Body Line dibs-13

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Lunch,’ Slider said, remembering with an effort. It seemed so long ago.

  ‘Sandwich, I dare say,’ Dad said. ‘You want something hot this weather. I made a bit of stew and there’s plenty left. It’s in the slow oven, just in case. You go in to the fire and get warm and I’ll serve it up.’

  ‘All serene upstairs?’ Slider called after him as he went away.

  ‘All serene,’ Dad said, looking back. ‘I give my boy his supper, we had a little play together, then bath and bed, one story, and he was off like a lamb. There’s nothing like routine, if you want a happy child. You were just the same. Never had an ounce of trouble with you, bedtimes.’

  He was gone. ‘He must like it here,’ Atherton said, following Slider down the passage. ‘I’ve never known him so chatty.’

  ‘I feel guilty because he does so much,’ Slider said. ‘He’s taken care of the baby all day and into this evening, and then he’s made supper as well.’

  ‘He enjoys it,’ Atherton said, with the wisdom of not being involved.

  ‘And he gave up his home and his garden and everything. The garden here’s a fraction the size.’

  ‘Flagellate away,’ Atherton said. ‘I know you need it. Just remember he was all alone, day after day, stuck out there in the middle of nowhere—’

  ‘Essex,’ Slider corrected.

  ‘Same thing – hardly seeing a soul.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Now I feel guilty about neglecting him before. Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to pop up and see George.’

  He trod up the still-uncarpeted stairs, trying not to echo like a mastodon in a drill hall. The house did not yet feel like home, but his senses were soothed by the Edwardian proportions, and the fine detailing which, miraculously, had not been ripped out in the dread days of the seventies’ home improvement. The house had been quite a stroke of luck, for even with all Dad’s money it was not easy to find a place with a separate flat or ‘granny annexe’ attached, in the right place and at the right price. It had been a probate sale: an old lady who had lived there most of her married life and died alone, with only a son in New Zealand who wanted the money rather than the property. The separate quarters were in an extension added in the eighties to be let separately and create an income, but which latterly had been occupied by the old lady’s companion-stroke-housekeeper.

  It needed a certain amount of updating and decorating, but they couldn’t afford to do that yet. They couldn’t even afford properly to furnish it. It was so much bigger than Joanna’s one-bedroom flat, where he had been living with her; and the family furniture from his marriage with Irene had been disposed of long ago. So there was too little in it yet to make it cosy. But they had done their best with the sitting-room, buying a Turkish-style carpet to cover the bare floorboards, opening up the fireplace and arranging Joanna’s saggy old sofa and two disreputable armchairs around it.

  Dad had his own furniture in his own quarters, of course, and he’d given them one or two pieces that wouldn’t fit in; and he had found a wonderful second-hand furniture store where they sold ‘Utility’ furniture from the forties. The style of it was out of fashion, which was why it was cheap, but it was well made and of solid wood, and only wanted ‘a bit of buffing up’ as Dad called it. A solid oak extendable dining table, bought for ten pounds, rubbed down, stained and varnished, was a handsomer thing than any skimpy Ikea make-do, and a fraction of the price.

  Mr Slider had done everything he could to make Bill and Joanna comfortable. As well as looking after George while they were at work he had turned his quiet, capable hands to a spot of repairing and decorating, as if he had to be grateful to them, rather than vice versa.

  In the baby’s room, Slider’s latest son was asleep in his cot. By the small light from the hall through the open door, he could see his rosy face, the faint sheen of moisture on the delicate eyelids, the gently parted lips, the madly ruffled hair. George didn’t sleep curled up like his other children at that age: he was sprawled on his back, arms outflung, legs straight, fists lightly clenched, as though prepared to go three rounds with sleep before it got him. He hated to miss anything. He had thrown the covers off in his energetic struggle against unconsciousness. It was cold in the room. Slider lifted them gently back over the boy; and had a sudden flash of waking once in his own childhood to find his father doing the same thing. Ah, the massive continuity of fatherhood!

