Barry Maitland - The Marx Sisters

Also by Barry Maitland

The Malcontenta
All My Enemies
The Chalon Heads
Silvermeadow
Babel
The Verge Practice
No Trace
Spider Trap

To Margaret, for unflagging encouragement
and with special thanks to Anna

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This edition published in 2007

First published in Australia in 1994

Copyright Barry Maitland 1994

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for 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

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Maitland, Barry.

The Marx sisters.

ISBN 978 1 74175 175 8.

1. Marx, Karl, 1818-1883 - Family - Fiction. 2. Brock,

David (Fictitious character) - Fiction. 3. Kolla, Kathy

(Fictitious character) - Fiction. 4. Police - England

London - Fiction. 5. Policewomen - Fiction. 6. Older

women - Fiction. 7. Sisters - Fiction. 8. London (England)

- Fiction. I. Title.

823.914

Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Printed in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Praise for The Marx Sisters

a bravura opening, full of zest and confidence.
Times Literary Supplement

... a refreshing debut into literate, intelligent detective fiction. The Age

A thoroughly lively and devious debut which is full of devoted invention. Sunday Times

a well-wrought, well-paced, original and elegant crime mystery. Australian Book Review

A clever, flavoursome debut with a particularly deft knack of pulling the rug out from under you in between chapters, just when you think youre safe. Kirkus Reviews

... quite superb, Dickens redivivus with a touch of Margery Allingham. Adelaide Review

Something aint right. Meredith glared at her two sisters, sitting facing each other at the far end of the table, in front of the window. Eleanor looked at her carefully, recognizing the pouted lip that signified she was being stubborn.

Well, your apple sponge was beautiful, as always, dear. Peg dabbed her mouth meticulously with her napkin.

What do you mean, Something isnt right? Eleanor said.

The way the Kowalskis decided to up and leave, just like that, all of a sudden. They should have discussed it.

Theyre retiring, Meredith. They dont have to discuss it. Theyre getting on, and the bookshop couldnt have been making them much of a living.

Adam Kowalski is a hopeless businessman, thats true, Meredith conceded ungraciously. Anyone could have made a better job of selling second-hand books than Adam Kowalski. But what about Konrad Witz next door? His camera shop has been doing well enough. He told me so, after the Christmas season last year.

Hes at an age to retire too, dear. They sold together to get a better price, so someone can knock the two shops together if they want. Thats what Mr Hepple said. You remember.

I dont like empty shop windows, Eleanor. It gives me the creeps.

Looking at her two sisters, Meredith was struck by how little they had all changed since they were girls. Eleanor, the youngest, was the same headstrong child she had been then, always certain she knew best, all elbows and knees, head in the clouds and holes in her socks. Meredith was irritated to find herself wondering, exactly as her mother had done sixty years before, whether Eleanor had remembered to put on fresh knickers that morning. And Peg was still the neat, sweet little girl who could always find a way to get other people to do things for her.

Adam Kowalski looks more and more like a beanpole every time you see him, Peg piped up.

Have you ever noticed, Eleanor said, how he always runs his hand over the plaque in the wall beside his shop, every time he passes? I wonder if he is a secret believer.

No. Peg shook her head. I saw him do it and I asked him why, and he said he did it for luck. He said that Karl Marx might be the most famous man in the world, and he, Adam Kowalski, the least, but Marx was dead and he was alive, and that, in the end, was all that really counted.

That, said Eleanor severely, is a matter of opinion.

Peg suddenly gave a little shiver. Meredith, thinking of the electricity bill, snapped, Its not cold, Peg. Look at the sun out there.

It was true. The golden light was gleaming on the chimneys and slate roofs of the buildings on the other side of the Lane.

It is a beautiful day, dear, Peg replied wistfully. Then impulsively she added, Why dont you come with us today, Meredith? Just this once?

Why should I want to go for a walk in a flippin cemetery? Meredith sniffed. Ill get there in a box soon enough, I dare say. No, thank you, Ill put me feet up as usual and have me glass of port and forty winks.

Come on, Eleanor said to Peg, getting to her feet. Well clear the table and do the washing-up before we go.

Kathy came running down the stairs to the mortuary feeling like a school kid late for classes. This is ridiculous, she thought, its my case, and stopped to get her breath. She pulled her sweater straight over the pleats of her skirt and ran a hand across the fair hair pulled to the back of her head, then stepped forward and pushed open the plastic swing doors.

There were half a dozen people in the room. She recognized the pathologist, Dr Mehta, standing by an open filing cabinet, writing on a clip-board, while his assistant, green-overalled and already kitted out with rubber gloves and cap, was sorting through nasty-looking tools on a stainless-steel tray. The anxious woman in the dark suit was probably from the coroners office, and a photographer sat near her, looking bored and hung-over.

In front of Kathy, and with his back to her, a big man in a surprisingly smart suit was leaning forward, peering at the table in the centre of the room. His hands were clutched behind his back, and from their fingers hung the straps of a Polaroid camera. Less like a Legend of the Yard, she thought, than an overdressed tourist. He straightened as the doors flapped closed behind her, and turned, peering at her over the top of the half-lens glasses perched on the end of his nose. She hadnt expected the almost boyish thatch of hair, and the beard. Both hair and beard were grey, almost bluegrey in the cold fluorescent light.

Detective Sergeant Kolla, she said brightly, extending her hand, expecting some put-down for being late, knowing his reputation among the junior officers at Division. But he just beamed at her, a big bear of a man, twice her weight, and took her hand, introducing himself disarmingly without rank. David Brock, he said in a low growl.

They both turned their attention back to the body.