‘The Cock.’
‘Appropriate. Where?’
There was a hesitation this time. ‘Newyear’s Green,’ Gorgeous said at last, reluctantly.
Slider felt a low hum of triumph in his cortex. The Cock at Newyear’s Green was the pub formerly owned and run by the Neary brothers, where they had planned and out of which they had mounted their operations – the operations no-one had ever managed to tie George in with. And Webb had been murdered in a barn not half a mile away from there in April 1987.
‘Oh George,’ he said softly. ‘Ain’t life a bitch?’
Gorgeous met his eyes defensively, a wonderful new experience for Slider. ‘That’s exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. You’re going to make all sorts of deductions and they’ll all be wrong. Helen Woodman was a barmaid at the pub, and that’s all I know about her, or knew about her then. I noticed her because she was a looker. You know how I am about women. But I never had any other dealings with her, except for the drinks she served me in that pub, and that’s the truth, if I was to die for it this day.’
‘You didn’t take a crack at her then?’
‘Not then or later. I didn’t fancy her. I’ve told you that already.’
‘Presumably, then, she was known to the Nearys,’ Slider mused. Gorgeous looked away, and didn’t answer that one. Well, it would have been hard for him to do so without incriminating himself. ‘Where did she go when we nicked the Nearys and the pub closed down?’ he asked instead.
‘She left before that, of her own accord. She was only there a couple of weeks.’ George looked at him again. ‘I don’t know where she went. I swear to you I never saw her from that day to the time she came into my office here and asked to rent my flat.’
‘It explains how she knew it was for rent, I suppose,’ Slider said kindly. ‘And what did she say she wanted it for?’
‘I’ve told you that, too. She said she was doing some research and needed a base for three weeks.’
‘And you didn’t ask her what research?’ Shake of the head. ‘Why didn’t you just tell her to fuck off, George?’ Slider asked silkily. ‘If I was in your position, I’d be inclined to think she was a lot of trouble in size nine shoes. You didn’t fancy her. What did you want her about the place for?’
George sighed like a dying man. ‘I didn’t know what she was up to – or who’d sent her,’ he said.
‘Ah, I see,’ Slider said. ‘You thought she’d been sent by the Neary brothers, and that refusal to co-operate might upset them.’ He didn’t answer that. Slider shook his head. ‘It’s not like you to allow someone to incriminate you. It was very careless.’
‘I wish to God I had told her to get lost. But it’s too late now. All I can tell you is the truth – that I knew nothing of what she was doing while she was here. I made sure it was that way. I was careful never to see her coming or going, and when she left I made sure there was nothing left in the flat that anyone could light on.’
‘And you don’t know where she went? Where she came from? Where she lives? Anything about her?’
‘No. I swear it.’
Slider shook his head. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
‘You believe me, don’t you?’ Gorgeous said, as close to anxiously as it was possible for a man who’d eaten more wild animals than he’d shot hot dinners.
‘Well, oddly enough,’ Slider said, ‘I do. It’s the final touch of obscurity I was looking for, to make this case completely opaque.’ He stood up, and George’s eyes rose with him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘And, by the way, this is a warning, man to man – keep away from all Nearys, great and small, and Firearms Freddie. And I should give the Shamrock club a wide berth too. Smoking Irishmen are bad for your health, you know.’
He walked to the door, and turned only to say, ‘And don’t ever lie to me again, George. Truth is beauty, remember that. I’d like you to keep yours if possible.’
Helen Woodman was the Nearys’ barmaid. What the hell was he to make of that? He drove without seeing one yard of the road he covered, his mind revolving like a hamster in a wheel. Dick Neal was poking the Nearys’ barmaid. She rented Gorgeous George’s flat for three weeks, gave it up on the day Neal died. But before Neal died, that was the sticky point. Packed her case and left; but met Neal in the evening and went with him to the Shamrock club. Ran away to the loo when he had his quarrel with Collins, reappeared when it was over.
