Chastened, he sought Murray’s address – a flat above a former warehouse – and found it with some difficulty, for the door was not where it might be expected to be, but round an apparently unrelated corner. He was prepared for there to be no answer to his ring, but after a few moments there was a thunder of feet and the door was opened by a young man, dark-haired and olive-skinned, small and powerful as an Etruscan warrior, standing on the bare wooden stairs onto which the door opened directly. He was wearing grey flannel trousers and braces over a bare chest, his bare feet were very dirty, his chin was unshaven, his eyes were bloodshot, and his hair looked as though he had slept in it. He looked about mid-twenties, though there were lines in his face which suggested a hard life – or perhaps merely chronic bad-temper. He looked at Atherton with an expression of suspicion if not hostility: this was not the man to give anyone the benefit of the doubt.
‘Are you Steve Murray?’ Atherton asked mildly.
‘Who wants to know?’ he barked.
Atherton showed his brief. ‘Can I come in? I want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
The memory of the sad meal sapped Atherton’s patience. ‘Oh, don’t get funny with me,’ he said. ‘What do you think I want to talk about? The Arts budget?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ Murray said. ‘Have you got a warrant?’
Atherton sighed inwardly. They all watched too many tv cop shows these days. ‘Should I need one?’ he asked pointedly.
Murray stared a moment and then backed off, turning himself with some delicacy on the stairs, and Atherton followed him up. At the top was another door, letting onto a long dark corridor running the width of the building, fragrant with the ghost of a thousand cabbages and sounding hollow underfoot. At the far end a rectangle of light was the doorway into the main room: large, lofty and lit with a range of old-fashioned metal-framed windows all along one wall. An upstairs storeroom, he thought, and imagined it stacked with wooden crates of bananas from the Windward Isles, oranges from Cape Town, pineapples from the Gold Coast – ah, the romance of greengrocery! It had probably been a very good storeroom and was now, with the perverse fashion for housing humans in structures designed for inanimate objects, a comfortless living-room. It was bare-floored and sparsely furnished – some of the pieces giving the impression of having been made from those same crates – and one corner accommodated the kitchen, divided off by a breakfast bar. The air was heavy with the smell of joss-sticks not quite masking the smell of pot. Atherton was glad it was none of his business: he wouldn’t have wagered a dead cat on there not being little plastic bags of forbidden substances lying about.
Without a glance at Atherton, Murray walked straight across the room, swung himself up onto a bar-stool at the kitchen counter, picked up the newspaper lying there and began to read it.
‘Nice place,’ Atherton said. ‘Do you live here alone?’ Murray continued to ignore him, turning a page with ostentatious concentration. ‘I know you’re not reading that,’ Atherton said pleasantly, ‘it’s The Sun. You might as well talk to me and get it over with.’
Murray flung the paper down petulantly. ‘You people never leave me alone, just because I got into a bit of trouble once. What do you want, anyway? I’ve got to go to work in half an hour, so you’ll have to make it quick.’
‘I want to talk to you about Radek – Sir Stefan Radek.’
Murray’s face darkened. ‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘Good thing too.’
‘Did you kill him?’
The question didn’t seem to surprise Murray. ‘I wish I had. I hate his sort. They think money’s everything. If you’re poor you’re nothing. Scumbag!’
‘Did you know he was having your girlfriend?’ Atherton enquired sympathetically.
Murray stared at him. ‘What do you think, I’m stupid?’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Of course I bloody knew. I’d have broken both his arms, but she wouldn’t have it. Told me she was milking him. Huh! Piddling amounts he gave her; I knew who was screwing who.’
‘How piddling were the amounts?’
‘Couple of hundred. Tarts in Soho get that. Five hundred once, when she went to Hong Kong. For having that filthy old goat slobbering over her – I told her she was mad.’
‘I’m amazed you let her do it.’
Murray’s face darkened. ‘What are you talking about, man, let her? A woman’s got the right to do what she wants with her own body, right? She’s entitled to her own space, rules her own destiny. What are you, one of these chauvinist scumbags, think you can own a woman?’
Ah, evidently a Guardian reader, Atherton thought. ‘No, not at all,’ he replied mildly. ‘You seemed so angry about it I thought perhaps you were.’
‘You didn’t expect me to like it, did you, sharing her with that capitalist filth-bag? But it was her choice. No-one’s got the right to tell her what to do and who to go with.’
‘Very liberal of you,’ Atherton said. It was a sound position for Murray to adopt: there must have been a few people urging Kate not to go with him, after all – Mr and Mrs Apwey, for a bet.
‘She’s too soft, Kate,’ Murray said more reflectively. ‘Lets people push her around. He blackmailed her, you know, told her she’d lose her job if she didn’t do what he wanted. I told her to stuff the job, but she said no. It paid well, and she was saving up for us to get married and buy a house.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
Atherton was entranced by him. ‘You were happy about marrying her and living in a house, were you?’
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Marriage is okay, and you gotta live somewhere. She doesn’t like it here. I said, baby, you’re paying for it, you got the right to live where you want. She wants furniture and stuff. Me, I can fuck on a bed or I can fuck on the floor, it’s all the same to me.’ He paused. ‘What’re you asking me all this shit for, anyway? Is this a bust?’
