Death Watch (The Bill Slider Novels)

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘She’s very beautiful now,’ Slider said.

  She looked faintly surprised, as if that had never occurred to her. How young she was, he thought, for her age. Probably the tragedies in her life had retarded her emotional growth. There was something very inward-looking and stunted about this gloomy flat.

  ‘Well, she was beautiful then, and she loved to be admired. Everyone had to be fawning on her all the time, or she wasn’t happy. Unfortunately, men were quite willing to fawn. The whole of Red Watch was in love with her, you know. At the socials all the men were falling over themselves to light her cigarette and pull out her chair.’

  ‘Do you hate your mother for that?’

  ‘I don’t hate her,’ she said at once. Slider waited. She went on, ‘We’ve had rows in the past, lots of them. We think differently about a lot of things. But I don’t hate her. I feel sorry for her, really. Some women are just like that. She can’t help the way she’s made.’ She paused, and then said in a very different voice, light and cautious, as though feeling a way along a previously untrodden path, ‘You know that he killed my father, don’t you?’

  ‘Dick Neal killed your father?’ This was a new track. Slider looked his incredulity.

  ‘I know what I’m saying. You don’t need to sound as if you’re humouring me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But you can’t really know. You were only eight years old at the time. You weren’t even present at the fire when your father died.’

  ‘The person who told me was there,’ she said.

  ‘Who would that be?’

  ‘Jim Sears.’ She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘Your mother told me how you and he were going to be married, but he died. I’m very sorry.’

  She ignored the sympathy. ‘How much do you know about the fire? You know Cookie was there?’

  ‘I’ve read the report,’ Slider said. ‘Your father and Dick Neal went in to rescue an old lady. Dick brought her out, then realised your father hadn’t followed. He went back to get him, and Jim Sears followed. They found your father tangled up in some wiring, and already dead, and had to leave him and get out to save their own lives.’

  ‘Yes, that was the way the report told it. It sounds all right, doesn’t it? But that’s not the way it happened. Cookie told me the truth, years later, when we were engaged.’

  ‘So what was the truth?’ he asked.

  She looked at him doubtfully. ‘If I tell you, will you believe me?’

  ‘Have I any reason not to?’

  She hesitated a moment, and then took the question as rhetorical. ‘All right. Well, then, Cookie told me that it was true about Dick and Daddy going in to get the old lady out, and Dick coming out alone. Barry Lister was Leading Fireman. He realised Daddy was in trouble and shouted to Cookie and Gary Handsworth to go in for him. But Dick jumped up and said he was going back for Daddy, and he was off before they could stop him. He shouldn’t have gone in a second time, you see. That wasn’t the way it was done.’

  Slider nodded.

  ‘Cookie went after him. Barry stopped Gary from following. Of course, everybody knew about Dick and Daddy being special friends, so nobody thought it was strange that he went back in, only not procedure.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Cookie was a bit behind Dick. When he got inside, he found Daddy as it said in the report, hanging dead, with the wires around his neck. And Dick was there, but he wasn’t doing anything, just standing looking at him. Cookie said, “Help me get him free,” and pushed past him to get to Daddy, but Dick said, “It’s no use. We’re too late.” Cookie grabbed hold of Daddy, to try to get him down, and then Dick grabbed him and pulled him away. But in that moment Cookie saw that Daddy wasn’t just tangled in the wire – the wires had been twisted together round his neck at the back, so that he couldn’t have got himself free. Dick dragged Cookie away and shouted “We’ve got to get out,” and then the ceiling fell and the floor started to go, so they left Daddy there and got out.’

  It sounded like a wild story. After a moment or two Slider said, ‘He could have been mistaken, you know, about the wire. The place must have been full of smoke and dust, and it was a very emotionally charged moment.’

  ‘That was the first thing I thought when he told me. But Dick more or less confessed to Cookie afterwards, when they were in the ambulance together on the way to hospital. Dick’s hands had been badly burned, you see, and Cookie was suffering from smoke inhalation. Cookie said Dick gave a funny sort of smile and said, “No-one would believe you, you know. It’d be your word against mine, and it’s me they’d believe.” And Cookie knew that was true, so he never said anything to anyone. I suppose,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘he must have hoped over the years that he had been mistaken. Or that Dick was talking about something else.’