Was she with him at the motel? Or did he ditch her before he went there? Did she see the murderer? Did she set Neal up for the murderer? She was the Nearys’ barmaid – maybe Colly Neary rubbed him out. Maybe Neal’s murder was for debt after all, or some other associated trouble, and the rest of the firemen’s deaths were just coincidence.
Was she at The Cock at Newyear’s Green the night Webb died? Did she know Webb? Did he drink at The Cock? Was he in debt to the Nearys? If that was the reason for Webb’s death, was the connection with Neal coincidental, or had Webb put Neal onto them? God damn it, either the deaths were connected or they weren’t. And if Webb and Neal were both Neary deaths, what about the rest of Red Watch? Chance, pure chance – Head would like it that way. Sears was mugged, the other two were accidents. And Mrs Forrester was as innocent as a newborn lamb.
A newborn lamb. A newborn lamb? The whirling leaves inside his head slowed, began to fall gently downwards, drifting, landing softly, making a pattern, not leaves after all, but the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A newborn lamb. My God, it had been staring him in the face. Why hadn’t he seen it before?
He took the first available right turn off Goldhawk Road, heading back towards Hammersmith, King Street, and the offices of the Hammersmith Gazette. He wished Joanna were here, so that he could talk the thing out with her. Or Atherton. Things sounded better or worse – more themselves, at all events – if you said them aloud.
A newborn lamb. There had been little pieces all over the place, things people had said, dropped separately into his consciousness, then covered over by dead leaves so that they couldn’t be seen all together, side by side. A big strong girl, like a baseball player. Made nothing of carrying her case up the stairs. Best eaten cold. A nice, civilised murder in theatreland. Following in father’s footsteps – what was that song? I’m following the dear old Dad.
The red-headed tart held the key, he’d known that all along, really. Clever makeup, like theatrical makeup. A cold eye. And Marsha Forrester was a pathologist. Some of the firemen are dead keen – O’Flaherty’s voice. Rave reviews. Four days on and four days off. Reciting poetry — good for the delivery. The surprised, pale baby in the basement. I’m following in father’s footsteps, I’m following the dear old Dad . . .
But there was one more thing he needed to know. Just one more thing. Well, he knew it already, really, but it had to be confirmed, made sure, made final. Hammer the last nail into the lid. He put in a call to the factory on the radio. It was Norma who answered him – thank God for Norma, the best policeman in the Department.
‘Righto, Guv. I’m pretty sure we’ve got that already indexed, but if not I’ll find out. And I’ll get onto the other thing.’
‘Good girl. I’ll come back to you for it. I don’t know where I’ll be for the next hour or two. But hold yourself in readiness.’
‘Yes sir.’ A pause. ‘Are you all right, Guv?’
At any other time, from anyone else, it would have been an impertinent question, but he supposed the strain must be showing in his voice.
‘Yes, I’m all right. We’re nearly there, Norma. Nearly there.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Not Even a Bus
‘DO YOU KNOW THE EXACT date?’ said the girl in the photographic department.
‘No, only that it was last year.’
‘Oh well,’ she said with a little helpful laugh, ‘we’ll find it all right.’
‘You’ll still have the negative?’
‘Oh yes. We keep them for three years, just in case. And important ones even longer.’
; ‘Then I shall want a print made to take with me.’
‘Right now?’
‘Yes, right now. As quickly as possible.’
‘Whatever you say.’ She looked doubtful. ‘I don’t suppose I charge you for that, do I?’
I bought some copies – you can do that, a voice said in his head. He pushed it away impatiently. The girl came back with two volumes of bound backnumbers and dumped them onto the slope.
‘It’ll be quicker if you do one while I do the other,’ she said apologetically.
‘Of course,’ Slider said.
It was she who found it, ten tense minutes later. ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Nearly the last page, wouldn’t you know it? Is this the one?’
Slider bent over to look, and his eyes grew moist. Hammersmith Fire Brigade Amateur Dramatic Society in their superb performance of ‘Dearest Emma.’ A black-and-white photograph, of course, and in the centre of the smirking cast, the lovely leading lady in what appeared to be a long white nightgown, low cut to show a surprisingly magnificent cleavage. She had long, loosely curling hair – a wig of course. Red? Perhaps.
