One Under

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘It’s still an odd question, “Will you be there?”.’

  ‘Didn’t she say, “You will be there?”?’

  ‘Either way, if he’s picking her up in his car to take her there, why does she need to ask?’

  ‘Point,’ said Atherton.

  ‘And then there’s the fact that there’s no telephone contact between them before Saturday,’ Slider added discontentedly. Peloponnos’s number did not occur in either sent or received logs.

  ‘That also is odd,’ Atherton conceded.

  Or as Connolly had put it, ‘How in the name of arse did he even get to know her without exchanging phone numbers?’

  ‘Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Slider said. ‘She said she had an older boyfriend. That doesn’t mean it was Peloponnos.’

  ‘He rings her up Saturday morning, she rings him Saturday lunchtime, she gets killed Saturday night and he kills himself Monday morning,’ said Atherton. ‘Don’t tell me there’s not a connection.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Slider promised.

  Addison Way was a narrow cul-de-sac in which an original small number of late-Victorian villas had been pulled down and replaced by terraces of depressingly meagre modern dwellings in yellow brick, with the high flat face and backward-sloping roof oddly beloved of developers. They looked like wedges of cheap cheddar jammed together on a too-small plate.

  The British Transport Police – to be specific, Sergeant Conroy – had done the Knock, but there had been no investigation at that time, given that it was an undoubted suicide. In answer to Atherton’s enquiry, Conroy reported that Peloponnos had lived with his mother, Mrs Agalia Peloponnos, aged seventy-eight. He was not married, had no children, and apparently no other relatives, or at least not in the UK. Mrs S had said something about cousins in Greece. Naturally Conroy had asked her if there was anyone he could call for her, but she had said no.

  ‘She seems to have been completely dependent on her son. I was a bit worried if she’d be all right for money in the short term, but she said Peloponnos owned the house outright, so there’s no mortgage to pay, and she had plenty of cash in hand until things could be sorted out. So I gave her the number of a solicitor we trust and left it at that.’ Even over the phone Atherton had heard the shrug. ‘There’s only so much you can do.’

  Space in the redeveloped street was too limited to allow garages or even off-road car standings. It was residents’ parking only, and there was only one empty space, at the far end. Slider took it gratefully, put the ‘police business’ card on the dashboard, and he and Atherton walked back to number 4.

  ‘So what are we going to say to this old dame?’ Atherton asked. ‘Not that we think her son’s a murderer?’

  ‘We don’t think it yet,’ Slider said sternly.

  ‘Some of us might.’

  ‘Haven’t I taught you anything? I hope she speaks English,’ Slider added.

  ‘Conroy said a bit fractured, but OK.’

  ‘Then we can fudge it a bit. Say he may have connections to another case we’re investigating and we’d like to ask a few questions. That sort of thing. We don’t want to scare her into clamming up.’

  They stopped in front of the house. In common with its neighbours it had a small unfenced area in front of it, about the same width as the pavement, which was cobbled except for the slabbed path to the front door. The door was shiny and red, with a lion’s head knocker and a security light in the form of a pretend-antique carriage lamp, hallmarks of the ‘desirable residence’ – a.k.a. over-priced Ritz-cracker box. It was depressing to think that even this miniature living space would cost three quarters of a million in today’s Shepherd’s Bush.

  The venetian blind in the single ground-floor window was closed and the upstairs curtains were drawn, which might have been a traditional response to bereavement or a sign that Mrs S had gone away – possibly back to Greece, which would be a serious bummer.

  ‘OK,’ said Atherton summoning cheerfulness, ‘let’s nail this puppy.’

  Slider boggled. ‘You want to nail a puppy?’

  ‘Figuratively speaking,’ said Atherton, and rang the bell.

  The answer was a long time coming, but at last there were scuffing, snuffling sounds behind the door, and it was opened a crack, just wide enough for Slider to hold up his warrant card in front of the eyes behind it. The door opened fully, to reveal what could only be Mrs Peloponnos: small, brown-faced, wrinkled, with sorrowful dark eyes, grizzled hair drawn back in a bun, and clad all in black. She needed only a headscarf to stand in for any downtrodden peasant woman in rural Greece, Spain or Italy.