  Downstairs again, the sitting-room was deliciously warm from the fire, which was at the red and glowing stage. Slider put on some more smokeless fuel and roused it up with a poker, and he and Atherton stood over it, warming their hands. Slider was remembering an exchange he had had with his father a week or so ago. He had got back from work one evening when Joanna was out and Dad was babysitting, and had found that after digging the garden all morning to plant vegetables for them all to eat, Mr Slider had spent the rest of the day painting the dining-room. In his guilt over the exhausting work rate – the old man was all of seven stone ringing wet – Slider had said, ‘Really, Dad, you don’t need to do all this stuff for us.’

  And after a beat of silence Mr Slider had said, ‘All right, son. I’m sorry. I won’t interfere any more.’

  He hadn’t been being a martyr, either. Slider had cried, ‘I didn’t mean that! I don’t think you’re interfering. I never said—’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ Mr Slider had looked at him carefully. ‘Look, son, the last thing I want is to be a nuisance to you and Jo. I know how awkward it can be to have someone hanging around when you want to be private.’

  ‘How can you say that? We’re so grateful for all you do for us—’

  ‘Ah, that’s just it, don’t you see?’ Mr Slider had said, with a gleam of humour. ‘Being grateful, you can’t tell me to sling my hook. But I don’t want you to be grateful to me. I like to be nearer you, and to have little things to do – you know I don’t like to be idle – and I like taking care of my little lad. So I just want you to be honest and tell me if you’re seeing too much of me. You won’t hurt my feelings, I promise you that. I’ve got my own comfortable place to go to, and I’m used to being on my own, so you needn’t worry. Promise you’ll be honest with me.’

  They had looked at each other for a moment: level blue eyes, in faces made from the same fabric; one under brown and one under grey hair, but hair that grew the same way. And Slider knew that it would never be possible to say, ‘Dad, we want to be alone. Could you go, please.’ And he knew, moreover, that his father knew that too. They were caught in a benign leg-trap of mutual love, respect and kindliness, and any such promise was worthless. Worst of all was that he really liked having the old man around, and he knew Joanna felt the same, and he was afraid that his father might not know that, and believe he was only being tolerated. But between men, and particularly between father and son, there weren’t sufficient words for this sort of thing. All you could do was hope the love underneath was sensed. ‘I promise,’ Slider had said.

  Atherton turned to toast his other side. He had known Slider a long time, and could guess some of his thought patterns. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I think you’ve got a brilliant set-up here.’

  Slider looked at him, and read all the things which, again, being men, they weren’t going to say to each other. So he said instead, ‘I’m going to have a malt. Ancnoc. Fancy one?’

  Atherton grinned. ‘Better make it three.’

  When he had poured them, Slider sat down with his, shoved his shoes off and wriggled his besocked toes towards the flames. A whiff of Dad’s rich and delicious stew scented the air. His colleague who was also his friend was enjoying fire and malt with him. Little George was asleep upstairs, and any minute Joanna would be coming home. Sometimes he wondered what he had done to deserve such multiple blisses. It more than made up for the things he faced at work: the smell of blood, the horror-porridge on the carpet, the man with no face, the stupidity and wickedness of murder. He turned his mind resolutely from those things. Sufficient
unto the day was the evil thereof.

  ‘I’d like some music,’ he said, ‘but I’m too comfortable to get up and put a disc on.’

  ‘Me too,’ Atherton said. He thought a moment. ‘Would you like me to hum?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Slider slothfully. ‘Dad’ll be back in a minute. We’ll make him do it.’

  There had been nothing in the papers the first day except, ‘Man found shot dead in Shepherd’s Bush’, and the evening local television news had had little more, only some distance shots of the road and the house and the barrier tape, and some white-clad forensic bods coming out past the doorkeeper constable. The victim had not been named, went the commentary, but the police confirmed that they suspected foul play. With no name or even description of the perpetrator there was nothing else to put out.

  But by the next day the press had got hold of the Firmans, and the story of the girl dropping off the balcony was too good to leave alone. Fortunately the old people had still got the name wrong – they had given it as Katrina Old – and so far the hospital was maintaining discretion.

