Chapter 70
IN THE TAXI on the way home to Chelsea, Knight wondered if his sister-in-law would ever forgive him. Did it matter? It did. It depressed him to think that his kids might never get to know their mother’s last living relative.
Rather than sink into a mood, however, he forced his mind to other thoughts.
Selena Farrell was a fashionista?
It bothered him so much that he called Pope. She answered, sounding as if she was in a bad temper. They’d had an argument in Hooligan’s lab earlier in the day about when and how she should deal with the war-crimes information. She’d wanted to publish immediately, but Knight and Jack had argued that she should wait to get independent corroboration from The Hague and from Scotland Yard. Neither man wanted the information attributed to Private.
Pope said, ‘So did your sister-in-law corroborate the fingerprint match?’
‘I think that will probably be tomorrow at the earliest,’ Knight said.
‘Brilliant,’ the reporter said sarcastically. ‘And the prosecutor at The Hague is not returning my calls. So I’ve got nothing for tomorrow.’
‘There’s something else you could be looking into,’ Knight offered as the taxi pulled up in front of his home. He paid the driver and stood out on the pavement, describing the dressing table and clothes at Selena Farrell’s home.
‘High fashion?’ Pope asked, incredulous. ‘Her?’
‘Exactly my reaction,’ Knight said. ‘Which means a lot of things, it seems to me. She had to have had sources of money outside academia. Which means she had a secret life. Find it, and you just might find her.’
‘All well and good for you to say,’ Pope began.
God, she irritated him. ‘It’s what I’ve got,’ he snapped. ‘Look, Pope, I have to tuck my kids in. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
He hung up, feeling as though the case had consumed him the way the mythical Cronus had consumed his own children. That thought left him supremely frustrated. If it wasn’t for the Olympics he’d be working full-time to find out who had killed his colleagues at Private and why. When this was over he told himself he would not stop until he solved that crime.
Knight went inside and climbed the stairs, hearing a door slide over carpet, followed by footsteps. Marta was leaving the nursery. She saw Knight, and held her index finger to her lips.
‘Can I say goodnight?’ he whispered.
‘They’re already asleep,’ Marta said.
Knight glanced at his watch. It was just eight. ‘How do you do that? I can never get them down before ten.’
‘An old Estonian technique.’
‘You’ll have to teach it to me sometime,’ Knight said. ‘Eight a.m.?’
She nodded. ‘I will be here.’ Then she hesitated before moving past him and going down the stairs. Knight followed her, thinking he’d have a beer and then get to sleep early.
Marta put on her jacket and started to open the front door before looking back at him, ‘Have you caught the bad people?’
‘No,’ Knight said. ‘But I feel like we’re getting awfully close.’
‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Very, very good.’