  ‘Perhaps he was,’ Slider said. ‘If that’s all he said, there’s really nothing specific to go on. He might just have meant that they should have tried to get your father’s body out, that they saved their own skins too readily, or something.’

  She seemed to tire of the discussion. ‘Maybe,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘Why do you think Cookie told you that story?’

  ‘Because he wanted to marry me. He said he felt he couldn’t ask me if I didn’t know the truth. He felt guilty about it – that he hadn’t saved Daddy, or got him out, and that he’d let Dick get away with it.’

  ‘Did he tell your mother?’

  The question seemed to surprise her. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought – she’s never mentioned it to me.’

  Well, after all, would she? ‘But Jim Sears was quite close to her at one time, wasn’t he? Didn’t he use to come round to the house a lot, when you first moved to Hammersmith?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose he might have said something to her. And that would mean she—’

  ‘Yes?’ he encouraged.

  Her eyes slid away. ‘Nothing. No, he couldn’t have told her, or she’d have told me long before Cookie did.’

  Slider doubted the logic of that, but said, ‘Supposing that it was true, why would Dick want to murder your father anyway?’

  ‘Because he was in love with Mother,’ she said. ‘He and Mother were lovers, and Dick wanted to marry her, but Mother wouldn’t ask for a divorce because of the disgrace. So the only alternative was to get Daddy out of the way.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Slider asked.

  She didn’t answer directly. ‘Cookie believed it,’ she said flatly. ‘Anyway, what other reason could there be?’

  ‘But your mother and Dick didn’t get married afterwards.’

  ‘That was Mother. She refused him, because he wasn’t good enough for her.’ She stared at her cooling tea. She hadn’t drunk any of it and nor, he was happy to say, had Slider. ‘Poor Cookie. I wonder now whether – do you think it’s possible that it was Dick Neal who murdered him? They never did find out who did it.’

  ‘Why would Dick Neal want to murder him?’

  ‘To shut him up. Cookie had just got engaged to me. Maybe Dick was scared that he’d tell me – which he did, of course – and I’d make trouble for him.’

  ‘In that case, who do you think murdered Dick?’ Slider asked, playing along.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘It was an act of God, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what you call an accident?’

  ‘It wasn’t quite that simple,’ said Slider. ‘Someone a little less omnipotent had a hand in it.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You mean – he was murdered, too?’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  She thought for a long moment, her eyes blank. ‘I suppose I should have guessed. I mean, if it was an accident, you wouldn’t be here asking questions, would you?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  She focused on him suddenly. ‘You don’t think my mother killed him, do you?’

  That was an interesting jump of logic. ‘Why should I think that?’

  �
�Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that you’ve been talking to her, and now you come here checking up on her with me. It made me think you might – but it was a silly thing to say, of course. Forget it, please.’

  Slider tried a different line. ‘When was the last time you saw Dick?’ he said abruptly.

  ‘At Daddy’s funeral, I suppose,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘Oh, surely not. He wouldn’t just cut off relations so abruptly. He must have come to see you and your mother after that?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Maybe he did.’ She shrugged. ‘It was all so long ago.’

  ‘What about when you moved to Hammersmith? Didn’t he come to the house there?’

  ‘No. Not when I was around, anyway. Mother used to go to his place to see him.’

  ‘And when you were engaged to Cookie? Didn’t you see Dick then?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Why should I? He and Cookie had nothing to do with each other.’

  ‘Do you remember what you were doing on Sunday and Monday, the 25th and 26th of March?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ she smiled. ‘I was on duty. Does that let me off?’

  He smiled back. ‘I should think it’s just about a perfect alibi.’

