Shadow Play

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘I just thought you might like a progress report, sir,’ Slider said, stoically not averting his eyes. He was impressed to see a proper black tie hanging over the back of a chair. He would have put Porson down as a twangy man – too impatient to tie the real thing and caring nothing that the upper echelons would despise the ready-made elastic band version. There was more to the old man than met the eye.

  Porson gave him a blank look. ‘Carry on, then. I might not be a multi-tasking woman but I can listen and get dressed at the same time.’

  So he said, but as Slider unfolded the story so far, his fingers slowed and forgot what they were doing. They proceeded to putting on the tie, having done up the button on his dress trousers but not the zip. Slider wondered at what point he should intervene.

  Finally he stopped moving altogether, and when Slider finished he was silent, pregnant with thought. ‘On the whole, that’s good,’ he said at last. ‘You’re right, the timing’s pretty tight for Rathkeale. Could rule him out – thank God. I want him fully cleared, and dropped – that’s your priority.’

  ‘I thought the murder was our priority,’ Slider couldn’t help suggesting.

  Porson barked. ‘Don’t come the high and meaty with me! We don’t work in a vacuum. We’ve got to get on with our political masters and that’s all about it! Rathkeale’s in the public eye – Kimmelman isn’t. No one’s been asking about him, there’s no next of kin, nobody’s interested, you can take your time sorting that one out, do it slow but do it right. But this Rathkeale thing is a hot potato. If it gets out what he’s been up to, the papers may crucify him but there’ll be some nails saved for us. He’s popular, you know. And if the press gets a sniff that we liked him for Kimmelman with no bloody evidence, we’ll be sued back to the Stone Age. You’ve got nothing on him, have you?’

  ‘No, sir. Only the motive.’

  ‘Then get him cleared and get rid of him.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve got to get a move on.’ His fingers rapidly finished the tie-tying. Without looking, too. ‘Dinner at the Mansion House,’ he complained, chin poking up as he settled the collar. ‘Thank your lucky stars you’ve got me to do this sort of thing for you.’

  ‘I do, sir, every day,’ Slider said with sincerity.

  ‘Glad handing, rubber chicken, boring speeches. Waste of bloody time, when I could be … Well? What are you hanging about for?’

  When I could be – what? Slider knew nothing about Porson’s private life. Playing canasta? Sticking stamps in my album? Doinking my teenage mistress? What a fascinating, frustrating caesura!

  ‘Um,’ said Slider. ‘You haven’t done your zip up.’

  Joanna greeted him at the door. ‘I’m suddenly hot!’

  He slid his hands up inside her sweater. ‘I can do something about that,’ he offered. He kissed her. She responded. ‘Like George, my breath was coming in short pants,’ he murmured.

  She laughed, but removed his hands and stepped back. Pity!

  ‘I’ve got supper cooking. I’m hot as in suddenly in demand. You remember Martin Hazlett?’

  Slider resigned himself, and took off his overcoat. ‘Not personally. I think I’ve heard you mention him. Trumpet player?’

  ‘Yes. Used to play with the RLP when they needed extras. Well, he’s now first trumpet with the London Mozart Consortium, and also, by a pleasant coincidence, their fixer. And he rang me today with a whole lot of dates for January and February. Their number four is going off to have a baby, and he remembered me with kindness.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Slider said, hauling his mind back from the day towards uxorious enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s better than great,’ she said sternly. ‘January and February, when dates are thin on the ground? And a promise to be on his list from now on? When the world is full of younger fiddlers? It’s terrific. How about a little awe from you, feller?’

  ‘Aww!’ he said obediently.

  She cuffed him gently upside the head. ‘But that’s not all.’

  ‘There’s more? I need a drink,’ he protested feebly.

  ‘Gin’s all poured, waiting for the tonic.’ She took his hand and towed him towards the kitchen door. He could feel her elation thrumming up his arm. He felt just a tiny pang of left-outness. In the early days of their relationship, he had been what made her this excited. In fairness, he got a buzz from his work, when he was hot on some trail, but still … A man’s sexual ego was a delicate flower.

