowned in the canal urther east
rom here, but this was the rst time shed been inside a
canal boat. There was something o the submarine about
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it, the long tube low in the water, something surreptitious
and stealthy.
When they reached the stern door again, Kathy turned to
Mickey, who was thumbing through a copy o the previous
days paper, the Guardian. She got the crossword out. Not
dumb then.
Wheres her handbag? Kathy asked. Her phone, laptop?
Take another look, Mickey, while I speak to the neighbour.
Sure.
On the way out she checked the lock, seeing no sign
o tampering, then manoeuvred around the tiller and
stepped down onto the towpath, again noticing the elabor-
ate lettering on the boat. It seemed to evoke the spirit o
old-ashioned airgrounds and circuses, o antique gypsy
caravans setting o along dusty highways. From here theRegents Canal led eastward to the Thames and west to
the Grand Union Canal, which continued north to the
Midlands, and rom there to a thousand branches into
the most remote corners o the country, and Kathy elt a
momentary pang o envy or the lie o reedom which that
curlicued name promised.
The uniormed PC was still with the witness, and they
had been joined by a woman wearing a padded jacket against
the damp chill. Kathy went over to them, showing them her
police ID.
The woman constable said, PC Watts, maam. Mr
Stapleton here was the one who ound Ms Hawke.
He didnt look well, ace pale, a large dressing on his
orehead.
Youre hurt, Mr Stapleton?
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Its nothing. Bumped my head on the doorrame coming
out o Vickys boat. Not looking. In shock, you see, ater
nding her.
Yes.
He was trembling, and the other woman put an arm
around his shoulder and said, Im Molly Stapleton, his wie.
Its cold, Kathy said. Go back to your boat and get
warm. Ill come and see you in a moment. Maybe make
your husband a cup o tea, Molly?
As they turned to go Kathy drew the constable aside.
What did he tell you?
Not much. Hes pretty shaken up. I tried to get him
to go back to his boat, but he insisted on waiting to speak to
you. I asked him or details o the dead womans amily, but
he doesnt know.The name on the Stapletons boat was Roaming Free, and
on its roo were a small herb garden, a stack o sawn logs, a
pair o solar panels and a TV aerial. Kathy knocked on the
rear door and went down into a snug living room. Howard
Stapleton was sitting in one o the plump armchairs, his
wie visible over a counter in the galley at the ar end o
the room, and beyond that Kathy could make out a bay set
up as a small oce, with a computer and printer. The boat
was lled with possessionspictures hanging on the reshly
varnished timber walls, foral curtains bunched around the
portholes, china ornaments on shelves, magazines in racks,
fowers in small vasesas i all the creature comorts o a
amily home had been crammed into the conned space. In
its cheerul busyness it made Vicky Hawkes boat seem even
more spartan and threadbare.
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Stapleton made to rise to his eet, but when Kathy told
him not to get up he sank back into the cushions with a
sigh. His chair was acing a blazing wood-red stove with
a stainless-steel fue.
Youll have a cup o tea, Inspector? Molly Stapleton
called rom the galley. Her accent was Yorkshire, voice brisk.
Thank you.
Howards not very well. The ambulance man said he
may be concussed.
Im all right, her husband grunted, though his ace
looked as grey as his hair. Stupid mistake.
Do you eel well enough to tell me what happened this
morning? Kathy asked.
Yes, yes, o course. I got up as usual at six or my run
with Vickyweve been doing that or a ew weeks now.Shes usually limbering up on the towpath when I emerge,
but not this morning. I tapped on her window but got no
response. I couldnt see in, and I noticed that the windows
were steamed up.
He paused and took a deep breath as his wie came out
o the galley with a tray o mugs. His speech was astidious,
almost pedantic. A retired headmaster? Solicitor?
Um, anyway, I went to her stern door and knocked, still
nothing, so I opened it to make sure she was all right.
The door was unlocked?
No, no. Vicky had given me a key.
Kathy saw Mollys hand hesitate or a moment as she
raised her mug.
For emergencies, Howard added. Were a pretty support-
ive community, we narrowboaters, look out or each other.
