Shadow Play

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Then there was the matter of KidZone, which had always been high profile because of the large number of celebrities associated with it, thanks to its charismatic CEO, Myra Silverman. It had come to unwelcome prominence when an investigative journalist brought into question how much good it was actually doing, and where all the money was going. Eventually there had been a Commons committee hearing, at which Rathkeale had been called, and had defended the organisation and his former colleague. The conclusion was reached that no wrongdoing had been intended, and that naivety and poor accounting practices had led to the problems. Rathkeale had escaped that one as he had not been involved with the charity for several years, and the accounts were too erratic to tell exactly when anything had gone awry.

  The conclusion one might draw, Slider thought, was that here was a generally good man, although, like most politicians, he had developed a sense of entitlement that led him to bend the rules in his own favour from time to time. He tried to keep that in mind when he and Atherton were shown into Rathkeale’s office, mainly in order to distract it – his mind – from the knowledge that he knew what this man looked like naked.

  Rathkeale stood up to greet them, and offered his hand across the desk, which Slider feigned not to see. He didn’t like shaking hands with members of the public anyway, and there was something about the pale, pudgy hand with gingery hairs on the back that convinced him it would be damp. Rathkeale was wearing a better-than-average dark blue suit over a pale blue shirt and an expensively colourful tie – jazzy but tasteful – that would have got him a good table at most restaurants. He smiled a politician’s smile: wide and white and automatic, a smile that was picked dew-fresh and quick-frozen for instant use anywhere. Overall, his face was not unattractive, but there was in his eyes that blank watchfulness you saw in most citizens receiving an unexpected visit from the Bill.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you long,’ he said. ‘I’m due in a committee in a few minutes.’ His Scottish accent was much milder than it had been in the video – the merest trace. He evidently had more than one persona, which interested, though it didn’t surprise, Slider.

  ‘I think you may want to give us a lot more than a few minutes,’ Slider said. ‘This is a matter of importance, and of great delicacy.’

  ‘Oh Lord, what now!’ Rathkeale said with a jokey, rueful smile. ‘Have I been caught speeding?’

  Slider produced the memory stick. ‘I have here a video sequence that you will want to see. Is your computer secure? You won’t want anyone else to watch it.’

  A little spark of alarm showed in Rathkeale’s eyes, but he still seemed determined to carry it off lightly. ‘All right, I suppose I’d better see what you’ve got,’ he said, as if the idea bored him. ‘I hope it isn’t long.’

  He sat down and plugged in the stick. Atherton moved round the desk so that he would see what Rathkeale was seeing, but Slider remained where he was, the better to judge Rathkeale’s reaction.

  From the first frame it was shock and alarm. ‘How the hell did you get this?’ he cried. ‘Oh my God! Oh my God, I—’ His face crimsoned. ‘I don’t want to see any more.’ He kept watching, though, and belatedly, anger came to help him out. ‘Those little tramps! They were filming me! I didn’t—Oh my God!’

  The last ‘Oh my God’ was different from the others. It sprang from realisation of the trouble he was in as opposed to embarrassment and shock. Now he went from crimson to a pallor that was almost yellow. From Atherton’s tiny nod, Slider knew the coke-snorting sequence had been reached. It was an ‘oh my God’ of deep apprehension.

  The recording stopped and he looked up, his faint blue eyes shiny with shock. ‘Who did this?’ he asked. And, ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘We’ll go into that later,’ Slider said. ‘For the moment, I want to know who is blackmailing you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rathkeale.

  Slider kept his patience. ‘Blackmailers always tell you not to go to the police, but it’s too late for that. We’re here, so there’s no point in trying to keep it secret any longer. Blackmail is a disgusting crime, and right now, we are on the same side as you. We want these people caught and prosecuted, and we will do what we can to mitigate the damage to you. But you must help us. Who is blackmailing you, and what do they want?’

