Dead End

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘What sort of truths?’

  Des looked sly. ‘Well, it’s me he comes to for his little comforts when we’re on tour – Buster wouldn’t approve. I always have to have a couple of cans of lager waiting for him when he comes off – and the odd spot of something stronger.’

  ‘Like what, for instance?’ Atherton asked.

  The dark eyelashes fluttered down delicately. ‘Well, I can’t tell you, can I, you being a copper? But let’s say it’s white and you can smoke it, but it ain’t Rothmans.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Atherton said. ‘That’s nothing to do with me. What else did you get for him?’

  ‘He asked me to get him girls sometimes. Or boys, depending where we were. I didn’t much care for that,’ he added, giving Atherton a full stare, ‘but my job wouldn’t last long if I crossed the maestros, so I just shut my mouth and do my best. Of course, he tipped me well, but money doesn’t make up for being used as a pimp, does it?’

  Atherton agreed sincerely, while mentally recalibrating the words. He was pretty sure that Des would do anything in the world for a sufficient wad of wonga, and never turn a hair. ‘So he was bisexual, was he?’

  Des shrugged. ‘Not really. More like indiscriminate. He was married once, you know,’ he added, ‘but his wife died. There was a bit of a scandal about that at the time, I don’t know if you remember, because she committed suicide. Don’t blame her, thoúgh. Imagine waking up married to him.’

  ‘You didn’t like him, then?’

  ‘He was a disgusting old man. I didn’t like having to hang around him saying yes sir, no sir. Treated people like dirt. He was vindictive too. There’s quite a few people in the business he’s ruined. He’s even tried to get rid of Spaz, the poor little bleeder, but I struck at that,’ he finished proudly. ‘Told him Spaz was my assistant and nobody but me was going to sack him. He took it from me, because he knew I meant what I said. And he knew I knew too much about him. But I’ve kept Spaz out of his face ever since.’

  ‘What did Spaz do to annoy him?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘Old Radek wanted to have a little feel of the family jewels one time, and Spaz refused him,’ Des said. ‘Mind you, I told Spaz it was his own fault for going in there on his own. He should have come to me. I’d told him that more than once. Let me deal with the temperamental ones, I said. I suppose he got ambitious.’ He suddenly remembered his errand. ‘Gawd, what am I doing standing here chatting? Buster’ll be foaming at the mouth. Here, give us the bags, will you.’

  ‘I’ve nearly finished,’ Atherton said, writing unhurriedly. ‘Go on talking. I’m sure there’s lots you can tell me about the late lamented. Like who wanted to kill him, for instance.’

  ‘Can’t help you there,’ Des said cheerily, ‘though if I meet the bastard that did it I’ll buy him a pint. Anyway, you know where to find me.’

  ‘If you think of anything, anything at all—’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll call you,’ Des said. ‘I’ve watched the cops shows on the telly. It’s always the most obvious suspect that done it, but that puts me at the head of the queue, and it wasn’t me.’

  Atherton stared reflectively into the space left by the humper’s departure. ‘The world’s a stage, the light is in one’s eyes,’ he mused, ‘the auditorium is extremely dark. The more dishonest get the larger rise; the more offensive make the greater mark. Right on, Hilaire old son. Dog bites man, no story; but it seems some or other man has bitten back.’ He sighed. ‘I only fear we may be going to be spoilt for choice.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Do Not Go, Gentle, into that Good Knight

  ‘How did you get on with the verger?’ Slider asked, placating the inner man with a cheese salad roll. Because of the call-out he’d missed lunch entirely, one of the few things to be grateful for that day.

  Atherton had a smoked salmon sandwich, but that was Atherton all over. ‘He’s not going to be much use on the description front. He didn’t really get much of a look at the bloke, what with the dim lighting, the hat and the haste.’

  ‘Sounds like the title of a detective novel. Are we going to get a videofit out of it?’