Far too much tv, Atherton thought. ‘Does it look like a bust?’
‘You people never leave me alone,’ he muttered.
‘You didn’t go in to work on Wednesday,’ Atherton said. ‘Why was that?’
‘Last Wednesday? I was sick. What’s it to you?’
‘What kinda sick? You see a doctor?’ Atherton gave in and adopted the local style.
Murray glared at him. ‘Sick like you get when you’ve had too much the night before, all right?’ He jumped down off the stool and kicked at the newspaper, his voice rising. ‘I had a few beers, did a few lines, I was canned, I felt lousy, so I didn’t get up, okay? I called in and told them I was taking the day off. I stayed in bed all day. Okay?’
At that moment the door in the long wall opposite the windows opened, and a fair young man came out, tousled, gummy-eyed, wearing a grubby red towel over an expensive tan and a St Christopher on a gold chain round his neck. His nose was running, and if he was not now he had certainly recently been in an illegal state of mind. ‘What’s the matter, what’s all the shouting?’ he mumbled, and broke into a huge open-mouthed yawn revealing fine teeth and a regrettable tongue. Closing his mouth he looked at Atherton. ‘Who’s this bloke, Steve?’
The voice was blurred but the accent was unmistakably upper class. Steve Murray evidently believed in sinning above his station.
‘Never mind. Just go back to sleep, dickhead,’ Murray snarled.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Atherton,’ Atherton said. ‘Just having a chat with your friend. Who are you?’
The young man looked wary. ‘Does it matter?’
Atherton smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t wanted to know, son. What’s your name?’
The eyes flickered across to Murray and back, and he gave a tiny shrug. ‘Marcus Coleraine, if it’s any of your business,’ he said sulkily.
‘Oh, I think it is,’ Atherton said smoothly, hiding the lift of his heart at the scent of a lead. ‘I’m just asking your friend here what he knows about the death of your grandpa.’
&n
bsp; Marcus’s eyes widened. ‘Oh shit!’ he breathed.
Slider was just about to leave his office when the phone rang. He hesitated a moment, and then thought that it might possibly be Joanna and answered it.
‘Bill!’ Wrong. It was Irene, annoyed. ‘Why didn’t you call me back?’
‘I didn’t know you were trying to reach me,’ he said stupidly.
‘I rang you twice. Didn’t you get the messages?’
Belatedly he identified Mrs Hislop-Ivory. He imagined the exchange: ‘Who’s calling?’ ‘It’s his wife, Irene.’ McLaren must have been doing X-rays without his lead hat again. Or was he just deaf?
‘Now I come to think of it, yes,’ Slider said. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Not wrong exactly, but we have to talk, you know. About the house, for one thing.’
‘I can’t talk now, I’m just going out.’
‘Oh yes, it’s lunchtime, isn’t it? Don’t let me spoil your pleasure!’
‘It’s not that. We’ve got a big case on. I’ve got a lot to do.’
‘There’s always some excuse. Well you can spare me a few minutes of your precious time. There are things we have to sort out.’
‘Can’t it wait until tonight?’
‘Who’s to say whether I’ll be able to catch you tonight? You can’t put it off for ever, Bill. I know you. You always think things will go away if you ignore them, but they won’t.’
No he didn’t. That annoyed him. He knew they wouldn’t. ‘Ernie Newman didn’t go away. I tried ignoring him.’
‘Maybe that was the trouble,’ she said sharply. ‘Any normal man would have felt jealous about another man hanging around his wife. Any normal man would have done something about it.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like taken a little interest in me.’
Ouch, that smarted. He turned the attack. ‘No normal man could have felt jealous of Ernie Newman. You can’t tell the size of his house and pension just from looking at him.’
‘Do you really think I’m that shallow?’ Irene asked, hurt.
Now Slider felt ashamed, and in his shame hit out again. ‘Well, let’s face it, you’re not after him for his body, are you?’
‘How dare you say that?’ she retorted. ‘Do you think because you don’t please me that no-one can?’
Slider reeled, on the ropes. By God, that got him where he lived! On a scale of chauvinism he ranked pretty low amongst his peers, but still he had always assumed that Irene was not interested in sex. It was shocking to be told suddenly, after all these years, that au contraire she was simply not interested in him; the more so because of the unpleasant revelations it made about him to himself – not so much about his sexual technique, but about his conceit, of which he had believed he was fairly free. Perhaps the greatest conceit of all was to think you were not conceited? He’d have to run that one past Atherton’s giant brain. In the meantime he wasn’t doing too well, conversationally, and especially not in the office. He groped belatedly after a shred of dignity.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.’
‘It’s all right. I know you didn’t,’ she said after a moment, but she still sounded hurt.
‘What was it you wanted, anyway?’ he asked, trying to be helpful. ‘Something about the house, you said?’
‘Yes. Well, it will have to be sold, you know, so that we can split the proceeds. Have you done anything about finding somewhere to live yet?’
‘I haven’t had time.’
‘You must make time,’ she said impatiently. ‘Do you want me to sell it out from under you? I could, you know.’
