He was being ultra-careful, going by a roundabout route, changing direction frequently and watching in the rear-view for lights that kept following, or other cars hastily turning when he did. He didn’t park in his own street until there was no other car behind him; he didn’t park outside his own house, and he switched off the lights and sat in the car in the dark for a while to see who else went past. But there was nothing to alarm.
It was not international espionage, he reminded himself, or a CIA operation, or a Jason Bourne film. It had been a clumsy, amateur attempt either to kill or frighten him. Even professional criminals were pretty stupid and inefficient, and civilians more so. So he put everything determinedly to one side as he let himself into his house.
His father and Lydia were on the sofa watching the television news, having just put George to bed. Mr Slider got to his feet at once.
‘I wasn’t expecting you so soon,’ he said. ‘We’ll go down, leave you in peace.’
‘Peace is the last thing I want,’ said Slider. ‘My head’s like a sackful of ferrets. Stay, have a drink, talk to me. I don’t suppose you know if there’s anything for supper?’ He knew perfectly well that Dad would know exactly what there was in his fridge. He still worried that Slider might not eat properly.
‘There’s sausages,’ Dad said with a promptness that gave him away. ‘I could cook ’em for you, if you’re too tired.’ He glanced apologetically at Lydia. ‘We were just going to be naughty and telephone for a take-away.’
‘Chinese or Indian?’ Slider asked.
‘Indian,’ said Lydia, filtering information from Slider’s expression. ‘Want us to order some for you, too?’
‘I don’t fancy sausages,’ he admitted. ‘Have it here with me.’
They exchanged another of those looks, that made him wonder if they’d actually invented telepathy and hadn’t told anybody, then Mr Slider said, ‘Go on up and see your boy. We’ll phone in the order and put the plates in the oven. What’d you like?’
George was fast asleep, his tender cheek nestled on the uncompromising bosom of a plastic transformer toy. Slider eased it out, and replaced it with George’s battered toy lamb, mentally protested at the hard-edged marks left in the rosy mound, while automatically thinking they would present an interesting forensic challenge.
George stirred, said, ‘Splad,’ in his sleep, and settled again.
‘Don’t grow up to be a policeman, boy,’ Slider murmured. ‘Your mind is never really your own again.’
And left him.
He had a pleasant evening, eating butter chicken and a big fat greasy naan, with Dad and Lydia round the kitchen table. They had a bottle of beer each, and talked about holidays.
Slider was contemplating renting a cottage in Devon or Dorset for a family holiday with Joanna and George and his children from his first marriage. ‘And you and Lydia as well,’ he invited.
Lydia was doubtful, thinking the West Country would be bound to be wet, and probably as expensive as, say, Spain, when you added it all up. Except that the children could only go in August when the air fares were highest. ‘Though you could drive down,’ she added. ‘Save the fare.’
Slider thought two days in a car with Kate and Matthew was less like a holiday and more like I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, only with fewer pan-fried maggots.
Dad mourned over the ridiculous necessity of booking holidays in the middle of winter, while Lydia opined it was a nice way to banish the winter blues, poring over pictures of blue seas and sunshine. Dad said he never had winter blues, winter was as important as summer, and how would you get a decent crop if the fields didn’t get their rest, not to mention the cold killing off the pests?
Upon which cue they naturally discussed the unseasonal warmth of the last few weeks.
And Dad said, ‘Joanna’s late.’ And then, ‘It’s getting very foggy out.’
He probably didn’t mean anything by putting the two statements together, but since he and Lydia left soon afterwards, it gave Slider something unwelcome to think about while he washed up the plates, until finally he heard Joanna’s key in the lock.
‘I went for a quick supper with the trumpets,’ she explained, taking off her coat in the hall. The fog was quite thick outside, and the smell of it had come in with her; there were jewels of moisture in her hair from the brief walk from the pavement to the door. ‘Peter White and Archie Paul. It was fun. They send their love.’
‘I bet they don’t.’
‘Regards, then. It’s a longer word. I was saving energy. Boy, am I pooped!’