  Rathkeale looked up, rather pathetic, now, in his bewilderment. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I really don’t know. Nobody’s asked me for anything. I’ve never seen this film before. Where did you get it?’

  Before Slider could answer, there was a tap at the door, which opened to reveal a PA looking enquiring. ‘Kevin? You aren’t forgetting that committee, are you?’

  Rathkeale looked confused, as though coming back from a long way off, and then straightened his face, and said in a businesslike manner, ‘Something’s come up, Val. It’s rather important. I’m going to have to miss it. Can you ring everyone who needs to know? And see if you can reschedule the URT meeting.’ She looked as though she was going to argue, and his voice sharpened. ‘Just do it, please. And I don’t want to be disturbed again.’

  When they were alone, he put his head in his hands, and moaned softly.

  Slider said, ‘Let’s get this straight. Are you telling me that no one has approached you over this incident?’

  ‘No! I mean, yes, I am saying that.’ He looked up. ‘I’ve never seen this film before. I didn’t know it was being recorded. No one’s said a word about it to me, except you. Now you’re telling me someone’s blackmailing me? But why haven’t they come to me? How did you get it? What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘I’d really like to know that myself,’ Slider said mildly. ‘I can’t think of any reason for anyone to make this recording unless they were intending to blackmail you. Do you have any enemies?’

  ‘Of course I’ve got enemies,’ he said, as if exasperated. ‘You can’t be in politics without making enemies. But no one in particular. No one I can think of who’d go that far. And what could they want, anyway? I’m not a rich man.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  He bristled. ‘What d’you mean by that? You think I’ve got hidden hoards, ill-gotten gains? I’ve been a public servant all my life. I’m decently paid, but that’s all. I own a property, I’ve got a mortgage on another, I have a couple of consultancies, but I’ve got two kids at private school, so I’m just about breaking even. A blackmailer’d have a thin time of it getting money out of me.’

  ‘What are your relations like with your wife?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘Fine, fine. We’re good. I mean, she doesn’t know about …’ He gestured towards the screen. ‘I’ve always been discreet.’ His eyes widened. ‘Oh my God, you don’t think she hired a private detective?’

  ‘The thought occurred,’ Atherton said.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘But – if she suspected anything she’d say something to me. We’ve always agreed not to let things fester. That’s why our marriage is so solid. We talk about everything.’

  ‘Well, not everything,’ Atherton pointed out.

  He looked pathetic. ‘You’re not going to tell her, are you?’ Receiving no answer, he looked from one to the other, still thinking it out. ‘Look, she’s happy. I’d know if she wasn’t. I can’t believe she’d put a detective on me – that’s not her style. If she wanted a divorce she’d have talked to me about it. And the house and most of the good stuff is in her name anyway, so what would she have to gain from a contentious divorce? Besides,’ he added with a frown, ‘why are you here asking about it? If it was just a private detective on a divorce case, that wouldn’t merit using up police time and facilities.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ Slider said. ‘I think it’s much more serious than that. This recording was found in the home of someone who had been murdered, and his home had been ransacked – very professionally searched. We are proceeding on the assumption that it was this recording they were looking for.’

  There was a silence, and then Rathkeale said voicel
essly, ‘Murdered?’ He looked pale now, his freckles standing out by contrast, his eyes still, and seeming almost to have gone farther back in his head. ‘You said – someone’s been—?’

  ‘So you see,’ Slider went on inexorably, ‘that this matter has become extremely important.’

  Rathkeale was staring at nothing, his dry lips moving as if rehearsing phrases he could not speak. He looked like a guilty man who had been found out – but whether guilty of boying and coke-snorting, or of having paid a hitman who had not quite completed his task, it was impossible to say. Best, Slider thought, to let him think they hadn’t thought about the second option, lull him, see what he said or did. The seriously guilty were often arrogant enough to think they could fool the police, and to delight in it, and that sort of over-confidence was the copper’s friend.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he went on, ‘that a blackmail was being set up, and that we have intercepted it before it could be completed. If you definitely haven’t been approached?’