  He drove away with his head more stuffed than ever. Was there any truth in it, he wondered? Was it possible that Neal had killed Forrester, that it had not just been a tragic accident? He supposed there was no way to find out for sure, with both Sears and Neal dead. Eleanor had certain things right about the background – about Marsha and Dick being lovers, for instance; about it’s being Marsha who ended the relationship, and her thinking Dick wasn’t good enough for her. But she had said Marsha had visited Dick when they lived in Hammersmith, and that didn’t accord with what Marsha said. Slider couldn’t imagine Marsha popping over to the flat in Dalling Road for a quickie. He was inclined to think Eleanor had got that part wrong.

  But if Dick Neal really did kill Forrester – seizing an opportunity, very much in the heat of the moment, pardon the pun – how bitterly must he have regretted it afterwards? For there was no doubt – those photographs as mute witness – that there was a deep friendship between the men. If his passion for Marsha overcame him sufficiently to murder his best friend, and then afterwards he found it was all for nothing, because she wouldn’t have him, it was more than enough reason for his life to go to pieces. Pity for Neal reasserted itself. What a hell of a life the man had led, and the fact that it was all his own fault could have been no comfort.

  If Neal did kill Forrester, did Marsha know? Did she think they must all have known, all of Red Watch, and killed them for their complicity – starting with Cookie, who was there and next most guilty, and saving Dick Neal until last? Or was the whole thing a misunderstanding of Eleanor’s? She had been so very young at the time of the fire, and probably still emotionally troubled at the time of her courtship by Sears – very likely to get hold of the wrong end of the stick.

  But in any case, how was he going to prove anything, one way or the other? The more he discovered about this case, the less progress he seemed to make. It was taking all the running he could do just to stand still, as Atherton said sometimes.

  Meanwhile, of course, the troops were out scouring the ground for news of the O’Mafia, which their Beloved Leader would very much like to find at the bottom of everything, with solid evidence attached, and Gorgeous George trussed up and gift-wrapped with pink ribbon round his testimonials. Slider sighed. He was getting that internal sensation of pressure under the skull which came from absorbing too many unconnected facts which led nowhere, rivulets of water running away into sand. And there was a tune wandering around in there, too, using up valuable space and driving him mad. He laid hold of its tail as it went past and hauled it out to see what it was.

  How do you solve a problem like Maria? The Sound of Bloody Music. Combined Services Gala Charity Performance, with the dead-keen-on-Amdram Hammersmith Fire brigade. Round in circles, he thought. The facts don’t run away into sand, they disappear up their own logic.

  Anderson bounced into Slider’s office.

  ‘You sent for me, Guv?’

  ‘Yes, sit down. Where’s Hunt?’

  ‘On the blower. I left a message for him.’ Anderson sat.

  ‘All right. You can start without him. How did you get on?’ Slider asked.

  ‘We found out that Colum Neary and Gorgeous have been hanging out together at the Philimore in North End Road.’

  ‘Freddie O’Sullivan,’ said Slider flatly. That’s all I needed.’

  ‘S’right Guv. They’ve been seen with their heads together. We also heard that the three of ’em’d been to some place out in the country to see about renting a house.’

  ‘A place in the country? That sounds familiar. Go on.’

  ‘Well, Phil and I went and rousted Firearms Freddie, and he was as nervous as a turkey in December. We leaned on him a bit, and he let slip some old horse apples about meeting the Nearys purely for social purposes – Nearys plural, you notice. So, since we know Mickie and Hughie are still banged up, it must have been Johnner or Brendan he was talking about, or both, back from the Republic and raring to go.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Slider said.

  ‘Unless there’s some more cousins we don’t know about yet.’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘So what d’you make of it, Guv? We reckoned it must be something pretty big: Firearms Freddie for shooters, Gorgeous George for wheels, and the little house on the prairie for a base—’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Phil and me. We think it looks like a big armed robbery.’

  ‘The house doesn’t come to much. They’ve got to have somewhere to live, and we know they’ve always preferred the wide open spaces.’

  ‘Still—’ Anderson said hopefully.