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The explanation was too insistent, and Kathy noticed a
rown pass briefy across Mollys ace. Go on.
Well, I opened the door to call to her, but immediately
the smell hit me, the umes. It was awul. I called out and
panicked a bit when there was no reply. So I held a hand-
kerchie to my ace and ran down the length o the boat
looking or her and ound her in the bedroom. I threw the
bow doors open and made to lit her outside, but as soon as I
touched her and elt how cold she was, I knew . . . He stared
at his eet. Dear God, he said, and Kathy saw a glimmer
o a tear in his eye. There was the shock, o course, and
the bump on the head, but still, she wondered i there was
something more personal going on here.
His wie was keeping very still, head bowed, and Kathy
said, How long have you two known Vicky, Molly?She looked up. We came here . . . she thought a moment,
eight weeks ago, and Vicky arrived a ew days later. Being
moored right next to us we got to know each other straight
away. Pleasant girl, new to boating, wasnt she, Howard?
Her boats old though, a bit o a tub.
Yes, inexperienced. I think the dealer took advantage
o her. Apparently she didnt have a lot o cash to throw
around.
And were you aware o problems with the heater?
Only that it was an old model and a bit smelly at times.
I did help her give it a clean a ew weeks back. Wouldnt
have said it was dangerous, exactly.
But shed closed the ventilators and windows in the boat.
Yes, Id warned her about that. But she said she elt the
cold keenly.
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With each new personal insight rom her husband into
their neighbour, Molly Stapletons rown deepened.
What sort o a person was she? Kathy asked, and they
both spoke at once.
Moody, said Molly.
Bubbly, said Howard.
Their eyes met or a moment in surprise, then Molly
turned to Kathy. I thought she was a rather serious-minded
and determined young woman.
Well . . . Howard objected, but also ull o . . . vitality,
you know? Eervescent.
Not with me, she wasnt, Molly said rmly.
Im interested in her rame o mind, Kathy said. Did
she seem depressed lately?
Suicide, do you mean? Howard stared at her in surprise.No, certainly not. On the contrary, she was excited by how
things were going.
I wouldnt be so sure, Molly countered. I watched her
the other day . . . She pointed to the windows in the stern
doors. She was sitting in her bow, smoking a cigarette. She
seemed quite agitated, gesturing, as i she was having an
argument with hersel about something. I went out and said
hello and she immediately put on this cheery act. But it was
an act, I could see that. She was worried about something.
Well, I certainly wasnt aware o anything like that,
Howard protested.
You said she seemed excited, Kathy said. Did she say
what about? A relationship maybe?
No, she didnt explain, but I got the impression it was to
do with her work. A new job maybe, something like that.
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Where did she work?
An oce. Somewhere nearby, within walking distance,
in Paddington.
Doing what?
Molly shook her head. We could never nd out. She
didnt seem to want to talk about it.
Marketing, Howard said. I think that was it. Then he
added hurriedly, But look, I think you can discount suicide.
Weve been through that, havent we, Molly? He looked
with an appeal to his wie, whose shoulders sagged.
Yes, she whispered.
Our son, Howard explained, took his own lie two
years ago. Eighteen, he was. Ater that we ound we couldnt
live in the house any more. Then I was oered an early-
retirement package and we decided to sell up and live ourdream. We had Roaming Freebuilt to our specications, and
we set o.
Roaming ree o the past, Kathy thought. Was that
what inspired people to live like this? Was it Vicky Hawkes
reason?
As i reading her mind, Howard said, O course, its also
an economic solution or some people. That boat probably
cost Vicky no more than ten thousand, and yet here she was
living in an upmarket area o West London just a stones
throw rom her work.
Can you tell me who else is living here?
There were ve narrowboats currently moored on this
section o the towpath, he told her. The one closest to the
bridge wasAquarius, belonging to Dr Anne Downey.
I didnt mention that I tried to get help rom her when
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I ound Vicky, but she wasnt theremust have let early or
work.
What sort o doctor is she?
General practice. She acts as a locum or surgeries that
are short o sta.