‘Hard going?’ It had been the rehearsal for Children In Need.
‘My arm’s hanging off. Three hours’ solid scrubbing.’
‘But worth it?’ he suggested.
‘For the money? Need you ask?’
‘No, I meant the artistic satisfaction, of course.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh my God! I don’t know if it’s the Albert Hall and its world famous acoustics, or just that they’re not used to performing with a live orchestra, but the singers were warbling away in a world of their own. There’s only so much you can do to adjust the pitch as you play. To get near them you’d have had to retune the entire orchestra every few bars.’
‘I expect it’ll be all right on the night,’ he said soothingly.
‘The sound engineers will have their work cut out,’ she said. ‘You know the old saying, why is being a soprano like staying in a cheap hotel? Because you can come in whenever you like and you don’t have to worry about the key.’
He laughed. ‘Want a drink?’
‘No, thanks. Let’s just go to bed. Did you have a nice evening?’
Walking up the stairs, he told her about the curry and the holiday talk, the substituting Spain for Dorset and driving down there.
She opened her eyes wide. ‘What a terrible idea. Anyway, kids in the back seat of cars cause accidents. It’s a well known fact.’
‘Equally, accidents in the back seat of cars cause kids,’ said Slider.
She snorted. ‘How’s your case going?’
‘Don’t want to talk about that. Let’s just go to bed and pretend it’s the back seat.’
‘Rude!’ she said admiringly.
SIXTEEN
Nemesis, Exodus
Swilley was already there when Slider got in on Friday morning. She came straight to him with a cup of tea – from the canteen, the sort you could have spread on bread – and an idea.
‘I keep thinking about Mrs Holdsworth. Atherton said she seemed nervous and depressed when he was there, and I saw this pathetic figure at the upstairs window. It occurs to me that she could be the weak link. If I could get her on her own and work on her …’
‘Work on her how?’
‘Well, if Holdsworth’s a bit of a domestic tyrant, like Atherton thinks, she might open up to a woman. Might be glad of a sympathetic ear.’
‘Hmm. If she knows anything. If there’s anything to know,’ said Slider.
Swilley shrugged. ‘If not, I’ve wasted nothing but my time.’
‘And possibly put him on his guard.’
‘If he’s not on his guard by now, after trying to kill you …’
‘There is that consideration,’ Slider admitted. ‘All right, how are you going to get her on her own?’
‘Watch the house until he leaves it, then go and knock on the door.’
‘It has the merit of simplicity,’ Slider said.
He didn’t need to warn her of the difficulties and pitfalls. She was an intelligent officer. And he didn’t try to tell her how to direct her questions. It would be a delicate business, needing instant adaptation on Swilley’s part to whatever direction the conversation took. The art of the interview was always to let the subject think they weren’t telling you anything you didn’t already know.
But there also could come a point when you had to apply a little judicious menace. Like the shucking knife inserted into the oyster shell, you had to know exactly where t
o put it in and how to twist it. A less good boss would have insisted on keeping that for himself, but he knew Swilley had all the steel she needed.
‘Go for it,’ he said.
It was fortunate that Luxemburg Place had only one exit, and also that there were plenty of cars parked in Luxemburg Gardens. Swilley was able to park inconspicuously among them, with a good view of the only way Holdsworth could drive out. She did a careful recce on foot, just far enough up the Place to see that there were still two cars parked on the forecourt, then went back to her own to wait. There was, of course, the chance that he might not leave at all. But it was a nice day, and he’d said he played golf; and if he really did have no business to conduct any more, he would surely not want to be cooped up in the house all day with his uncharismatic wife. Either Davy Lane concerns or the lure of at least the nineteenth hole would surely winkle him out at some point.