  ‘May we come in?’ Slider asked, after introducing themselves. ‘We’d like to talk to you about your son.’

  She stared for a moment, and then shrugged and shuffled backwards as if accepting the inevitable. Even her heel-trodden carpet slippers were black. Perhaps, if she had a large family, she kept a pair specifically for bereavements.

  Inside, apart from a closed-off room immediately on the right, the downstairs was all open-plan, with a staircase on the left, and a living and kitchen space taking up the rest. It was small, but the fittings were top-spec. The floors were uncarpeted woodstrip and the walls white, and the back wall was mostly window and French doors. It meant there was plenty of light, but also made the place seem empty and echoing. Behind was a tiny garden with a square of lawn, raw-looking new fencing, and two concrete urns containing pansies that were the worse for winter wear.

  Slider did his best to put Mrs S at ease – sorry for your loss, and so on – but she didn’t respond much. She seemed listless, and perhaps a little wary, which was not too surprising. He primed the pump with some general questions about her son, which she answered easily enough.

  George was forty-eight, unmarried – had never been married. Mr and Mrs Peloponnos had come to England when Greece acceded to the EU in 1981, when George, their only surviving son, was fourteen. George was a bright boy and had got into Holland Park School’s sixth form, and had gone on to get a degree in architecture at Cambridge, plus a master’s in urban design. For most of his career he had worked for the local borough, rising to be chief planning officer, but two years ago had got a ‘fine, new job’ with the North Kensington Regeneration Trust.

  Her husband had died eighteen years ago and George had come back to live with her in the rented flat in North Kensington. Eight years ago he had bought this house for them, but he had paid off the mortgage – this was evidently a matter of intense pride to her – two years ago, so now it was his entirely. It was a lovely, clean, modern place, not like the flat they had lived in before, which was in an old, old house in Ladbroke Grove. Victorian, she thought it was. She did not like old things. Old things were dirty. This house was almost brand new when he bought it.

  George’s office was in Notting Hill. He had been on his way to work when the ‘terrible accident’ had happened.

  ‘How did he seem that morning?’ Slider asked. ‘Was he different in any way?’

  ‘No, all was same. He left at ten to nine, his usual time. He was very regular, very dependable. Always the same time to go to work, always ring at lunchtime to see how I was, ask if I want anything bringing home.’

  ‘So you had no idea that he might take his own life?’

  She looked at them with angry eyes and set jaw. There was no way she was going to agree that it was suicide. ‘My Yorkos would not do such a thing. He was a good boy, a good Christian, he would never do such a sinful thing. Also,’ she added triumphantly, ‘he left no note, and never, never would he leave without a word to his mother.’

  ‘Had he been depressed lately?’ Slider asked.

  ‘No, not depressed. He was worried, maybe – he had a lot of responsibility. His job was very important, he was responsible for large amounts of money. He was an important man, my Yorkos. Naturally such a man would have worries.’

  ‘Did he seem to have more worries than usual recently?’

  She seemed to think, an
d conceded reluctantly, ‘Maybe a little. Maybe he was more serious just lately. He was a lot of time in his study, on the computer. And sometimes at night, he walks about the house. I hear him always, for a mother does not sleep when her son does not sleep. But I do not go down, because it would upset him to think he had disturbed me.’

  ‘How was he on Sunday? What was his mood?’

  ‘Quiet. He was thinking. In his study most of the day. I said Yorkos, you must eat, you must rest, have a little fun. Even President of America must have his leisure time. You are not President of America. And he say, yes, Mama, I come soon, Mama, and he does not come.’ She shrugged. ‘I tell him job is job, it is not the whole of life. But he had – something on his mind.’

  ‘Do you know what he was working on, when he was in his study?’

  ‘No,’ she said, as though it was a silly question. ‘It was his work. I don’t ask about his work.’

  ‘But perhaps you might see papers in there, on his desk, or something on his computer screen?’

