Star Fall

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Egerton’s right hand seemed to be clutching at his collar; his left rested against his stomach, and Slider saw a heavy gold and emerald signet ring on the third finger and what seemed to be an expensive watch peeping out from the crisp band of the cuff.

  ‘No apparent robbery from the person,’ Bailey said. ‘Doors and windows were secure. And the place hasn’t been turned over. If anything was stolen, they knew where it was. Theft to order, maybe.’

  ‘Or he just got in the way,’ said Atherton.

  ‘It’ll be hard to tell if anything’s missing, with all this crap around.’ Bailey waved a dismissive hand at someone’s lifetime collection of desirable objects.

  ‘Right,’ said Slider. ‘Let’s go and see the partner.’

  As was common with this style of house, the warren of basement rooms had been ripped out and replaced with one large one, which in this case had been extended into the garden, with sliding glass doors on to a paved patio. The street end was fitted as a kitchen, the garden end as a dining area, with an enormous oak table and chairs. The walls were white, the flooring dark slate. The kitchen fittings were modern and expensive, with a huge American fridge and sexy concealed lighting. In the dining area there were framed prints – Slider assumed they were prints – of modernist paintings on the walls. He wasn’t sure if they were fauvist or surrealist (he must ask Atherton), but the colours were bright and the images clear-cut. He rather liked them: they looked good amid all the black and white.

  The one discordant note, being watched over by PC Dave Bright, was the man sitting at the end of the dining table, sniffing and wiping his nose with a Kleenex. A little heap of them, crumpled and bloodied, lay in front of him.

  ‘Nosebleed,’ he explained, looking up as Slider and Atherton appeared from the bottom of the staircase. ‘It’s emotional.’ He examined the tissue in his hand. ‘I think it’s stopping.’

  ‘Mr Lavender?’ said Slider.

  He was a big, bulky man in a charcoal suit which, even to Slider’s inexpert eye, had not the sharpness of Egerton’s: it looked like the sort of ‘good suit’ that a certain kind of man bought to last twenty years. He sat rigidly upright, but there were signs of disorder about him: his conservatively striped tie had been loosened at the knot; his black (too black?) hair was tousled, which was not a good look, since it was both thin and crinkly and must have been carefully eked over the balding top which had now become visible. His face was like something clumsily carved out of granite, greyish, asymmetrical, with deep creases down the sides of the large nose and at the mouth corners; and the bags under his eyes were so big you could have called them steamer trunks. Without the perma-tan and the styling of the man upstairs he looked ten years older.

  With a last dab and inspection he stood up. It was like a building moving. He was taller than Slider, with heavy shoulders and chest and a look of having once been fit: a rugby forward gone to seed. If he had played rugby, it would account for the bumpy immobility of his face. His aftershave was expensive – Slider thought it was one that Atherton wore sometimes. It seemed rather dainty for such an architectural man.

  Lavender offered his hand in an automatic gesture. It looked damp and unappetizing, and Slider never liked touching members of the public. He feigned not to see it, and nodded instead, saying, ‘Mr Lavender? Detective Inspector Slider – and this is Detective Sergeant Atherton. Please sit down, sir. I’d like to ask you a few questions. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Lavender said. He was halfway down and started to rise again. ‘But I only drink freshly-brewed.’ He looked towards the machine on the countertop, shiny and dangerous-looking with its spouts and knobs, like something NASA had designed for taking samples on the moon.

  ‘I can do it, sir,’ Bright intervened. ‘I got one like this at home.’ Lavender stared in disbelief at this statement, but Bright was unmoved. ‘Do you like it strong?’

  Lavender nodded doubtfully, and though he sat again his eyes kept wandering to the big policeman, looking curiously out of place as he manipulated grounds and machine with calm efficiency.

  ‘Now, Mr Lavender,’ Slider said, sitting catty-corner to him and capturing his gaze. ‘Please tell me what happened this afternoon. Take your time. Every detail could be important.’

  ‘I got here at twenty-five past two,’ Lavender said.

  ‘You seem sure of that time,’ Slider remarked.

  ‘I looked at the clock when I came down here,’ he said, nodding towards the clock on the wall between two of the prints.

  ‘So you came straight down here?’