  ‘Yes,’ Slider agreed. ‘It looks as though they’re certainly planning something, and whatever it is, I don’t like it already. Did you get anything on Neal while you were carousing in the Philimore?’ Anderson looked blank for a moment and Slider raised a patient eyebrow. ‘You did remember that was the point of the exercise, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, Guv. I mean no, we didn’t manage to tie Neal in with Neary. But we’ve got him seen with Gorgeous George at the Shamrock all right.’

  ‘Thanks. We knew that already.’

  ‘And if we put salt on Freddie’s tail, he’s bound to crack sooner or later. He can’t stand being leaned on. His nerves’ve never been the same since that firebomb went off in his lock-up and set his hair alight.’

  ‘I don’t think Detective Chief Superintendent Head will authorise any more overtime,’ Slider said, ‘even for the pleasure of rousting Firearms Freddie.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Guv. He’s very keen to get something on the Nearys, and Phil’s asking him—’

  ‘What?’

  Anderson looked studiously unembarrassed. ‘That’s who he’s phoning – didn’t I mention? Mr Head asked him to let him know as soon as he got back.’

  ‘And you let him?’ Slider put his hands on the desk with soft menace. ‘Get Hunt in here now.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Anderson said. ‘I think he—’

  ‘Now. And don’t you leave the building until I’ve spoken to you again.’

  Hunt faced him across his desk woodenly.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t you “sir” me, you two-faced, conniving little shit,’ he said pleasantly. ‘When you get back off an assignment, you report to me, not to the DCS. How long have you been in the Job?’

  ‘Sir, Mr Head asked me to let him know what went down—’

  ‘I always knew you were stupid, Hunt, but I never knew your name derived from rhyming slang.’

  That one was over Hunt’s head. ‘I was just obeying orders from a senior officer, sir,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘You were what?’ Slider said dangerously.

  Hunt’s
eyes shifted a little. ‘I – er – I thought it was a special mission, sir.’

  ‘Who d’you think you are, George Bloody Smiley? Special mission! I know what you’re after, and if you think that’s the way to get it, you’re even more stupid than you look, which I would have thought was actually impossible. Just listen to me, peanut-brain. I’m going to be around a lot longer than Detective Chief Superintendent Head, and when he’s finally got his shiny new buttons, and he’s just a cloud of dust on the distant horizon, you’ll still have me to answer to.’ Hunt stared at his feet, but the tips of his ears were red. ‘Did you really think he was going to take you with him on his way to the stars? You pathetic pillock. Nobody’s got room on their firm for a backstabber. Not Mr Head, not anyone.’

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to do, if he asks me?’ Hunt said sulkily.

  ‘You come to me, and let me sort it out. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Now you can make your report to me, as you should have done in the first place. And if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I promise you I’m going to make your life such a misery you’ll wish you were pushing paper at Interpol. I’ll stick you on every time you so much as blow your nose. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sir,’ Hunt said again. He seemed abashed, at least; but being Hunt, he was probably still not entirely convinced he wasn’t being mightily put upon.

  Dickson listened in impassive silence, but at the end a slow smile flushed through his face, finishing up in a full Thomas Crapper of gleaming white porcelain.

  ‘Now we’ve got him,’ he said – he almost chortled.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Slider said happily. ‘Thank God for Hunt, and I never thought I’d hear myself say that.’

  Dickson eyed him with what in anyone else Slider would have been sure was shyness. ‘Thanks for coming to me with it.’

  ‘They taught us in the army never to waste ammunition, sir.’

  ‘You were never in the army.’

  ‘No sir.’

  Dickson stared at him, perplexed. ‘You’re a funny bloke, Bill. I never quite get the hang of you.’

  Thank you,’ Slider said modestly.

  Dickson reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Bells. ‘Glasses in the top drawer of the filing cabinet,’ he said. Slider fetched them, and Dickson poured two healthy-looking well-tanned drinks. He handed one to Slider. ‘I didn’t mean that as a compliment, you know,’ he went on, lifting his own glass and contemplating the contents. ‘People don’t like what they can’t understand – particularly in the Job. Well, I don’t have to tell you that, do I? If people don’t understand you, they assume you’re laughing at them, and that won’t make you popular.’