  Her mouth set hard. ‘I don’t see anything.’ Slider looked into her eyes unwaveringly, and heat came into them as she stared back. ‘I go in there only to clean. I don’t look what he is doing.’

  There was something here, he thought; but she would not yield it to him – at least, not yet. She was defending her son, and he would not break through that without having some idea of what it was she was defending him for.

  He changed tack. ‘Did he have a girlfriend?’

  ‘No,’ she said, definitively.

  ‘A boyfriend, then?’ Atherton slipped the question in.

  She looked angry. ‘What are you saying? My Yorkos was not like that. He was normal, healthy man. Very handsome, very clever. Any woman would be lucky to get him. But he was not interested in marrying. His work was everything to him.’

  ‘But I expect he had a normal social life,’ Slider suggested. ‘He went out in the evenings, saw friends?’

  ‘Of course,’ she conceded graciously. ‘He is very popular man. Everyone likes him.’

  ‘And some of his friends were women, naturally.’

  ‘He never brought a woman here,’ she said, again with the stubborn set of her mouth. She was shifting position, like a skilled warrior. ‘Never speak of a woman. What he does when he is out in the evening, I do not know. He is grown man, he does not ask my permission. But never, never did he bring a woman here. That, I swear.’ She folded her hands in her lap and closed her lips tight. End of subject.

  Slider asked if they could see his office and examine his papers. He had his reason ready, but she didn’t seem to require it. She shrugged resignedly and got up at once, led them with the same shuffling, bent walk to the closed-off room by the front door. It was tiny, about six feet square, and dark with the venetian blinds closed. She went over and opened them. The hard April sunlight streamed in over an office-type desk with a swivel chair, a two-drawer filing cabinet, and some IKEA bookshelves packed with what looked like reference books.

  ‘While my colleague looks around here, may I see his room?’ Slider asked.

  She dug in a little. ‘Why? What you want to see? My son was good man. He was not criminal. What you accuse him of?’

  ‘I’m not accusing him of anything, Mrs Peloponnos. But there’s a possibility that he might have known somebody who was mixed up in something else we’re investigating. It would be very useful if I could just look and see if there’s anything that will help us.’

  It was deliberately evasive language. The alternative was: ‘We think he might have murdered a teenage girl.’

  Her eyes narrowed, her English became more fractured. ‘How I know you real police? Maybe you bad people, robbers. How I know you really from police?’

  ‘You’re very wise to be cautious,’ he said. He showed her his brief again, and told Atherton with a glance to do the same. As she examined them rather hopelessly, he said, ‘If you would like to telephone the police station, they will confirm who we are, and that we are here on official police business.’

  She gave back the warrant cards with a sigh. ‘I show you room,’ she said. ‘Yorkos has nothing to hide. Why not show?’

  She led the way up the open-tread, echoing stairs – slippery and dangerous, he would have thought, for an elderly woman in trodden-down slippers, but it wasn’t his business. Atherton remained below to search the office.

  There was a tiny upper landing with three doors. One stood open to show a small bathroom. She opened one of the others onto a bedroom cloaked in gloom from the drawn curtains.

  When they were pulled back, he saw a double bed, neatly made with a white woven cotton counterpane, a Wedgewood blue carpet, a wardrobe, chest of drawers, and a white cane chair by the windows. On the wall were several enlarged and framed photographs of Greek village scenes, the houses very white in a blinding sun, the sky very blue, the geraniums very red. The bedside cabinets were white laminate, and the lamps had blue shades. On one rested a much-thumbed paperback copy of War and Peace – ongoing bedtime reading – and a glasses case. On the other was a framed studio photograph of George Peloponnos with his arm round his mother, in front of which stood a tiny blue glass vase containing a single white rose. On the windowsill was a glass ornament in the shape of a leaping dolphin and a small, heavy glass ashtray. It was all very tidy, smelt of furniture polish, and the carpet showed the rake-marks of recent hoovering.

  ‘Have you cleaned the room since – since Monday?’ he asked.