Is she Vickys GP?
The Stapletons looked at each other and shrugged,
unsure.
I suppose that must be a problem when youre moving
around, nding a doctor? Kathy asked.
You get to know the ropes, Molly replied. But Anne
did prescribe our medications last week, so she may have
done the same or Vicky, i she needed something. Weve
got Annes mobile number i you want it.
Kathy wrote it down. What about Vickys number? Doyou have that?
They didnt, and couldnt remember ever seeing her with
a phone. But she must have had one, Molly said.
And she and the doctor would have known each other?
Oh yes, we all know each other on this side o the canal.
The other two narrowboats belonged to a man in his
thirties, Ned Tisdell on Venerable Bede, and a young single
mother, Debbie Rowland on Jonquil, with a three-year-
old boy.
That must be tricky.
Yes, but its amazing how you adapt. Debbie is a website
designer, and works rom her boat.
How about Ned?
Hes a waiter in the restaurant on the other bank. We
dont have so much to do with the people over on that
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side, the houseboats. They couldnt give Kathy any inor-
mation on Vickys amily, except that, rom her accent, they
assumed shed grown up in southern England.
As she let their boat Kathy looked across the canal and
was struck by the dierence between the two sides. Further
along the ar bank, hazy through the og, was the restaur-
ant Molly Stapleton had mentioned, its white tablecloths
visible through plate-glass windows suspended over the
water. Next to it was a row o what she had described as
houseboats, a strange mixture o structures that looked as i
they had grown permanently into the canal bank. They
ranged in style rom one that looked like a timber suburban
house, complete with broad veranda and glass rench doors,
to its neighbour, a ramshackle arrangement o tarpaulins and
tarred panels.The boat o horrors.
Kathy turned and saw that Howard Stapleton had
ollowed her out.
He nodded across the canal at the tumbledown house-
boat. Mad old bloke lives there. Theyve been trying or
years to get him to clean it up. Look, Ive just thought o
something, about where Vicky worked. I remember she had
a stack o brochures in her cabin one day when I looked in.
They were about security cameras and alarms. I think she
may have been working or a company which sold that sort
o thing.
Right, thanks.
Kathy went back to the dead girls boat and joined Mickey
Schaeer, who was completing his search. Kathy took some
photographs on her phone while he nished up. He had
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ound Vickys handbag in a storage compartment beneath
the bed, and he showed her the contents: some make-up and
perume, a hairbrush, a pair o earrings, sunglasses, tissues, a
wallet containing a credit card and a small amount o cash,
and a receipt rom British Waterways or mooring ees inside
an envelope marked to an address in Crouch End, North
London.
Maybe her parents address, Kathy said. But no driving
licence, no phone.
I couldnt nd one anywhere, or a computer.
Is there any twenty-something woman in London who
doesnt have a phone?
Mickey shook his head. Youre wondering i she was
robbed?
What do you think?I couldnt nd any sign o a break-in, and nothing looks
disturbed. Theres so little o it, as i she arrived here with
nothingno photos, no documents, no history. I did nd
this . . . He held up a plastic bag containing a thick roll o
twenty-pound notes. About two thousand quid I reckon,
hidden under the kitchen sink. Its like . . . Mickey hesitated.
Yes?
Im thinking maybe she was on the run rom someone,
a violent partner perhaps.
Yes, I was thinking the same thing, Kathy said. Lets
take another look at that stove.
They peered at it without much enlightenment, then
examined the fue and the signs o gas leakage that DC
Judd had pointed out. Kathy looked up at the dark corner
o the ceiling into which the fue disappeared, then pulled a
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stool over and stood on it to get a closer view. There were
much larger dark stains up there, and what looked like a gap
where the fue had separated. She stepped down, coming to
a decision. We need an engineer to look at this, and a scene
o crime team to check the boat.
You sure? Mickey looked doubtul. Theres no evidence
o a crime, and you know how tight they are just now.
I know, but we should do this properly.
He shrugged. Your call.
More uniorms were arriving in a white van as they
emerged. Kathy let Mickey to organise a door-knock o the
area and set o or Crouch End.