  ‘Yes. I let myself in, I called out, “It’s only me!” but he didn’t answer. He doesn’t always, if he’s busy with something. He can get very deeply involved with whatever he’s doing. I’d been to Waitrose –’ he nodded towards the large green jute Waitrose bag on the countertop – ‘so I brought the shopping down here first. I was going to unpack it but then I thought I’d see if he wanted a cup of tea, so I went upstairs again and called to him. I looked into the drawing room, and there he was.’ He pressed the Kleenex to his nose and inspected it, and seemed surprised it came away clean. ‘It was a shock, finding him like that.’

  ‘It must have been,’ Slider said kindly.

  ‘We’ve been friends for over twenty years.’ He raised faded eyes to Slider’s. ‘I suppose it was a burglary, and he came in at the wrong moment.’ There was evidently some emotion going on inside, but the granite face wasn’t designed for expressing it. It was like watching an Easter Island head do long division.

  The smell of coffee was easing out into the air; the machine was gurgling like a happy infant. A background of normality to abnormal emotions which, thank God, most people never had to experience. ‘What did you do?’ Slider asked.

  ‘I telephoned for the police,’ Lavender said. His voice was gravelly, with a cultured accent, but little inflected, as if it had to match his face.

  ‘There’s blood on your clothes,’ Slider pointed out. ‘On the knees. And your cuff, there. How did that happen?’

  ‘I knelt down beside him to check if he was still alive. I felt for a pulse. But I was sure he was dead. He hadn’t moved at all. And I couldn’t see him breathing. And as soon as I touched him, I knew. He felt dead.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Was he cold?’

  ‘No, not that – just, somehow, dead. I can’t say exactly.’ He stared reflectively at his hands. ‘So I rang the police.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I came down here and waited. I didn’t want to stay in the room with him.’

  ‘So from entering the house, you came downstairs to put the shopping down, went up to the drawing room, and came back to the kitchen again. Did you go anywhere else?’

  He looked a little blank, as if he didn’t see the point of the question. Then he said, ‘Just to the lavatory.’ He nodded towards the door in the corner. Now Slider saw why they had bricked up the servants’ entrance: they had made the little entrance lobby into a downstairs cloakroom.

  ‘And when was that? At what point?’

  ‘After I rang the police. I had to wash my hands.’

  ‘Was there blood on them?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I’d touched a dead body. I had to wash them.’

  Slider nodded. Squeamish, he thought. It wasn’t a pretty trait in a man. ‘Did you touch anything else, or move anything?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He seemed to be recovering a little. He reached up and smoothed his hair in what was probably an automatic gesture, guiding the locks to their place, restoring the comb-over. It did little to foster the appearance of youthfulness, but what people saw in the mirror was never what other people saw. Most men were touchy about hair-loss, and it might be especially delicate for a person who hung around with a celebrity.

  ‘So what made you think it was a burglary?’ Slider asked.

  He looked blank. ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘Was there any sign of a brea
k-in? Any disorder in the room? Drawers opened, furniture turned over? Did you tidy up before the police came?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Everything was just as you see it. I suppose he interrupted them before they got started.’

  ‘Did you notice that anything was missing?’

  Something came back to him. ‘Yes, I noticed straight away that the malachite box was missing. It always stood on the console table in front of the clock, and it wasn’t there. That was why I assumed it was a burglary.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  His eyes became stationary. ‘I didn’t notice anything else. But,’ he added quickly, ‘I didn’t go and look, of course. My mind was on other things.’

  Slider nodded. ‘When you arrived, was the front door closed?’

  ‘Yes. I opened it with my key.’

  ‘And the doors here,’ Slider said, gesturing to the glass doors to the patio. ‘Open or closed?’

  ‘Closed. And locked – the policemen checked.’

  ‘Does anyone else have a key?’

  ‘Only Molly – the cleaner. Molly Bean. She comes in twice a week.’

  ‘So who lives here – is it just the two of you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t live here all the time. We have a shop in the Fulham Road, and I have a flat above it. But I have a bedroom here and keep some of my things here. I suppose you could say I divide my time between the two places. But the house belongs to him.’

  There was something in the way he said the last sentence that caught Slider’s attention. He filed it away to be analysed later.

  Bright placed a cup of coffee in front of Lavender and he drank from it thirstily, then glanced uncertainly up at Bright, as though wondering what the correct protocol was. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

  Bright retreated. Slider was deep in thought, so Atherton, to keep it moving, said, ‘We’ll need to know who Mr Egerton’s next of kin is. Would it be you?’

  Lavender looked at him. He seemed not to like what he saw. ‘How could it be me?’ he snapped. ‘I’m not a relative.’

