Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(69)
Cormack showed identification, rank and name.
She nodded, smiled. A flicker, then it was gone. ‘For another seven days, five hours and so many minutes, guilty as charged. After that …’ She reached out both hands, fingers spread wide. ‘Divorce, it’s a wonderful thing. Either that or kill the bastard. What does Shakespeare say? Lug the guts into the other room? Leave him for the cleaner to trip over next morning.’
For an instant, the smile returned. ‘Probably not the bit about the cleaner.’
‘Is he here?’ Cormack asked, persevering. ‘Your husband?’
‘Thankfully, no.’
‘Not behind the arras somewhere?’
An eyebrow arched in mock surprise. ‘A policeman who knows his Hamlet, I am surprised.’
‘Advantages of a good comprehensive school education.’
‘Is there such a thing? How heartening.’
Enough of the chit-chat, Karen thought. ‘Mrs Broderick, if your husband’s not here, do you have any idea where he is?’
‘Off traipsing after a golf cart somewhere; either that or slutting over some poor escort-agency tart paying off her student loan.’
‘Any idea when he might be back?’
‘Other than hopefully after I’ve gone, I’m afraid not.’
‘You won’t mind if we take a look inside?’ Cormack said.
‘You’ve a warrant, of course?’
‘Not at this moment. But, I assure you …’
‘Oh, what the hell? Come in, help yourself. Liberty Hall.’
She stepped aside. Cormack went on through, leaving the two women facing one another, close enough for Karen to be able to smell the alcohol on the other’s breath.
‘Cathy. Cathy Broderick.’
‘For now.’
‘Yes, for now.’
‘Karen. Karen Shields.’
‘And it’s your job to soften me up. Gain my confidence. Woman to woman. While the man does the searching.’
‘Something like that.’
‘So let’s have a drink.’
Karen followed her beyond where the oak flooring changed to matt black tiles and into a long room with glass at both sides, partly shielded now by blinds, and exposed steel beams. Black leather chairs on tubular frames.
‘Dennis met this architect somewhere, the golf club I expect. Convinced him that modernism was the way to go. Hates it, of course, now that it’s done. His quarter-of-a-million-pound f*cking folly, as he calls it. Never comes in here at all.’
The far end was dominated by a large painting, a repeated pattern of crimson whorls on a white background, each overlapping the other. An ice bucket sat on a Perspex table, wine bottle protruding, a small tray of glasses, one used.
‘Please, sit. These are actually more comfortable than they look.’
Not difficult, Karen thought.
‘I suppose it’s no use offering you a glass of wine?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Chablis. Grand cru.’ Cathy Broderick helped herself. ‘No sense leaving it for Dennis. He’d as soon Carlsberg out of a can.’
‘You’ve been married how long?’
‘The subtext to that question, if my opinion of him is so low, why stick around so long?’
‘Maybe.’
‘When you’ve been milking the cash cow – or, in this case, cash bull – as long as I have, it’s difficult to put all that aside.’
‘Give back the Alfa Romeo, for instance.’
‘Significant birthday present. Attempt to get me to change my mind.’
‘About the divorce?’
‘About my lawyer screwing him for every penny we can get.’
‘He’s not short of them, though? Pennies?’
‘The original self-made man. Market stall to millionaire in thirty short years. Started on fruit and veg, moved on to processed meats, from there to a company providing ready-cooked meals to schools, hospitals and nursing homes across five counties.’ She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to hard work, graft and the necessary greasing of palms.’
Warren Cormack had appeared in the doorway. ‘Access to the cellar? It’s padlocked across.’
‘There’s a key behind the clock in the kitchen. High-tech security.’
Cormack nodded and turned away.
‘Gordon Dooley,’ Karen said, ‘your husband knows him well?’
‘Gordon?’ She hesitated just a little too long over her answer. ‘They used to have, I don’t know, some business arrangement together. I don’t think he’s seen him in quite a while.’
‘What kind of business would that be?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Processed meats? School meals?’
Cathy Broderick smiled. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Gordon was asking him for some help, that’s all I know. Money advice. Some cockamamie project or other, I dare say.’
‘He does know him pretty well, then?’
A snort of laughter. ‘Since they were kids on some poxy estate in South London. You should hear Dennis tell it, in his cups. How they nicked stuff from Woolworths and sold it on street corners to raise enough for their first market stall. Peckham, Saturday mornings. The thing is, Dennis he moved on, legit. Gordon, I’ve never been so sure. And now I’ve said too much.’