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2
Near this place is interred
Theodore King of Corsica
Who died in this parish Dec 1756
Immediately after leaving
The Kings Bench Prison
Detective Chie Inspector David Brock studied the
inscription on the stone slab as the other mourners led
out o the church. Overhead the red disc o a weak autumnal
sun had ailed to disperse the morning og, water dripping
rom dark branches onto mossy gravestones, the mufed
notes o the organ adding to the crepuscular gloom. The
brash lights o Soho on the other side o the churchyard wall
might have been a hundred miles away.
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The grave great teacher to a level brings, he spoke aloud the
next lines, Heroes and beggars, galley-slaves and kings.
Not to mention police ocers, a voice at his shoulder
growled.
Brock turned and saw Commander Sharpe standing
there, uniormed, drawing on his gloves. Dick was very
attached to this place, Sharpe went on. He cornered Charles
Hammond in here ater hed disembowelled Mary Chubb
over there by Hazlitts tomb. Those Soho years were Dickshappiest. Never seemed to smile much ater that.
Dick Cheery Chivers sudden death had been a shock to
them all. For several hours he had sat there at his desk undis-
turbed, assumed to be deeply absorbed in the thick report
lying open in ront o him: The Way Ahead or the Metro-
politan Police in a Time o Challenge. The excitement was
too much or him, the oce wit later suggested.
This is the last time I shall be wearing this uniorm,
Sharpe went on, his voice hushed, though whether rom
regret or relie Brock couldnt tell.
Well miss you, sir.
Yes, I rather think you will, Brock. Not or my engaging
management style . . . he allowed himsel a little smile,. . . but because ater what you are about to go through
you will look back on my tenure in the same way that Dick
looked back on his Soho days, as a golden age.
Is it going to be as bad as that?
Oh yes. Have you met my replacement yet?
He gave the team leaders a brieng last Thursday.
What did you think?
It had been reasonably impressive as these things went.
The new head o Homicide and Serious Crime Command,
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17
Commander Fred Lynch, had been direct and orceul, his
message tough but not despondent: the harsh budget cuts
would require undamental change, would encourage rad-
ical innovation and lead eventually to a stronger and tter
police orce.
Policeforce? Sharpe queried. Not service?
I believe orce was the word he used.
Hm. A hard man or hard times was what I heard.
Its the evangelists I cant stand, Brock, the ones who rushorward to embrace the hairshirt. But then, when youve
been through more management restructures than you can
remember, as I have, you know its time to get out. You
should have done the same.
That thought had certainly occurred to Brock. Super-
intendent Chivers death had disturbed him more than he
would have expected, and Dick and Sharpe werent the only
ones to go. In recent weeks Brock had become increasingly
aware o the serious possibility that he would be marginal-
ised by the new management.
Sharpe was watching the other mourners, huddled
together in dark clusters. I suppose he oered a carrot and
a stick?He had. The carrot was an IT specialist rom the
Directorate o Inormation who talked about emerging
technologies that would surely transorm ront-line opera-
tions. The stick was a civilian management expert, a task
auditor, or TA, a title previously unknown, who bore an
unortunate resemblance to Heinrich Himmler.
Sharpe laughed. But, Brock, you were probably the only
one let in the room who was old enough to remember what
Himmler looked like.
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Brock assumed it was impending retirement rather than
Dick Chivers death that had brought on Sharpes unpreced-
ented levity.
Youll join us in a arewell drink or Dick? Sharpe
asked. Or will Heinrich not allow it?
Brocks phone buzzed. He tugged it out and read the
message. He must have heard you. He wants to know why
one o my ocers has asked or a SOCO team to attend a
leaky fue. Id better get back.
Ask the cheeky bastard how many ront-line ocers his
salary would pay or.
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3
Kathy parked outside a semi-detached house at 62 Carnegie
Crescent, Crouch End, and took a deep breath. How
many times had she done this now, bringing the bad news
home to a shocked amily? It didnt get any easier.
She got out o the car and walked up the drive, past a
Gol with a baby seat in the back, and pressed the button
on an answerphone at the ront door. She noticed a security
camera up in the angle o the porch.