  She unscrewed the tonic, splashed some in, positively ran to the freezer for ice cubes, shoved the glass into his hand, and said, ‘Now will you listen? You’ve heard of Sid Saxon?’

  He raised his eyebrows and gave an intelligently neutral, ‘Hmm?’ The cold gin slid down his throat and a couple of bubbles made their escape from the glass up his nose. Go go go! Good luck, guys! See you in hell, lemon slice.

  ‘I shall smack you!’ she warned. ‘The famous fixer, Sid Saxon. The famousest, fixinest fixer of them all!’

  ‘He rang you today?’ Actually, now he made the effort, he had heard of him.

  ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘but Geraldine did – his assistant and widely supposed to be his mistress, though if you’ve seen Sid … However, she rang, and asked me if I was free for – wait for it – the Children in Need concert at the Albert Hall!’

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? Big star line-up—’

  ‘Bugger the stars,’ she stopped him. ‘It’s televised, you jug. Concert fee plus television fee plus residuals. Two rehearsals and the filming. And the chance of being on Sid’s books. He gets lots of recording work. Of course, the actual concert is going to be a long hack and the music will be terrible, but what do we care?’

  ‘I remember you said, you just want to play the dots,’ he said. ‘How did she get on to you?’

  ‘I didn’t ask her and she didn’t say, but there’s plenty of suspects. Other fixers, people I’ve depped for. Once you’re out there and people know you’re out there …’ She took the glass from his hand and took a drink.

  ‘So the world is beating a path to your door,’ he said.

  ‘The world only beats a path to your door when you’re in the bathroom,’ she said. ‘Still … I thought when I quit the orchestra that life on the outside would be cold and lonely, but it’s turning out to be pretty damn good.’

  ‘It’s good now,’ he said, his innate caution not wanting her to fall on her head.

  She smiled and squeezed his arm. ‘Darling, I’m a freelance. I know all about the ups and downs of fortune. You take the ups and try to put a bit aside to cover the downs. That’s what you do. Are you ready for supper?’

  She’d done her boasting and was back in hausfrau mode. She was like that – Miss Quicksilver. A dull old Plod like himself had to learn to be nimble to keep up.

  ‘I’ll just go up and kiss George and wash my hands,’ he said. He sniffed. ‘Lamb?’ he queried.

  ‘A good hearty stew for a damp grey evening.’

  ‘I’m there!’ he said – although actually he was heading for the stairs.

  Over supper, it was his turn. She was always his sounding board.

  ‘I agree, I don’t think Rathkeale could have organised the murder, not that quickly anyway. Probably not at all,’ she added. ‘Ordinary people don’t have hitmen on speed dial.’

  ‘Politicians aren’t ordinary men,’ Slider pointed out. ‘And they have minions.’

  ‘Minions who know how to access a bloke in a mask who does murders for cash?’

  ‘It’s possible. But on the whole, I don’t think Rathkeale is the killer, either in person or remotely.’

  ‘Yet he must have something to do with it all,’ Joanna said. ‘I mean, Kimmelman was obviously intending to blackmail him, even if he hadn’t got round to it yet. But then, what was he blackmailing him for? And who stepped in and stopped it?’

  ‘Swilley put forward the thought that serious blackmailers don’t stop at one victim. It becomes a bad habit. So maybe h
e was doing someone else, who decided he was a wart and eradicated him.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ Joanna said thoughtfully, ‘the blackmail had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was just coincidental to the timing.’

  ‘I thought you said Rathkeale had to be something to do with it.’

  ‘I’m entitled to change my mind. I’m not the one whose job’s on the line.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. You think my hold is that precarious, do you?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t mean it like that, exactly. Anyway, it’s early days yet,’ she comforted him. ‘What about that case that was on the telly the other day, that woman’s body that was found in the woods, where they’ve just brought in the murderer after six years?’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I’d rather get this one out of the way before George goes to secondary school.’

  ‘Do you have to work tomorrow?’

  ‘Nope. There’s only a couple of them going in, and they’ve got their orders. Bar anything important breaking, I’m all yours.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said regretfully. ‘Would t’were that it were.’

