The Doomsday Testament(16)

‘You’d be amazed how often it happens, sir.’ The middle-aged constable’s voice was almost resentful, as if the dead man had deliberately spoiled his day. ‘Elderly person goes out for a walk and doesn’t come back. No rhyme nor reason to it, they just decide it’s their time. We find them days, sometimes weeks, later, and there’s always water involved. The young ones, they’ll step out in front of a train, but the old, they head for the sea or the river. Primeval instinct, I reckon.’

‘So you’re certain Stan – Mr Kozlowski – killed himself.’

The officer’s look hardened and Jamie realized he’d overstepped some invisible mark. ‘Based on our initial investigations and unless you have reason to believe otherwise, sir?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘No immediate signs of violence visible on the victim. You’d have noticed if there had been undue disturbance of the grass, wouldn’t you, sir, when you marched through our potential crime scene in your size-ten boots?’

Jamie bridled at the implied criticism. ‘I thought my first priority was to help Mr Kozlowski.’

‘Of course you did, but then he was already dead.’ He raised a hand to forestall any argument. ‘It’ll be up to the Coroner to decide cause of death. We have your address, sir, in the event we have to contact you again? You’ll probably be called as a witness.’

Back at the hospital, Jamie tracked down Carol to the ward where he’d first met the Pole. It was obvious she’d been crying.

‘Not very professional, is it?’ she said with a wet smile. ‘But I’d grown very fond of old Stan. He could be sharp, but he was also brave and generous and kind.’ She shook her head and he wondered if she had been half in love with the old man.

He told her what the police had said and she nodded distractedly. ‘That’s true. You can never tell with the elderly. Sometimes it’s as if a switch has been flicked. But Stan, he seemed so keen to continue his talk with you. I just can’t . . .’

She sniffed and Jamie laid a comforting hand on her arm. ‘I got the idea he had a lot to tell me. It crossed my mind that he might have written some of it down?’

‘I can have a look,’ she said warily. ‘But I’m not sure I’d be allowed to hand it over to you even if he had. It would be the property of his next of kin.’

‘Don’t worry; it was just a thought. I’m sure you have enough on your plate already.’

She pursed her lips. ‘There’ll be some kind of inquiry. Should we have allowed him out on his own? I’m not certain now, but he was so insistent.’

‘Maybe this isn’t the time for it, but I had one other thing I wanted to ask,’ Jamie said. ‘Stan mentioned that he was going to tell me what he had told the other guy. Does that ring any bells with you?’

Carol’s face set in a frown. ‘Actually, it does. About ten days ago he had a visit from a Polish gentleman doing some sort of research on the lives of exiles still in this country. I wasn’t on duty, so I didn’t see him, but afterwards Stan became quite animated. It was obvious that he’d stirred up memories Stan had buried a long time ago. I think it was one of the reasons he was so determined to get in touch when he heard your grandfather had died. He said he and Matthew had been part of something important and it was time to tell the story. I have a friend in the local newspaper and he’d agreed to come here to interview Stan about it.’

Jamie thanked her again and set off along the corridor, his head filled with that first glimpse of the old man’s body and weighed down by the questions that would now never be answered.

‘Mr Saintclair?’ He turned to find Carol bearing down on him. ‘I think he would have wanted you to have this.’ She placed the faded photograph in his hand, closed hers over it and walked away before he could say anything.

He looked down at the square of creased paper and wondered what secrets the blank-eyed young faces were hiding.





VI


A NIGHT SEARCHING the internet drew a disappointing blank on anything called Operation Equity that wasn’t about spending billions to rescue banks. By the time he woke the next day Jamie’s hands itched to get back to the diary, but he still had a business to run. He spent the morning working on the itinerary for an upcoming trip to Switzerland to check out the sale of what might be a Watteau once owned by an Alsatian industrialist and his family. Economically he had to find other reasons to justify the expense. That meant checking out auctions and galleries in Geneva for acquisitions that might yield a small profit. The Watteau itself was such an ugly painting he wondered why anyone would want it back.