Yes? A womans voice.
My name is Detective Inspector Kathy Kolla o the
Metropolitan Police. Can I have a word, please?
The ront door clicked open. Kathy pushed it and saw an
empty hallway ahead. She stepped in as a young woman came
out o a side door. Kathy couldnt see a amily resemblance.
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How can I help you?
Its concerning Vicky Hawke. Are you a relative?
The woman looked puzzled, then turned away as a baby
started crying in the room shed come rom.
Do you want to come in here? Im just in the middle o
a eed.
Kathy ollowed her. An inant sat strapped into a high
chair next to an oce desk with a computer and telephone.
The young woman took a seat behind the desk and raised a
bottle to the babys ace with one hand and poised the other
over the keyboard. What name did you say?
Kathy took in the wall o pigeonholes behind her, many
o them stued with envelopes. What is this place?
This is North London Virtual Business Services. Im
Mandy.Hello, Mandy. Youre a mailing address?
Mail holding and orwarding is one o our services,
Mandy said brightly. Beside her the baby paused its sucking
and gave a burp.
Pardon. The name?
Vicky Hawke, with an e.
The keyboard clicked. Yes, we do have a client by that
name. Whats the problem?
Shes had a atal accident. We ound some mail with this
address.
Oh dear. Mandy scanned the screen. Shes paid up to
the end o the month. How can I help you?
Were trying to trace her next o kin.
Oh, I see. But we dont keep that sort o inormation.
What do you have?
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Name, email address, credit-card details.
Kathy took a note o the numbers. The credit card was the
same as the one theyd ound in Vickys purse. She was living
on a boat moored down in Paddington. Ring any bells?
Mandy shook her head and turned her attention back to
the baby, which had begun to whimper.
Would she have called in here to collect her mail?
Yes, or given someone else authorisation.
But you dont remember her?
Sorry.
Kathy asked her to look at a photograph o Vicky that
shed taken on her phone, and Mandy turned back and
paused, bottle in the air, as she took it in.
She made a ace. Oh, thats her dead, is it?
Im araid so. Are you sure you dont recognise her?Actually . . . Mandy stared wide-eyed at the image or
a moment. I think I do remember her. She got to her eet
and went over to a pigeonhole at the end o one o the rows.
Thats right, she was F1. I dont remember their names,
just their slot. She was about thirty? Came in once a week
usually. I thought she was nice.
Is there any mail there or her now? Kathy asked hope-
ully, but there was nothing.
She never got much. Mandy returned to her computer
and checked. End o August she signed up with us. Three
months ago.
Do you remember anything about her mail, who it
came rom?
Mandy looked up at the ceiling with a rown. I remem-
ber the rst letter she got, because it was rom a security
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company, and I was interested because we were thinking
about upgrading our security at the time.
I dont suppose you remember the name o the company?
She pondered. Paddington, you said? I think Padding-
ton might have been in the name.
A ew minutes on the internet produced a company,
Paddington Security Services, which she thought might
have been the one.
Mickey Schaeer rang as Kathy was getting back into
her car.
Were done here. Didnt nd anything.
That was quick. The SOCOs have been and gone?They didnt come. Our request was denied.
What? Who by?
D.K. Payne, our new TA.
Whats a TA?
Task auditor. Havent you been paying attention? Hes
monitoring our use o resources.
Oh, that. I cant believe he would override us.
He phoned me up and asked i I considered it essential
that we have a scene-o-crime team on this job. I couldnt
honestly say I did. And Borough Command have withdrawn
the uniorms. Same thing. Everyones got better things to
do, Kathy, ace it.
Kathy elt a bubble o anger rise in her gullet. Finally she
said, Whos the senior investigating ocer here, Mickey?
As I understand it, he said calmly, its DC Judd.
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We were just helping him out. Then he added, placatory,
I did get Borough to agree to get an engineer to do a report
on the heater, or the coroner.
Kathy rang o beore she said something shed regret.