  ‘You’re working,’ he said flatly.

  ‘As you’d know if you looked at the diary. Rehearsal and concert in Croydon on Sunday, and—’

  ‘You were free tomorrow. I did look.’

  ‘First rehearsal for Children in Need, all afternoon. I’m glad you’re going to be here, because your dad’s got something on. Some Scrabble tournament.’

  ‘He’d cancel that in a good cause.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t like to ask him. He does so much for us. But,’ she added to comfort him, ‘we can have a lie in. That’ll be nice.’

  ‘If George doesn’t have other ideas.’

  She grinned. ‘I’ll get up, dump him on your dad, and come back to bed. I’m not that altruistic! And you do owe me a remedy for my hotness,’ she added in a purr.

  ‘She remembered,’ he told the casserole dish, gratefully.

  NINE

  I’m Always True to You, Darling, In My Fashion

  The bulbous shape of London’s City Hall, home of the London Assembly, squatted beside the Thames like a deformed headlamp, or an eyeball that had been popped out and then slightly trodden on. Less polite commentators called it the Glass Testicle. Hart did not have an architectural raw nerve, like Slider, but she didn’t see the point of curved walls, because you couldn’t put furniture, which was notoriously straight-sided, against it. Her common sense suggested a conventional oblong building would have given more useful internal space for the same money. But common sense generally took a duvet day when there was an architectural award to be won.

  Rathkeale’s PA, Valerie Case, had assured her that the Greater London Authority never slept, and that of course she would be in on Saturday; before adding prosaically, ‘Saturday morning, anyway.’ Hart found her in her office, an adjunct to Rathkeale’s, and had to admit that the big window that formed part of the testicle’s curved glass façade gave a stunning view up and down the Thames. It was a lovely day for it, too – soft, hazy sunshine, again more like spring than late autumn, and the trees along the Embankment were still green, only touched with gold.

  ‘I dunno how you get any work done,’ she said chummily to Call-Me-Val.

  ‘Our work is tremendously important,’ was the reply. ‘Running the biggest and most diverse city in the world is a twenty-four-seven business.’ Hart could practically smell the glossy brochure that came from.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘it must be exciting, all the different sorts you get coming in here. Top people, celebrities – I bet you get some rough ones as well. Everybody wants something, dun’t they? I bet you get some pretty dodgy underworld types tipping up now and then.’

  Val looked at her coldly. ‘Certainly not. We’ve got very good security downstairs.’

  ‘But your Mr Rathkeale – Kevin – he’s never been afraid to get his hands dirty, has he? I’ve always admired that about him. He didn’t live in no ivory tower – he was always down on the street where the action was, getting real wiv the kids.’

  She thawed. ‘You’re right. Kevin doesn’t stand on his dignity. He’s the least stuffy person I know. He’s always made a point of talking to the real people.’

  ‘Yeah, wiv the real problems. Kids in trouble wiv the police, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, I suppose so,’ Val said, seeming mildly puzzled. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘What’s on his mind. What he’s been up to lately. Who he’s been meeting. I’d like a squint at his diary.’

  ‘I can’t allow that,’ she said. ‘There’s such a thing as confidentiality.’

  ‘He won’t mind. Ring him up, ask him,’ said Hart, as if it was no biggie. Val hesitated. ‘Go on, give him a bell.’ While Val went to her phone, she went on, still casually, cosily, ‘How’s he been, lately? Had a lot on his plate, I bet.’

  ‘He’s always busy,’ she said. ‘He has a lot of high profile positions.’

  Yeah, I’ve seen some of ’em, Hart thought.

  ‘Has he been more worried than usual? Preoccupied? A bit short now and then? Like, I always know when my boss is up against it. He dun’t know he’s doing it, but you can see he’s under the hammer.’

  ‘I can’t say Kevin’s been any different recently,’ she said, dialling a number. ‘Just the same as usual. Except for … It’s ringing. He might not be at home, you know,’ she added.

  ‘You got his mobile number, though. Except for what?’