It was a quarter to eleven when the Range Rover came rumbling up to the junction, paused, then turned right, bringing it right past Swilley. She bent her head as though looking at her mobile phone, and out of the corner of her eye got a good sight of Holdsworth driving. He did not glance her way; he stared straight ahead, leaning forward and gripping the wheel like one not at ease. He was wearing glasses – presumably he was short-sighted and they were distance lenses for driving. She had a small bet with herself that he was off to the golf course; also, given the time, that it was the club house that would receive his patronage rather than the greens. She watched in the rear-view until it had trundled slowly to the junction of Bute Gardens and turned left, and then made her way to the house. If he had just popped out for a pint of milk and came suddenly back, she’d have to do some quick thinking, but she wasn’t afraid of him. She’d trained in hand-to-hand fighting and he was just a civilian. The faster beat of her heart was due to the excitement of the chase, gearing up for the challenge of getting information out of her quarry.
Her quarry opened the door and looked first blank, and then troubled.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘It’s you. Charles has gone out. You just missed him, I’m afraid.’ She glanced back over her shoulder with the automatic guilt of someone who has a naked lover warming up on the sitting-room sofa, but Swilley reckoned it was just a nervous tic.
‘That’s all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It was you I wanted to talk to, Mrs Holdsworth.’
Now the expression segued to alarm. ‘I – oh! Um! I don’t think Charles would like that. Not without him being here.’ Swilley gave her the receptive-smile-and-silence routine, forcing her to go on, to justify her previous statement. ‘He – he doesn’t like me to talk to – I mean, I’m not …’ She foundered on the sweet innocence of the smile, and concluded, wretchedly, ‘I don’t really know anything.’
Swilley said kindly, ‘About what?’
The eyes flickered over her face, looking for clues, hoping for mercy. ‘It’s about Leon, isn’t it?’ she asked at last.
Swilley’s heart sang. ‘Yes, mostly,’ she said. ‘But can I come in? You don’t want to be talking out here, on the doorstep.’
‘Well, I suppose – I suppose it’s all right,’ she said at last. ‘Charles does know you.’ She stepped back, allowing Swilley across the threshold. Her height in the hallway seemed to bring a fresh anxiety. Outside, Swilley had been down a step. Now she towered. Mrs Holdsworth made a fresh appeal. ‘Only – can’t you wait until he comes back? I do think he’d want to be here.’
It was a good opening. ‘How long will he be?’
‘Well, several hours,’ said Mrs Holdsworth. Thank God! ‘He’s gone to lunch with some people. But I could call him …’
‘No, don’t do that. I don’t want to disturb him. As I said, it’s really you I wanted to talk to.’
‘I don’t know why,’ Mrs Holdsworth said bleakly, as though the idea of anyone wanting to talk to her was beyond understanding. Swilley conceived a strange desire to bludgeon Charles Holdsworth with clubs.
Mrs H had reached the door of a sitting room, a grimly tidy room in which a vacuum cleaner stood in the middle of the carpet, and a basket of polishes and dusters decorated a coffee table. She hesitated, and said, ‘I was just doing the cleaning. I suppose – would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?’
Better to give her something to do with her hands, Swilley thought. ‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ she said. When Mrs Holdsworth turned towards the kitchen, she followed her closely, so as not to be marooned in another room. The kitchen was bright, with large windows overlooking a wide but very dull garden, and was spotlessly clean, though the fitments were dated. It had the feel of something that had been newly and quite expensively done twenty-five years ago and would now have to last. Mrs Holdsworth gave her an unsettled look, as if not knowing what to do with her. Swilley sat herself down at the kitchen table with an air of having been here many times before, and smiled helpfully, leaving Mrs Holdsworth with no choice but to switch the kettle on and go about tea-making.
‘So tell me about Leon,’ Swilley said, with no particular emphasis.
Mrs Holdsworth gave her a glance. ‘Well, we’re very worried about him, of course. Charles has been in quite a state. He doesn’t like to show it, but I can tell. I suppose you haven’t found him, or heard anything? You’d have let us know if you had?’
Found him? What was this? Swilley had to be careful. Never answer a question you don’t want to answer: that was Slider’s Rule. Ask one of your own instead. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Well, not since that weekend,’ she answered. ‘Two weeks ago tomorrow.’ She looked puzzled. ‘A young man came from your station about it last Friday. I thought Charles must have told him all about it then – Leon going missing. Otherwise, why did he come?’