Mickey had been in their team or over six months now, but
they hadnt worked closely on any case together. Now she
elt as i she were seeing him or the rst time. She wondered
i he had some agenda o his own. Perhaps he saw the new
atmosphere o cuts and stringency as a personal opportunity.
She looked again at the address o Paddington Security
Services. So ar it was their only lead to tracing Vicky
Hawkes amily. She had been intending to pass it over to
DC Judd and return to the many other things piling up on
her desk, but now she changed her mind. There was some-
thing troubling about this death, something that didnt smellquite right, and it wasnt just the og.
The og had cleared by the time Kathy got back to Padding-
ton, the sky a chilly blue. Paddington Security Services
occupied the tenth foor o a sleek new glass-clad oce
block near the rail terminus. When she got out o the
lit she was presented with a sunlit panorama across West
London, the swath o railway tracks, the elevated highway o
Westway, and beyond it the canal basin o Little Venice and
the Regents Canal. From here Vicky Hawke might almost
have been able to see her boat, a tiny capsule tucked away
among the endless jumble o buildings stretching away to
the horizon.
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The receptionist said shed get Mr Budd to see Kathy,
and she sat down to wait. Looking around, she noticed
several security cameras, and keypads on each o the doors.
Ater some time one o the doors burst open and a man
appeared. His ace was fushed, his stance belligerent, and
Kathy thought that i shed seen him coming like that out o
a pub shed have been reaching or her ASP baton.
He glared at the receptionist. She nodded at Kathy, who
got to her eet and held out her ID.
He glanced at it. Steve Budd, manager. Whats the
problem?
Do you have an employee here by the name o Vicky
Hawke, Mr Budd?
Vicky? Yes, in marketing. Is something wrong?
Kathy, aware o the receptionist listening, said, Is theresomewhere we can talk?
He showed her into a small meeting room and closed
the door.
Im araid Vickys had a atal accident.
He rocked back. Fatal? Hell . . . Where was this?
On her boat.
Boat? He looked conused. I dont understand.
What boat?
She lived on a boat on the Regents Canal.
He shook his head. No, no. Are you sure were talking
about the same person?
Do you have a picture o her on le? Kathy asked.
Sure. He went to a computer at one end o the table
and passed his open hand across the screen, which came
immediately to lie. He tapped or a ew moments and a
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picture appeared, the same girl Kathy had seen lying on the
bed, but suused now with lie, smiling at the camera.
Yes, thats her. Could I get a copy o that? We dont have
a decent picture.
Okay, but she lived in a crummy fat in Haringey some-
where . . . Crouch End. He did a bit more typing and said,
Yes, here we are, 62 Carnegie Crescent.
Kathy had the eeling that Budd had been quite amiliar
with that address, and she was wondering i he might be the
reason that Vicky was living anonymously in a canal boat.
He had appeared genuinely shocked at the news o her death,
but shed been ooled beore. What Im ater is an address
or her parents, or next o kin. Can you help me with that?
We should have something . . . yes, here . . . Mr and
Mrs Georey Hawke, address in Islington.Kathy took down the details.
Jeez, marketingll be upset.
She was popular, was she?
He hesitated, considering his words. She was pleasant
enough, but to be quite honest, she wasnt really suited to
our work, and the others had to step in to help her out.
How long had she been here?
Just coming up to three months, the end o her trial
period. Frankly, we wouldnt have been renewing her
contract. Shame, she had such a great CV, but when it came
to perormance . . . He shrugged. She didnt seem to have
much o a clue. I wanted to get rid o her beore now, but
she persuaded me against my better judgement.
Unortunate choice o words, Kathy thought. Could I
have a copy o her CV, please?
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Dont see why not.
Budd printed o a copy and she thanked him and let,
wondering why he hadnt asked how Vicky had died.
This time, Kathy thought as she pulled up at the Islington
address, one o a row o tall, thin, red brick Victorian houses;
then I have to get back.
Her knock was answered by Mrs Hawke, who blinked
with concern when Kathy told her who she was.
Not bad news, I hope? Is it about the accident at the end
o the street?
Could I come in or a moment? Is Mr Hawke at home?