  She looked at him. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Of course. When someone died, you made the house decent and closed the curtains. And put a tribute of flowers in front of their photograph.

  There was nothing here of great luxury, but the carpet was newish and of good quality, and the decorating had been done by a good professional. He looked into the wardrobe, saw good quality suits and shirts, and expensive shoes on individual trees lined up below. In the chest-of-drawers were woollens and underwear, likewise of good quality and neatly folded. Either he had been a neatness freak, or Mummy was organising his drawers. By the eagle way she was watching him, he suspected the latter.

  He tried the bedside cabinets, without hope. If she was in and out all the time, he would hardly keep anything incriminating where she could find it. There was the usual man-rubble of loose change, spare batteries, an empty and unused wallet, several combs, some handkerchiefs, a decongestant spray, another pair of glasses in a case, and a small photo album containing old black-and-whites of, presumably, his parents and other family members back in Greece, and childhood snaps of George in childhood. A lonely childhood, it seemed – he was always alone in the frame, barelegged with a net on a stick in a rock pool, windswept on a cliff top, backdropped by a temple ruin on the Acropolis, rather embarrassed sitting astride a pony. No friend, companion or dog shared these iconic moments. A lone little boy with rather elderly parents, who had ended up in a strange country, living with his mother, and ultimately under a tube train. What had he done in between? Where did Kaylee Adams come into it?

  Slider shut the disturbing album away in its drawer. Between the wardrobe and the window was another door, ajar, to an ensuite shower room. Every two-bed development now had to have two bathrooms, even if fitting them in made the bedrooms unliveably small. George’s bedroom – and Slider was much mistaken if it weren’t the larger of the two – was about eleven by twelve. The shower room was small, but again, the fittings were high-spec.

  Mrs Peloponnos didn’t follow him, so he was able to go straight to the medicine cabinet. Everything else had obviously been cleaned and tidied, but it seemed unlikely that she would have turned it out yet. And indeed, he found an impressive haul of medicaments, over-the-counter nostrums for headaches, backaches, indigestion, constipation and haemorrhoids (oh, what an attractive fellow he now seemed!), together with prescription tranquilizers and sleeping pills. Slider made a mental note of the doctor’s name. Running a hand along the top of the cabinet, where Mrs S would
have difficulty reaching, he found some dust, two packets of cigarette papers, five loose, foil-wrapped condoms, and a small key. You couldn’t see any of them from ground level. The key looked as though it would fit a desk drawer or a filing cabinet.

  He went back into the bedroom, and saw her still standing at the bedroom door, her face blank and lost. Remembering.

  ‘Do you know what this key is for?’ Slider asked.

  She barely looked. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘May I take it?’ She shrugged consent. ‘Did your son smoke?’ he asked.

  She snapped back to life. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Never. In Greece everyone smokes, but in Greece life is out of doors. You cannot smoke in a cold, damp country. It makes houses smell bad.’

  ‘You’re very right,’ Slider said, and she seemed to warm at the praise.

  ‘Would you like I make you a cup of tea?’ she asked.

  While she was putting on the kettle, Slider went back to Atherton. He was examining something spread out on the desk.

  ‘I had a quick look in the drawers, but there’s nothing unusual. On the computer there’s a couple of files that are password protected, otherwise nothing interesting. But I found this tucked in between two books up there,’ he said, nodding towards the shelves.

  It was a blueprint-sized architectural drawing of what seemed to be an alteration or addition to a large, square, Georgian-looking house. Front and side elevations showed the roof removed and replaced with a roof terrace, including a glass structure in which modern sofas, chairs and a bar had been sketched. The terrace area had been given planters and outside space heaters, and figures – thin, rich people – were disporting themselves with champagne flutes in their long, elegant hands.

  ‘What do you suppose it is?’ Atherton said. ‘There’s no address or technical details on it. A fantasy, d’you suppose? His dream house?’

  ‘But then why would it need altering. If he was designing his dream home, he’d design it from scratch. And it would be a modern building. Trained architects all hate pastiche.’