‘That’s the one.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Can you blow up the centre part? Just this figure here.’
‘Yes, okay. No prob.’
Mrs Webb’s friend Connie was a well-preserved, well-corseted bottle blonde, with the firm upper arm of the lifelong barmaid, and a sharp but not unhumorous eye. She stepped aside willingly enough when Slider asked her, but when he got out his ID she looked over her shoulder nervously and said, ‘Put that away. Do you want me to get the sack?’
‘Not at all,’ Slider said politely. ‘I just want a word with you about David Webb. Do you remember—’
‘David Webb? Rita’s husband? That hanged himself in the barn up the road? But that was years ago,’ she said indignantly. ‘What’ve you come wasting my time over that for?’
Slider looked round. The bar was quiet, there was no-one waiting to be served. ‘This won’t take a minute,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll be gone. You remember you told the police at the time that you’d seen Webb come into this bar with a young woman?’
‘Yes, and I wish I never had! What did they go and do but blab it to poor Rita, the cretins, practically broke her heart. She worshipped that man. But there’s no point expecting coppers to have any tact, I suppose.’ She sighed, and her hard bosom lifted accusingly, pointed at Slider, and sank again.
‘I promise you I won’t mention this to Rita – word of honour. But tell me, was it really just the once you saw her with him?’
‘Only once in here, but I saw him with her other places. I make it a rule never to drink where I work, you see, so I get around in my time off. He was carrying on with her something rotten all over the place, and the wonder of it is Rita never found out sooner, because she’s not blind and deaf. But I suppose she didn’t want to know, and that’s the long and short of it. He was barmy about this girl, for all she was young enough to be his daughter, dirty bastard. But that’s men for you.’
‘You didn’t know who she was? Where she lived or anything?’
‘No. I only saw her with him.’
‘Did you ever visit The Cock at Newyear’s Green?’
‘What? That place? Not likely! What d’you take me for?’ The bosom heaved again.
‘A very shrewd and observant lady,’ Slider said politely, and it sank to rest. ‘I’d like you just to have a look at this photograph. Take your time, and tell me if you think it could be the same woman.’
She looked, tilting the photograph to get a better light on it, and nodded. ‘That’s her all right. What’s she in her nightie for? Is she in a loony bin? She should be, the way she was carrying on.’
‘You’re sure?’
Caution came over her belatedly. ‘As sure as you can be from a photo. It looks like her, and that’s all I can say.’
‘Thanks,’ said Slider. ‘That’s good enough for now.’
Joey Doyle looked nervous at the second intrusion, but covered it with cheerful banter. ‘What is it, are you trying to ruin me trade?’
‘If I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have come here before opening time, would I?’ said Slider.
‘That’s true. What can I do for you, sir?’
‘Just have a look at this photograph. Is that the young woman that Dick Neal brought with him that last night he was here?’
Doyle took the photographs, but began his caveats before he’d even looked. ‘It was dark in here, you know. Well, it’s always dark in here. You’d hardly know your own mother if you served her a snowball. I don’t know that I’ll—’
‘Just take a look.’
Doyle looked in silence. ‘Yes, it looks like the same one. F’what I can see from this. She wasn’t dressed in a shroud then, o’ course.’
Slider took the picture back. ‘Are you fond of the theatre, Mr Doyle?’
He grinned suddenly. ‘Every Irishman’s interested in the theatre. It’s in our blood.’
‘Do you ever go?’
‘Only to local stuff. I haven’t time to be going up to Town.’
‘Ever go to the plays the Fire Brigade puts on in Hammersmith Town Hall? I hear they’re very good.’
Doyle looked puzzled for a second, and then the lovely light of intelligence shone in his eyes. He touched the photograph with his forefinger. ‘Ah, so that’s it! D’you know, I thought I’d seen her before somewhere, but I couldn’t quite pin it down in me mind. Of course, it’d be the costume that was unfamiliar.’