Yes. Does it involve him?Both o you. Thank you.
She was shown into a sitting room which opened through
to a dining room with a view over a back garden. A white-
haired man was sitting reading a newspaper at the dining
table, on which stood a pot o coee. He rose to his eet.
Kathy shook hands and they sat down. Im sorry to be
the bearer o bad news. It concerns Vicky. Im araid your
daughter has met with a atal accident.
Mrs Hawke gasped, covered her ace and turned away.
Her husband groaned, Oh no, almost as i, or all the
years that hed been a parent, hed been waiting or just this
moment.
I told her, Mrs Hawke said, shaking her head. Its a
dangerous place. Those drivers.
How . . . ? her husband asked. What happened?
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Kathy began to explain about the boat, the heater, but as
she spoke she was aware that their expressions had changed
to incomprehension.
Just a moment, he said. What boat, what canal?
In Rio? his wie said.
Now Kathy was mystied. No, in Paddington, the
Regents Canal.
They looked at each other, bafed, and then Mr Hawke
said slowly, Are you quite sure that youve come to the right
place? Our daughter, Victoria Sarah Hawke, is currently
living with her partner, Fabio Mendes, at their home in
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. We spoke to her there just yesterday
evening.
Kathy stared at them both, then said, I have a picture o
the Vicky Hawke Ive come about. Perhaps you could tellme . . .
She took out the copy o the photograph shed obtained
rom Paddington Security and showed it to them. Mrs
Hawke gave a sob and cried, Oh, thank God.
Mr Hawke raised his eyes to the ceiling and drew in a
deep breath. Finally, having composed himsel, he looked
at Kathy. This is not our daughter. Have you any idea what
you have just put my wie and me through? I really think you
might have the decency to make sure o your acts beore
you come blundering
Wait a minute, his wie said, taking the picture rom
him and staring at it. Isnt this Gudrun Kite?
He paused, irritated. Who?
Gudrun, Georey. Dont you remember? Vickys best
riend at school. The hair is dierent, but Im sure its her.
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She turned to Kathy. We used to live in Cambridge, thats
where Vicky went to school, and she and Gudrun were
inseparable. Kite and Hawkethe teachers used to say they
would be high-fyers.
I think youre right, her husband conceded. I think it
does look like her. But then . . . he turned on Kathy, how
the hell did you mix her up with our daughter?
Because this woman was living on a canal boat in
London using your daughters name. She had given her
employers your names as her parents and next o kin. Thats
why Im here.
Why would she do a thing like that? Mrs Hawke said.
And at the same time her husband, looking horried,
said, Shed stolen Vickys identity? Dear God, what else had
she stolen? Her money?Thats something we should take up with your daughter
straight away, Kathy said. She needs to check with her bank
and credit-card companies. What sort o work does Vicky
do, Mrs Hawke?
Marketing. Ater school she went to the London School
o Marketing and then got a really good job in the city. She
met Fabio and they moved to Rio, where theyve set up
their own consultancy.
Did Gudrun also go into marketing?
Oh no, she wasnt really a people-person like Vicky. As
ar as I remember she went on to do science o some kind.
She stayed in Cambridge and did her degree at the univer-
sity there. It was about then, when the girls let school, that
we moved down here to London.
Kathy thought about that. I could be wrong, but its
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possible that Gudrun used Vickys CV to get the job she had
in Paddington. And i thats the case she may have gained
access to other personal inormation. Could we get on the
phone to Vicky now?
It was our hours earlier in Rio, breakast time, and Mrs
Hawke got through to her daughter at her home. Vicky
sounded incredulous as her mother explained what had
happened. She and Gudrun had lost touch when they let
school eight years previously, she explained, Vicky to study
marketing in London and Gudrun staying in Cambridge to
read computer science. There had been no contact between
themnot a phone call or a Christmas card or a message on
Facebookin all that time. And Vicky wasnt aware o any
irregularities in her banking or credit-card accounts.
Kathy asked her to check these, and also to email herCV so that Kathy could compare it to the one Gudrun had
used at Paddington Security Services. I need to contact her
amily urgently, Vicky, she added. Can you tell me where
they live?