  Rathkeale became eager. ‘I haven’t! I swear to you!’

  ‘But even though we have this recording, there may be others, and we can’t be confident that they won’t still try to get to you.’

  ‘Get to me? You mean – try to blackmail me?’

  ‘If what they want is money, yes. If it’s revenge they want, they could go from blackmail to more direct harm. You could be in danger.’ He let that sink in. ‘So I am asking you to think very carefully: who is your enemy, and what do they want?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know! If I did, I’d tell you – my God, I don’t want this coming out. It would ruin me! Think what the papers would make of it! I wish to God I’d never—’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Atherton smoothly.

  Rathkeale found a little spurt of self-righteousness. ‘It’s not illegal! It was all consensual. Those boys were over age, and they were well paid.’

  ‘Cocaine is an illegal substance,’ Atherton reminded him.

  ‘But everyone takes that,’ Rathkeale asserted. ‘It’s – it’s no different from vodka. You can’t go to a party without finding it these days. My God, the entire House of Commons is at it. Nobody thinks of it as being illegal any more.’

  ‘I’m afraid we have to,’ Slider said. ‘But if you really don’t know who is out to blackmail you, we had better start working from the other end. Do you know this man?’

  Rathkeale took the photograph and studied it. Slider watched him closely, but he only looked puzzled. But, of course, he was a politician; and he knew he was being watched. ‘No, I don’t recognise him. What’s his name?’

  ‘Leon Kimmelman.’

  ‘I don’t know the name, either. Is this the man who—?’

  ‘Was murdered? Yes. It was in his flat that we found the tape. You’re sure you don’t know him?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

  Rathkeale’s phone rang. He reached for it automatically, then remembered and drew back his hand, and after a moment the ringing stopped.

  Slider said, ‘The two men in the recording with you – who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Mr Rathkeale,’ Slider said sternly, ‘you are in a great deal of trouble. Whatever you think of it, cocaine is an illegal substance and I could arrest you for that. At the moment, I’m trying to help you, but don’t try my patience.’

  Rathkeale blushed again. ‘I mean, I really don’t know. I picked them up at a club. They said their names were Rudy and Stefan – of course, they’re probably just their working names. I paid them cash. That’s all I know about them.’

  ‘You say you picked them up?’ Slider said. ‘Did you approach them, or did they approach you?’

  ‘I—’ He stopped, an arrested look in his eyes. ‘Oh. They approached me. I suppose that’s it. It was a sting.’

  ‘It looks that way. When was this?’

  ‘Last Friday. At this club I go to. They came up to me at the bar. We got talking. They suggested going back to their place. I mean, it’s not unusual. I didn’t think anything of it. I thought they just—’

  ‘Fancied you?’ Atherton suggested.

  He looked annoyed. ‘Well, obviously they were looking for customers. I knew that. In their case. But I’ve had my share of ordinary pick-ups. People like me, you know. How d’you think I got elected? I’m a nice bloke.’

  Slider cut across this. ‘The club where you picked them up – are you a regular there?’ He didn’t seem to want to say it. He nodded. ‘How often do you go?’

  ‘Most weeks,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Friday. Friday’s my night.’

  Slider rolled inward eyes. For someone in his position to lay himself open like that, by going to the same place on a regular basis – well, it showed the arrogance that believed it could never be found out. And perhaps the same arrogance that believed it could have someone put out of the way and not be called to account. ‘Had you seen them in there before?’ he pursued.

  ‘I’m not sure. I may have. Boys come and go all the time. I think maybe I’d seen Rudy before, but with different hair. It’s quite dark in there, you know. I don’t think I’d seen Stefan before, but I couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘What’s its name, this club? Where is it?’

  ‘It’s called Ivanka’s. It’s in Soho.’