So she didn’t know Kimmelman was dead. That could be used to advantage, perhaps – as long as Swilley could keep her talking. She mustn’t let her get nervous and clam up. ‘Of course,’ Swilley said, at her most soothing, ‘but you see, different people sometimes remember different details, and it’s important for us to know everything possible if we’re to help. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’
‘But I—’
‘Women always have a different perspective on things, don’t you find? Men are so busy with their work lives, they often don’t notice little things that seem quite obvious to us. They see the big picture, but we see the detail.’ Mrs Holdsworth pondered this doubtfully. Swilley went on, ‘And we do want to do everything we can to clear up this business. I know you must want that, too.’
‘Yes,’ she said, fiddling with a teaspoon. ‘Poor Leon! I am so worried about him.’
‘You’re fond of him,’ Swilley tried.
She looked up, her eyes naked. ‘He’s been so good to Charlie. Our son?’ Swilley nodded. ‘Charlie’s … not well. He has … problems. And Leon’s taken care of him, kept him out of trouble, watched over him. Sort of like a—’
‘Nursemaid?’
She frowned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that. But he was always there for him, and he could do more with Charlie than anyone else. I don’t know what we’d have done without him.’
‘He does a lot for your husband, too, doesn’t he?’
‘He’s Charles’s right-hand man. He’s almost like family. And he’s so capable, so calm – nothing puts him out. Charles always says, if you want anything done, you go to Leon.’
‘So I can see how you’d be worried if he went missing,’ Swilley said warmly. ‘How did you know that he was missing?’
Mrs Holdsworth had just poured water into the teapot, and looked up from it, amazed. ‘Well, he hasn’t been here, of course. We see him practically every day – Charles does, even if I don’t – and he hasn’t been around. Or telephoned, or anything.’
‘He couldn’t just have gone on holiday?’
‘Not without saying. Anyway, I don’t remember him ever having a holiday. He’s not the holiday sort. And he’d never have gone anywhere without telling Charles.
That’s why Charles told the police – reported him missing.’
‘And Charles has tried telephoning him?’
‘Of course he has. But he never answers.’
So that was what Holdsworth had told his wife, to account for the missing factotum. Then he had behaved just as he would have had he really not known Kimmelman was dead – a clever stratagem, until he panicked when Atherton appeared at the door and denied he’d ever known the man. Big mistake. Big, big mistake.
But she must play Mrs H carefully. She had just brought two cups of tea over, and was hesitating about sitting down. Swilley smiled and pulled out the chair catty-corner to her invitingly, and she sat. She seemed to have warmed up a little, or at least had got used to Swilley’s presence. Perhaps it was because she was sitting down, and no longer towering over her. At any rate, she seemed to have resigned herself to the process of answering questions. She sipped her tea and looked at Swilley passively, waiting for the next one.
‘So, tell me about when you last saw Leon. On Saturday, was it?’
‘Well, he did come over on the Saturday. For supper. Myra was here, and Jack—’
‘Myra?’ It was the familiarity of the tone she was questioning.
‘Charles’s sister.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Swilley said, without missing a beat, though her heart had jumped. So Myra Silverman was Holdsworth’s sister! That was the missing link. It explained an awful lot.
‘And Jack’s his business partner, though of course as his brother-in-law he’s really more family. And Leon is almost family, so it was like a … a …’
‘Family gathering,’ Swilley supplied. ‘What did you all talk about?’
‘Oh, nothing in particular. I don’t remember. Just – you know – normal things.’
‘Coal Sidings Road, perhaps?’ She looked puzzled. ‘The youth centre they’re all so interested in.’
‘Oh, you mean the Davy Lane centre,’ she said. ‘That’s what it will be called. When it’s finished. But they didn’t talk about that. They wouldn’t talk about business when we’re having supper together. I don’t have anything to do with Charles’s business affairs, anyway. He likes to keep his business life quite separate from his private life. He doesn’t think it’s civilised to mix the two.’
Shadow Play Page 21