  ‘So we’ve got a bit of time left,’ Porson said to Slider first thing, his hands clasped around a mug of tea, inhaling the steam as though for medicinal purposes. His tremendous eyebrows, so bushy they looked like an advertisement for Miracle Grow – the sort where a small child stands next to a chrysanthemum bloom as big as her head – were drawn down to bask in the fragrant vapours, and he peered out at Slider from under them. ‘We have to decide whether to put Rogers’s name out,’ he went on. ‘Will it stand us any good? Are we wanting anyone to come forward? What about next of kin?’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to have had any,’ Slider said. ‘The ex-wife says there were no children, his parents are dead, and he didn’t have any brother and sisters or uncles and aunts.’

  ‘Very tidy of him,’ Porson commented, sucking in tea with a noise like a horse at a trough. ‘Hot,’ he explained. ‘Got any suspects?’

  ‘The only connection we have so far is the ex-wife,’ Slider said, ‘but I’ve no reason to suspect her. She does seem to have a man living with her, so it’s possible he’s involved. Or it could have been a contract killing.’

  Porson made a restless movement. ‘Don’t like the idea of contract killers. Hardest thing in the world to prove. You’re on the back foot all the way. Still, if that’s what it is, you can’t disignore the facts.’

  ‘We have precious few of those,’ Slider admitted.

  ‘Then maybe we should put the name out. Poke a stick down the hole, see what comes out. You might stir up a whole new kettle of worms.’

  ‘On the other hand, putting out his name may expose Catriona Aude,’ Slider said. ‘Her friends may know she was going out with him and make the connection. And the strip club does know there was a relationship.’

  ‘Getting her jugs out for a living, she’s no shrinking violet,’ Porson objected.

  ‘She’s afraid the killer may come back for her.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Porson decided.

  ‘Still, she’s all the witness we have. We have to do our best for her,’ Slider urged.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Porson sighed. ‘I’ll make a press statement that the witness didn’t actually see the intruder, only heard him. Makes us look behind the curve, but there’s no harm in putting the killer off his guard. Speaking of which,’ he went on sternly, ‘what about the killer?’

  ‘We’re still combing the streets and canvassing the neighbours, but without even a description to go on, we’ve nothing to canvass with. No point in leaflets or posters. We’re trawling records for a similar MO, but there’s not much to go on there, either – a single shot to the back of the head.’

  ‘Sounds like the bloody KGB. Ballistics?’

  ‘Report’s not back yet. I expect it today.’

  ‘Fingermarks?’

  ‘Rogers’s and the girl’s. The killer was professional enough not to leave any. But the fact remains that Rogers let him in, so it looks as though he knew him.’

  ‘Could’ve been a meter reader,’ Porson pointed out.

  ‘Rogers seemed to have been leading him into the sitting-room.’

  ‘TV repair man.’

  ‘Early in the day for either of those. I suppose the killer could have made some excuse to get admittance – people are very gullible when it comes to inspectors with official-sounding business. But there’s no apparent robbery, so if Rogers didn’t know him, we’re back with the contract killer. And either way, unless ballistics gives us a lead, I can’t see what I can do except go after the motive – dig into Rogers’s background and find out what he was up to lately.’

  ‘Well, find out,’ Porson snapped. ‘Time and tide gather no moss. Get on with it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Slider said, turning away.

  ‘And remember,’ Porson added more kindly as he left, ‘if you need anything, my door is always here.’

  Swilley waylaid him in the corridor. ‘Guv, I wanted to ask you—’

  ‘What’s happening with the Aude female?’ he forestalled her. ‘What time are they letting her out?’

  ‘That’s what I was going to say. They’re letting her go after morning rounds, and she’s going to her mum and dad’s in Guildford.’

  ‘Right. I’ll get on to Mike Polman and give him the word. Arrange an escort for her – I don’t want her to travel alone, and I want to be sure that’s where she goes.’

  ‘I was going to ask you if you wanted me to go with her,’ Swilley said. ‘Thing is, she needs some clothes – she’s only got that bathrobe at the hospital. Forensic’s got her glad rags, and they’re a bit saucy for daywear anyway. She needs something from home – from her flat. It occurred to me I could go and get what she needs—’

  ‘And have a look round her room while you’re there, in case there’s anything of interest? Smart thinking.’