  ‘’Fraid not. All he can tell us is that the bloke was wearing a camel-coloured duffel coat and a brown trilby-type hat with a wide brim. He was young, say between eighteen and twenty-eight, white, and slightly built.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Narrows the field to, say, about thirteen million people.’ Atherton stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, reaching behind him to the window-sill where he’d put his cup. ‘But the duffel coat may help. Who wears a duffel coat nowadays?’

  ‘Bird watchers?’

  ‘Sartorial ignoramuses. Talking of which—’ He broke off as the door opened and McLaren put his head around it.

  ‘There was a phone message for you earlier, guv.’ He looked at the remains of Slider’s cheese roll as automatically as a construction worker looks at a passing woman’s chest. ‘A Mrs Hislop-Ivory, and would you phone her back.’

  ‘I don’t know any Hislop-Ivory. What was it about?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Did she leave a number?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Are you sure of the name?’

  ‘I wrote it down,’ he said, as though that helped.

  ‘Oh well, I suppose she’ll ring again if it’s important.’ Hislop-Ivory sounded like fund-raising, or a complaint about neighbours’ parking. ‘Is Mr Barrington in?’

  ‘Just came in, guv,’ McLaren said, glad to be helpful.

  ‘I thought I smelled the brimstone,’ Atherton murmured. When McLaren had gone, he said, ‘Anyway, to resume, the verger didn’t see the bloke come in. He may even have been there for some time, hovering around in the back – though I doubt it. If you were going to shoot someone, you wouldn’t hang around beforehand waiting to be recognised, would you?’

  ‘Not unless you were trying to screw up your courage,’ Slider suggested. ‘When did the verger first see the villain?’

  ‘He was up in the gallery checking on the seating for the concert when he suddenly remembered the door onto the street from that passage that runs down the side of the church.’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’

  ‘Well, he couldn’t remember if he’d locked the door, and he didn’t want people to be able to wander in off the street and down to the dressing-rooms without being seen. So he came down from the gallery, crossed the church – the stairway to the gallery is on the opposite side from the passage—’

  ‘And was the villain there, then?’

  ‘He didn’t see him. So probably no. He went through into the passage, checked the street door – which was locked, by the way – and then came back out into the body of the church. That’s when he first saw chummy, standing in the centre aisle, level with the last row of chairs.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Just standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at the orchestra. Verger goes past him, heading back towards the gallery to finish the job he was doing; so his back’s to chummy now. He’s just reached the door when he hears the gunshot. Verger looks round at chummy, sees him with the gun in his hand, just standing there staring, presumably at Radek. Frozen – as is the verger – with fright. Then chummy turns and legs it, stuffing the gun into his pocket as he goes, and out through the street door. Verger hesitates, wondering if he should give chase—’

  ‘I should bloody well think not,’ Slider said. ‘Chasing armed killers can seriously damage your health.’

  ‘Civilians don’t always think as clearly as us,’ said Atherton. ‘Anyway, he decided his duty was to the living and ran the other way.’

  ‘So the likelihood is that the killer came in during the moments when the verger was checking the passage door. Straight in and out job.’ He frowned in thought.

  ‘So what now?’ Atherton said after a moment.

  ‘As I see it,’ Slider said, ‘Radek was a famous man, and shootings are rare. Possi
bilities are that the killer was (a) a random homicidal maniac who wandered in off the street, (b) a non-random homicidal maniac like the one who killed John Lennon, (c) someone who knew Radek and had a beef against him, and (d) someone doing it on someone else’s behalf. Now given that (a) and (b) are the least likely, thank God, in this country, (c) is still the most likely, by several streets.’

  ‘But there’s still a chance it could be (d).’

  ‘A chance. But what sort of hired killer does the job in broad daylight in front of a hundred witnesses? And shooting from that distance? Hand-guns are notoriously inaccurate. From that distance he could just as easily have missed as hit the target.’

  ‘Yes, but (d) doesn’t have to be a hired killer in the professional sense. It could be someone acting on somebody’s behalf without their knowledge – taking revenge for them or something.’

  ‘Yes, it’s possible. My bet is that it will turn out to be a domestic, though.’