She wasn’t in her shroud then, Slider thought. To live a life half dead, a living death. A nice civilised murder in theatreland. He was beginning to feel very tired, but he knew that was just his mind trying to shy away from what it didn’t like.
Norma met him at the door of the CID room. Her face was full of suppressed questions, and her eyes were full of sympathy. ‘I’ve got it all sir, what you wanted.’
He took hold of the door jamb and leaned against it lightly. ‘Well?’
‘Eleanor Forrester’s date of birth was March 28th, 1962. Marsha Elspeth Raskin married Gilbert George Forrester on September 13th, 1961.’
‘She was already pregnant when she married him.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And the other thing?’
‘I asked Jacqui Turner. I thought it would be more tactful than asking Mrs Neal in the circs. Turner cried a lot, and said Richard Neal had a very slight deformity of the fourth toe on both feet. It was nothing much, she said, just a crookedness. You wouldn’t even notice unless you were really looking. He said he was born with it.’
Slider said nothing for a very long time. It was Norma who broke the silence. ‘Would you like me to check with Catriona Young, sir?’ she asked gently. ‘If it was hereditary, it would probably—’
‘No,’ Slider said. He drew himself upright, leaving the door jamb to stand on its own two feet. ‘You’d better come with me,’ he said. ‘She’ll probably need you.’
‘You’ll probably need me,’ Norma said. ‘She’s a big, strong girl.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ he said.
She opened the door to them, and for a moment the cat looked out from under the hedge, wild, wary, self-confident. Then her eyes went from Slider to Norma, and a remarkable change came over her. Her face drained of what little colour it had, her eyes seemed to bulge, and she looked both very young, and very, very frightened, like a child caught out in some misdeed by a feared and brutal parent.
He forced himself to begin, though he felt he had been cast against his will as Mr Murdstone, a part not natural to him. ‘Eleanor Mary Forrester,’ he said as sternly as he could, ‘alias Helen Woodman—’
‘Don’t!’ she cried. She lifted her hand like a policeman halting traffic; and then the other one, too, so that it became a warding-off gesture. ‘Please don’t!’
He felt a confusion he didn’t understand; but Norma was there behind him, solid, strong, unemotional. ‘I have to,’ he said, and it
sounded as though he was pleading with her. ‘I’m obliged to warn you.’ Norma stirred like waiting nemesis, and Eleanor’s eyes flickered to her and back to Slider.
‘No, please,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you everything, I promise, only please don’t say that. Afterwards, if you must, but not now. I want to tell you properly first, as a friend, not a policeman.’
‘A friend?’ he said doubtfully.
‘You like me,’ she said certainly. ‘If this hadn’t happened, we could have been friends.’
If this hadn’t happened, he thought, as though it was just an accident, an act of God, something she couldn’t have helped. Well, perhaps she couldn’t. He had better find out, in whatever was the easiest way for her.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll hear you first, if it’s what you want.’ Sentence first, verdict afterwards. Where did that come from? She backed away from the door, and then turned and led the way in. Slider followed, feeling Norma’s curiosity and — was it? – disapproval like a weight on his neck.
It was always easy to spot the orchestra coming through – not just the instrument cases, but the rapid and directed gait of the regular traveller marked them out. Lots of them knew him now, and smiled or said hello as they passed. Friendly lot, he thought. He liked musicians, they were a lot like policemen.
Joanna came through in the middle of the early bunch, with her small travelling bag – specifically chosen to fit under the seat so that she didn’t have to wait at the carousel – over her shoulder, and her fiddle-case in her hand. She was talking to a tall, bearded trombone player, who had his arm round her waist as they walked. Slider sternly thrust down a twinge of outrage that raised its head. He found it very difficult to cope with the way artistic people touched each other so freely. At least, he wouldn’t have cared a jot if they touched each other all over the place, as long as they didn’t touch his woman like that.
She spotted him, and her face lit up like a pinball machine. She detached herself from her companion with flattering (to him, not the trombonist) haste and the next minute was giving him a fierce one-armed embrace, and the sort of kiss that two years ago would have embarrassed the pants off him in public.
Death Watch Page 28