  ‘Thanks, guv.’

  ‘You might see if you can have a word with her flatmates, too, if you can track them down. Don’t tell them where she’s going, just in case. Tell them she’s being taken care of and that they shouldn’t try to contact her for a few days. See if you can find out what they know about her and Rogers, and anything else she was involved in. Without giving anything away, of course.’

  ‘Right, guv.’

  ‘Take Asher with you to the flat, and let her take the clothes back to Aude and escort her to Guildford, while you go after the flatmates. I can’t spare you for babysitting. Get back as quick as you can. I think Aude’s a dead end and there are better things you can be doing, but we need to be sure. Use your instincts around the flat and the flatmates and don’t waste time on it if you think there’s nothing doing.’

  ‘Guv, there’s no hospital in Stansted,’ Mackay said. ‘The nearest are the Princess Alexandra in Harlow, the Herts and Essex in Bishop’s Stortford, and the Broomfield near Chelmsford. I’ve checked, and no David Rogers works in any of them. I’ve gone as far out as Stevenage, Brentwood and Roydon, and I’ve checked all the private hospitals and clinics – even a veterinary hospital that came up, just in case – but no one’s ever heard of him. D’you want me to widen the search?’

  Mackay was the thorough one. Slider shook his head. ‘No, leave it now. Either the Aude girl got it wrong, or he lied to her. We’ll probably find something in his papers.’ More bags had been delivered from the site.

  ‘About those papers,’ said the Mancunian Hollis, looming over from his desk to join the conversation, tall and thin and shiny at the top like a bendy lamp-post. ‘It strikes me that there’s not nearly enough of them. Bob Bailey says we’ve got the lot now, but where’s all the personal stuff? You know, photographs, old letters, keepsakes, stuff from his childhood – old school reports, swimming certificates – things from his mum and dad. There’s none of that sort o’ tackle. Just the basic necessities. It’s almost like he was living in a hotel.’

  ‘The place did have that look about it,’ Slider said, remembering the artificial tidiness
of the house.

  ‘Maybe his ex-wife took it all when they split,’ Mackay suggested.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve seen her, and I can’t imagine her cherishing his clutter,’ Slider said.

  ‘He might just have been a very tidy person,’ Atherton said. ‘Not everybody clings to their bits and bobs. Maybe he chucked out all his childhood stuff when his parents died, then got rid of everything else when Mrs R evicted him from paradise.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s got another pad we don’t know about,’ Hollis persisted.

  ‘You think there’s an attic in his picture?’ Atherton suggested.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You think he was leading a double life?’ Slider translated.

  ‘Not necessarily, guv. But it might be the Hofland house is his town pad, and he’s got another house in the country. He might have a wife tucked away there for all we know.’

  ‘You’re getting into the realms of speculation now,’ Slider said. ‘The fancy stuff. The Christmas and Easter menus. Let’s stick to what we do know.’

  ‘Which isn’t much,’ said Atherton. ‘It starts with Amanda Sturgess, and stops there as well.’

  ‘She could be a tasty suspect,’ Mackay said. ‘Wronged wife, pissed off with his womanizing, set on revenge—’

  ‘After being divorced ten years? Have sense,’ Connolly objected from her desk. ‘She’s a life of her own now. Why would she want to kill him?’

  ‘Revenge, and money,’ Mackay said. ‘The two best motives.’

  ‘We don’t know there’s any money,’ Connolly said.

  ‘Well, anyway, using a contract killer is good for it being her. It’s cold, and it’s arm’s length.’

  ‘We don’t know it was a contract killer. What about Frith?’ Hollis put in. ‘She’s living with him. Maybe she used him.’

  ‘Aude said the killer was tall,’ said Atherton, ‘and Frith isn’t.’

  ‘What’s tall? And how could she tell, hanging off the balcony at floor level?’ Hollis said. ‘She said the killer had dark hair, and Frith has dark hair. And you said he had work boots on.’