  ‘I’d still like to compile a list of all the people who had a grudge against him.’

  ‘From what we’ve heard, it’ll be a long list.’ He screwed up the bag his roll had come in and potted it into the bin. ‘Let’s see how Anderson has got on with the computer. Then I shall have to go and see Mr Barrington.’

  As he entered the Hall of the Demon King, Slider thought Barrington was looking strained and unwell. He was walking up and down the room in his usual menacing way, but there was something jerky and irritable about the movement; and when he turned and placed his hands on the desk to lean on them and glare, Slider saw that his cuticles were ragged, as though he’d been biting them. He wondered privately if Mad Ivan were cracking up at last. All that suppressed anger must eventually rot your brain.

  It was Slider who had asked to see Barrington, but Barrington got in first. ‘You do realise, I hope, that this station, like every other, has to run on a budget?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And that misappropriation of publicly owned resources is theft, plain and simple. You understand that?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Slider neutrally. Wisps of steam were beginning to emerge from Barrington’s ears. Slider tucked his head down in anticipation of the explosion.

  Barrington straightened up to his full impressive height. ‘I walked into the CID room yesterday afternoon and found one of your firm – Mackay – making a private telephone call to his wife. He finished it fairly rapidly when he saw me, of course, but after he put the receiver down I waited in vain for him to offer to pay for the call. I’m still waiting. I suppose it’s too much to hope that he’s made the offer to you?’

  Slider was put off his stroke. ‘The men sometimes have to phone home to say they’re going to be late, sir—’

  ‘It’s still a private call, made on the office phone.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t abuse the privilege—’

  ‘Privilege! Is that what you call it?’ Barrington paced, and Slider watched. This had the flavour of psychosis about it, all right, full and fruity. ‘I call it dishonesty. Theft is theft, and there’s no difference in kind between stealing the price of a phone call and stealing from the petty cash. It’s only a matter of degree.’

  ‘It has been the custom, sir—’ Slider began hopelessly, but Barrington whipped round and glared at him.

  ‘The custom to condone theft? I think not. It has been slackness. Indiscipline. Carelessness. Officers of the law, whatever their rank, must be scrupulous in their behaviour, at all times, and at all levels. From now on, there will be no private telephone calls made on office telephones.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘If they want to call their wives or girlfriends or mothers or bookmakers, they can go downstairs and use the payphone. That’s what it’s there for. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sir,’ Slider said again. It was all very depressing. The man had clearly lost touch with reality. Once Slider told the troops, they’d dial till they puked out of sheer defiance, and he’d have to avoid catching them at it.

  ‘This applies to all ranks,’ Barrington snapped, perhaps detecting some slight lack of enthusiasm in Slider’s mien.

  ‘I understand, sir,’ said Slider. ‘May I talk to you about something else now? I did want to report on the Radek murder case.’

  Barrington looked blank for a moment, like a man who’s been smacked on the side of the head unexpectedly by a golf-ball. Then he sat down abruptly at his desk. ‘I was wondering when you’d get round to that,’ he said sharply. ‘Well, carry on.’

  Sighing inwardly, Slider carried on.

  ‘Forensic aren’t going to be able to help us on this one,’ he concluded. ‘There’s nothing at the scene to identify the killer amongst all the hundreds of footprints and fingerprints. We’ve interviewed everyone who was present, but all the accounts are pretty much the same and no-one has much to contribute. Only the verger was close enough even to get a glimpse of the face under the hat, and he didn’t see enough to know the man again. But we’ll assemble what description we can, and we’ve started the door-to-door. I think this is a case where posters may help, too – someone must have seen him in the street either before or afterwards. We could be ready to go on the television for this evening’s news, the local for preference, if you think it’s worth it with what little we’ve got.’

  He paused enquiringly, but Barrington only stared at him briefly as though he hadn’t been listening, and then said, ‘Go on.’