  Val held up her hand as the phone was answered. After a brief and deeply apologetic, not to say fawning, conversation, she hung up, and said, ‘That was his wife. He’s out walking the dog on Primrose Hill. She said not to disturb him. It’s his down time.’

  Ooh, down time on Primrose Hill! Hart thought sarcastically. She bet the dog was a Lab, as well. ‘Give him a ring,’ she said, making it just not a request.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Val asked doubtfully.

  ‘He knows what it’s about. Tell him his co-operation will be appreciated. Or I’ll talk to him, if you like.’

  She did like. Once having called him, she handed over responsibility and the phone, and Rathkeale, sounding irritable, supposed there was no harm in Hart seeing his diary, but for God’s sake couldn’t they leave him alone for five minutes. Yes, yes, anything she liked if it would get her off his back. Oh – and, not a word to Val about – you know – anything. She was not in the picture, and she wasn’t to be put in it. There would be consequences if anything got out, he concluded, managing to threaten and beg at the same time, not a naturally sustainable posture. You could rick your back, Hart thought as she rang off and handed the phone back.

  With Val hovering protectively at her elbow she went through the last few weeks and the one ahead, but every appointment seemed dull, normal and verifiable. Val knew all about them. She was sure there had been no extra visits slotted in that weren’t in the book – apart from Slider’s. That had thrown a lot of things out, she said sternly, necessitating some serious juggling, which accounted for the crossings out and writings in. Bad policeman! And there were no times unaccounted for. Apart from the Sunday, when he was at home, and that was not her business. Anyone was entitled to a day of rest, weren’t they? What did she want, blood?

  ‘You said, “he wasn’t any different recently, except for …” and then you broke off. Except for what?’ Hart asked, flipping the pages to look further back.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Val said, puzzled.

  ‘I was asking if he’d been upset about anything lately, or worried.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, I remember. I was just going to say, except for Myra Silverman bothering him, but that’s nothing really. Actually, I think she’s given up on it, because she hasn’t rung him the last week or so. So, no, there’s nothing upsetting him.’

  ‘Myra Silverman. She’s that KidZone woman, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, and she caused Kevin a lot of heartache,’ Val said severe
ly. ‘He was completely innocent of any wrongdoing, but because he stood up for her, purely out of a sense of chivalry, he got tarred with the same brush. It was wicked, what the press did to him. He’s a good man. And then she’s got the cheek to try and get him involved in some new scheme.’

  ‘What scheme’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s not interested, anyway, and he told her so – in no uncertain terms. But she kept bugging him about it. But she seems to have got the message, anyway. She’s stopped ringing him now, thank God.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything about what she wanted?’

  ‘No, he just said “some scheme”.’ She snorted. ‘Something that’ll line her pockets, if I know anything about it. The trouble that woman’s caused him – and she’s no spring chicken!’

  The last words seem to leap out of their own accord, and given that they were as fine a non-sequitur as you’d hear in a long day, Hart concluded that Miss Case was a little bit in love with her boss.

  She examined the well-controlled figure, the over-youthful outfit with the eye-poppingly short skirt, the careful make-up, the expensive haircut, and wondered whether naughty Kevin had been dipping his wick there as well. It was far from unheard-of for a man to use his secretary as a spare wife, and it would explain the intense loyalty, and the no-spring-chicken outburst – from someone the wrong side of thirty-five – plus the awkward deference to the official wife. Poor cow, Hart thought, not without compassion. She half wished she could tell Valerie Case what Rathkeale had been up to on the Anna Rosita, just to put her right, but it was not her secret to spill. Call-Me-Val would have to plough her own furrow.

  At least they’d eliminated Rathkeale as far as they could without access to his bank account and phone records. And if he was so unimaginative as to doink his PA, he probably wasn’t in the master criminal league. They’d had a look at his Facebook, Instagram and Twitter and found nothing there to suggest any leads. And she’d got the registration number of his car, which the devoted Miss Case just happened to know, so they could do an ANPR search on it and see if it went anywhere on Sunday, and in particular anywhere near Shepherd’s Bush.