  ‘All right,’ said Slider. ‘We’ll start from there, see if we can pick up these men. Meanwhile, I recommend you to be discreet. Don’t tell anyone about this.’

  ‘As if I would!’

  ‘And try not to change your behaviour or routines in any way. If we have intercepted a blackmail attempt, it’s important the blackmailers don’t know that we know. We need to flush them out.’ Rathkeale looked uncomfortable at that. ‘And of course,’ Slider said, laying down his card, ‘you’ll let us know at once if anyone does contact you. As I said, we don’t know that this is the only copy – it’s very likely not.’

  Rathkeale nodded, looked at the card as though it might bite him, then put it into his inside jacket pocket.

  Slider and Atherton headed for the door, when Slider remembered one more question. ‘You said the men took you back to their place. Where was it?’

  ‘Chelsea. Well, just past Battersea Bridge. One of those houseboats moored alongside the embankment – a big one. I don’t remember the name.’

  Outside, Atherton looked at Slider, enlightened. ‘A houseboat! I said it was a funny sort of hotel room.’

  ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on him. If he ordered the hit, he may lead us to the murderer. I’d like to get his phone and email records.’

  ‘You don’t think he did it himself?’ Atherton queried. ‘He’s a bit of a chubster, but if he took Kimmelman by surprise, and with a heavy enough weapon … But he seems a bit too woolly for desperate deeds.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Slider. ‘Desperate is the key word. Fear, plus a sense of entitlement, can do wonders for resolve. And he’s a politician – hiding things is in their nature. It’s the old problem – when you’re dealing with an actor, how do you know when they stop acting?’

  ‘Well, he’s still the obvious suspect,’ Atherton said as they walked back out into the thin sunshine of the Embankment. There was a grey-green smell of water on the air, and the light was reflecting prettily off the Thames. It was running fast, the outgoing tide combining with the normal flow towards the sea. ‘Actually, the only suspect,’ he added.

  ‘How you do comfort me,’ said Slider.

  SIX

  Never Say Leather Again

  Rathkeale had seen the necessity of coming in to make a statement. Though he didn’t like it, he agreed to follow them as soon as he’d battened down his office. He point-blank refused, however, to allow his phone records or emails to be searched.

  Porson agreed with Slider that there were no reasonable grounds, of the sort that would persuade a magistrate to issue a warrant. ‘No point in even trying, until we get something more to go on. But there’s
no reason you can’t go round asking his nearest and dearest what he’s been up to lately.’

  ‘He won’t like that,’ Slider said, not without satisfaction.

  ‘He can do the other thing, then. I suppose he thinks he’s being smart, denying he’s been blackmailed. Just bright enough to realise that would put him smack in the frame. You’ll have to come at it from the other end.’ He moved restlessly. ‘Damn, this is an awkward business. Well, see what you can winkle out of him. Meanwhile …’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Slider. You didn’t have to draw him a picture. Although he liked it.

  In the office, everyone was busy: checking Rathkeale’s recent movements, seeking out who his contacts were, beginning the exhaustive business of searching for CCTV cameras and checking their records. And looking for information on Kimmelman.

  ‘So are we dropping Sampson, guv?’ Gascoyne asked, hovering by the whiteboard.

  ‘Putting him on hold,’ Slider said. ‘I don’t think he’s our man, but I still think he must be connected with Kimmelman in some way. There must be some reason the body was left there.’

  ‘Meanwhile, who’s going to Ivanka’s?’ Atherton asked, following him back to his office.

  ‘Well, definitely not you,’ said Slider. ‘With your boyish good looks, we’d never get you back.’

  ‘I’m trying to think of a way to take that as a compliment.’

  ‘On the other hand, we can’t send anyone who looks too much like a policeman, or it’ll scare them off. I think Loessop’s the obvious choice. And LaSalle can go with him.’

  ‘Funky, I grant you, but Rang?’