  Slider continued. ‘In case it was a random killing we’ve run a computer check, but nothing’s come up. Description and MO don’t tally with anyone on the streets at the moment – though that doesn’t rule out someone with no record, of course.’

  Barrington grunted.

  ‘The post is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. We had a bit of trouble, Freddie Cameron being away on holiday, what with the general shortage of forensic pathologists. But at least it ought to be quite straightforward – there’s no mystery about the cause of death, after all. Anyway, there’s a man at Thomas’s, name of James: he’s young but he’s got some gunshot wound experience—’

  ‘James? Yes. I know him.’ Slider made a politely enquiring noise. ‘I met him once or twice when I was up in Nottingham.’ The Nottingham forensic lab dealt with all the specialist firearms enquiries outside the Met area. ‘He’s a good man. I didn’t know he was at Thomas’s now.’

  Slider nodded and continued. ‘Regarding the gun, sir, I’ve got two teams combing the area at the moment – front gardens, basements, rubbish bins and so on – but in view of the fact that chummy put the piece in his pocket, I’m not hopeful. In my experience either they throw it away immediately in a panic, or they hang on to it and dump it or stash it when they get home. And we don’t know where home may be, of course. But my gut feeling is that this murder will probably turn out to be a domestic, and it’s just a matter of finding out who wanted him dead. I think once we talk to the family we’ll latch onto something fairly quickly.’

  Barrington stopped at that, and turned to look at Slider thoughtfully, pulling out his lower lip with his finger and thumb in the unattractive way of someone who doesn’t realise he’s doing it.

  ‘You see this as an old-fashioned police job, do you?’ he asked suddenly.

  Slider was puzzled. ‘Sir?’

  ‘This case. Means, motive and opportunity. Dedicated plodding. Is that how you see it?’

  Slider hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, and he didn’t like it. This was so unlike Barrington-talk he had an obscure sense of trouble approaching.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly, sir,’ he said cautiously. ‘All I mean is that I don’t think it was a random killing. It might be as simple as money. From what I understand of the music world, conductors earn a lot of money. Radek must have been a very wealthy man.’

  ‘I’ve had a call, you see, from Bob Moston at 6 AMIP,’ Barrington said.

  ‘I see,’ said Slider non-committally. The Area Major Incident Pool handled the particularly complex
or high-profile cases. It remained to be seen whether this would prove to be either, but a glory-hungry AMIP boss or a responsibility-shy local boss might insist on passing the case upwards.

  ‘Radek was rather a media honey last year,’ Barrington went on, ‘though he’s not particularly in the news at the moment.’ He will be after today, Slider thought. ‘But you just never know with the press. There’s a romantic side to it – the single shot fired in a dark church – which might catch their imagination. On the other hand—’

  He let it hang. On the other hand, Slider filled in for himself, it might be cast into the shade by a newly discovered Soap Star’s Secret Love-Nest Shock, or MP In Baby Alligator Abuse Scandal.

  ‘Is Mr Moston anxious to take the case, sir?’ Slider asked.

  Barrington looked surprised. ‘Oh. No. On the contrary. Two of his SIOs are hors de combat at the moment.’ French yet, thought Slider. ‘And the other three are already involved in more than one case each. He’s asking whether we’re likely to be sending this case up to him, because he’d probably have to tackle it himself if we did. So I want your assessment. Can you handle it here?’

  If you leave me alone, I can. Slider, the brave captain, tilted his clean-cut English chin at the stern and critical general. ‘I think so, sir. At the moment there’s no media pressure, and we’ve no reason yet to think it’s going to be a sticker. I’ve got a good team, and Atherton’s pretty au fait with the music scene.’ You’re not the only one who knows French, chum.

  ‘You – er – have a contact in the orchestra concerned, I believe?’ Barrington said with unexpected delicacy. ‘Is that likely to cause a problem?’

  How the hell did he know that? ‘Quite the contrary, sir.’ He couldn’t really risk au contraire, not so soon. ‘It should be a useful source of information. Though I must point out that there’s no indication the orchestra was anything but an accidental witness.’