The Kites? Yes, o course, theyll be devastated. Mrs Kite
is a lovely personplease give her my love and tell her how
sorry I am. I didnt know Gudruns ather so well. He was a
rather remote gure, a bit intimidating and scary, a proessor
in something obscure at the university, like Icelandic history
or something. There were two girls, Gudrun and an elder
sister, um . . . Freyja, thats her name. Super bright. I mean
Gudrun was smart, much smarter than me, but Freyja was
supposed to be practically a genius. They lived in a big house
in Harvey Road, just o Parkers Piece. Cant remember the
number Im araid.
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Ater theyd hung up Mrs Hawke said to Kathy, I remem-
ber Gudruns mother, Sigrid Kite, very warm, unfappable
motherly type. She will be devastated. Youll go and see her,
wont you? I mean, not just tell her over the phone?
O course. And Im sorry to have given you both that
shock.
Well, that was Gudruns ault, wasnt it? I wonder what
the poor girl thought she was playing at?
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PRAISE FOR BARRY MAITLANDS
BROCK AND KOLLA SERIES
There is no doubt about it, i you are a serious lover o crime fction,
ensure Maitlands Brock and Kolla series takes pride o place in your
collection.Weekend Australian
Barry Maitland is one o Australias fnest cr ime writers.
The Sunday Tasmanian
Comparable to the psychological crime novelists, such as Ruth
Rendell . . . tight plots, great dialogue, very atmospheric.
Sydney Morning Herald
Maitland is a consummate plotter, steadily complicating an already
complex narrative while artully managing the relationships o his
characters.The Age
Perect or a night at home severing red herrings rom clues, sorting
outright lies rom hal-truths and separating suspicious elons rom
elonious suspects.Herald Sun
A leading practitioner o the detective writers crat.Canberra Times
Maitland does a masterly job keeping so many balls in the air whilesustaining an atmosphere o genuine intrigue, suspense and, ultimately,
dread. He is right up there with Ruth Rendell.Australian Book Review
Forget the stamps, start collecting Maitlands now.Morning Star
Maitland gets better and better, and Brock and Kolla are an impressive
team who deserve to become household names.Publishing News
Maitland stacks his characters in interesting piles, and lets his mystery
burn busily and bright.Courier-Mail
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BARRY MAITLAND is the author o the acclaimed Brock and Kolla
series o crime mystery novels set in London, where Barry grew up ater
his amily moved there rom Paisley in Scotland where he was born. He
studied architecture at Cambridge University and worked as an architect
in the UK beore taking a PhD in urban design at the University o She-
feld, where he also taught and wrote a number o books on architecture
and urban design. In 1984 he moved to Australia to head the architectureschool at the University o Newcastle in New South Wales, and held that
position until 2000.
The frst Brock and Kolla novel, The Marx Sisters, was published in
Australia and the UK in 1994, and subsequently in the USA and in trans-
lation in a number o other countries, including Germany, Italy, France
and Japan. It was shortlisted or the UK Crime Writers Association John
Creasey Award or best new fction, and eatured the central two characters
o the series, Detective Chie Inspector David Brock, and his younger
colleague, Detective Sergeant Kathy Kolla. The sequel, The Malcontenta,
was frst published in 1995 and was joint winner o the inaugural Ned
Kelly Award or best crime fction by an Australian author. The books have
been described as whydunits as much as whodunits, concerned with the
devious histories and motivations o their characters. Barrys background
in architecture drew him to the structured character o the mystery novel,
and his books are notable or their ingenious plots as well as or theiratmospheric settings, each in a dierent intriguing corner o London. In
2008 he published Bright Air, his frst novel set in Australia.
Barry Maitland now writes fction ull time, and lives in the Hunter
Valley. The ull list o his books ollows: The Marx Sisters, The Malcontenta,
All My Enemies, The Chalon Heads, Silvermeadow, Babel, The Verge Practice,
No Trace, Spider Trap, Bright Air, Dark Mirror, Chelsea Mansions and The
Ravens Eye.