‘What are you in such a hurry about? You’re comfortable, aren’t you? It’s not as if you’re living on the street.’
‘It’s not the point,’ she said, and something in her voice made him think that what was the point embarrassed her. Maybe Ernie was pressing her to get her share of the money. But no, not Ernie, he corrected himself. To be fair to old fart-face, Ernie wouldn’t do that. More likely it was Irene’s friend and mentor, Marilyn Cripps, in whose distressed pine kitchen he was pretty sure Irene would have poured out everything over the herb tea and rough-baked oat cookies. The she-Cripps had never liked him. She’d tell Irene exactly what she was entitled to and urge her to extract every last cent, if it meant squeezing him till his socks squeaked. And Irene, the cluck, was always fatally impressed by anyone with a detached house and a Labrador.
‘The point is you’re always prevaricating,’ Irene went on. ‘You’ve always been like it, and you’re no better now. Look, I know what you’re thinking,’ she added more gently, ‘but it’s no good delaying things in the hope that I’ll change my mind. I’m not coming back, and you might as well accept it, and get on and sort things out. You’ll be happier in the long run. Start a new life of your own.’
‘It’s nice of you to care,’ he said. There was a silence while she tried to work out if he was being ironic or not.
‘Well, what are you going to do? Either we have to talk and agree a settlement between us, or my solicitor will have to talk to yours. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’
This was such big talk from little Irene – ‘my solicitor’, forsooth! She was moving upmarket in a big way, leaving him far behind. ‘How are the children?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Fine,’ she said briefly; and there was a silence in which painful thoughts, memories and regrets surged about like bacterial activity. A great hopelessness swept over Slider. What had brought him to this pass, homeless, loveless, childless, and short of socks? As a punishment for sin it was pretty effective; the sin not so much of adultery but of vacillation.
‘I’d like to see them,’ he said, a statement of fact rather than a request, but she said cunningly, ‘You’ll see them if you make a date to come round here and talk things through.’
He panicked at the idea of going to Ernie’s house and seeing his children nesting amongst the late Mavis Newman’s furnishings. Too bizarre. He’d end up like Barrington. Anyway, there was the case – oh case, oh sweet oh lovely case! ‘I just don’t know what I’ll be doing for the next few days,’ he said desperately. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow about it.’
He could feel her doubting. ‘Well, what about the house? Are you going to put it on the market?’
‘You do it,’ he said, ‘I really haven’t got time to talk to estate agents.’
‘But what about the furniture?’
‘I don’t care about it. I don’t want any of it. Get in a firm of house-clearers. Just let me know when they’re coming so I can get my own things out.’
This clearly made Irene unhappy. ‘But what are you going to do? You have to have somewhere to go.’ He didn’t volunteer anything, and she went on, ‘You don’t sound like yourself at all. I’m worried about you. Are you all right?’
‘I’m deliriously happy, what do you think?’ Then he regretted it. ‘No, I’m all right, really. Just do whatever you want, and I’ll make my own arrangements. Don’t worry about me.’
‘But are you sure you want me to sell the furniture? Won’t you need it for wherever you go?’
‘Quite sure,’ he said firmly. He hated that three-piece suite, the reproduction mahogany dinette set, the Dreamland bed with the Dralon velvet headboard (which frankly he’d always thought rather unhygienic apart from anything else), the Jacobethan glazed oak corner cupboard in which were displayed the Birds of Britain limited edition decorative plates set. He’d always hated them. This was not life, it was a Home Shopping Experience.
‘It’ll be a load off my mind,’ he said sincerely. ‘Look, I must go. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Well, see you do,’ she said doubtfully, and rang off.
The Coleraines lived in one of those large Edwardian service flats at the back of Kensington High Street. Slider rang the bell, and the door was opened almost before his finger had left the button. Mrs Coleraine was standing there in the hall, half in and half
out of her overcoat.
‘Oh, Inspector,’ she said with a smile and a hint of apology. ‘Do come in. Did you want me? I was just going out.’
‘No, as a matter of fact it was your husband I wanted a word with.’
The smile widened with relief. ‘It’s work, you see – well, half work, half pleasure. I’m doing up a little flat for Henry – Alec’s godson Henry Russell. He’s getting married and it’s going to be my wedding-present to him. I want to have it all ready for them to move into straight away, but I’ve got so behind, and I expect – I imagine—’ She paused, an anxious frown bending her fair brows. ‘I was wondering about the funeral. I don’t mean to sound callous, but I suppose I will lose some more time over it. Have you any idea when we’re likely to be allowed to go ahead with it?’
‘Well, we have to wait for the inquest, of course. In cases like this that’s a brief formality. We tell the Coroner that an investigation is going on and ask for an adjournment, and unless there’s any reason not to, he then issues a certificate allowing the body to be released for burial.’
‘And is there,’ she said carefully, ‘any reason not to?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ Slider said. ‘There was nothing mysterious about the death, except for who did it. I can’t see any reason why the body shouldn’t be released. The inquest will be on Monday, so I should say you could safely arrange the funeral for the middle of next week.’
Dead End Page 12