  ‘I thought you might be in a civil partnership,’ Atherton suggested.

  Lavender’s face mottled, and his lips tightened with annoyance. ‘We’re old friends, that’s all. Can’t two men be friends without people assuming they’re homosexual? Really!’

  ‘I had heard you referred to as his partner,’ Atherton said, unmoved.

  ‘His business partner! We have an antiques business. We have the shop, and pitches in various other shops and markets; we do fairs and special events. I’m his business partner.’ He glared. ‘He was married, you know. Damn!’ He grabbed another Kleenex from the box. ‘Now see what you’ve done.’ He pressed it to his nose. The tissue reddened, and he discarded it and employed another. The eyes, murky blue with yellowish whites like elderly hard boiled eggs, looked accusingly over the top. ‘It always starts when I’m upset or under stress.’

  Slider rode to the rescue. ‘Mr Egerton was married? His wife may be his next of kin, then.’

  ‘They were divorced – oh – must be thirty years ago. She’s dead now, anyway. He was very young when he married, and it didn’t last long. But they had a daughter, Dale. He didn’t see much of her. She’s married now. Fellow by the name of Sholto. They live just outside Henley. I suppose she’s next of kin,’ he concluded indifferently.

  Slider said, ‘We’ll have to get in touch with her. Do you have her address?’

  ‘Upstairs. There’s an address book in the office. I can’t remember it offhand.’ He changed Kleenex again, inspected, dabbed. ‘It’s stopping,’ he said, apparently to himself.

  His nostrils were rimmed inside with dark blood. Slider suppressed a shiver. The light was fading outside, night coming again, the unnatural night of winter, and he was in a basement with a man who wouldn’t stop bleeding. Dread sat cold and slick on his stomach. He wanted to get out.

  ‘Do you know if Mr Egerton was expecting anyone today?’ he asked instead. Doing his duty.

  ‘No, as far as I know he was just having a day at home, catching up. We only came back last night from two days filming. Antiques Galore! He was going to cook for me tonight. Just the two of us. It was something we liked – the occasional quiet evening à deux.’ He glanced towards the Waitrose bag. ‘I bought everything for the meal. I suppose I’ll have to throw it away now.’

  There was nothing to be said to that. Slider was glad when Mackay appeared to say, ‘Doc’s here, guv.’

  Slider stood. ‘Thank you, Mr Lavender. I’m going to have to ask you to come to the station in a little while to make a statement. And we will need to take your clothes for examination.’

  ‘What for?’ Lavender asked, looking startled.

  ‘Apart from the obvious blood, there might be particles on the cloth that could be useful to us. Fibres, hairs, skin cells. Someone killed Mr Egerton, and everyone leaves minute traces of themselves wherever they go.’

  Lavender gave him a pained look. ‘Yes, yes, don’t go on.’

  ‘Someone will fetch you in a little while,’ Slider said. ‘Meanwhile, Constable Bright here will look after you.’

  ‘I suppose it’s necessary,’ Lavender said, closing his eyes in martyrdom. ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe this is happening,’ he muttered.

  Slider and Atherton trod up the stairs together. ‘What was that aftershave?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Miller Harris, I think.’

  ‘It’s one you use.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Atherton said. ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘He doesn’t like you,’ Slider observed.

  ‘You know I didn’t mean that,’ Atherton said, but Slider would not offer any opinions. ‘He didn’t seem very sorry.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s the sort to express feelings very much.’

  ‘Hmph. I’m betting it was a lovers’ quarrel.’

  ‘He says they weren’t.’

  ‘Methinks he doth protest too much. More fey than Weldon.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘Seriously. I bet he’s never been married.’

  ‘Nor have you,’ Slider pointed out.

  TWO

  Friend or Faux?

  Freddie Cameron, the forensic pathologist, was kneeling beside the body, and looked up as Slider came in. ‘Hello, Bill! You look tired. How’s Joanna?’

  ‘Physically, she’s back to normal – the doctor’s signed off on her, anyway. Mentally—’ He shrugged.

  ‘A miscarriage is a very hard thing for a woman,’ Freddie said.

  ‘She’s stoical. Sometimes I wish she weren’t.’

  ‘Give her time. She’s a strong woman. She’ll make it.’

  Slider looked away. Everyone’s an expert, he thought, even though he knew this was unfair – people naturally wanted to sympathize. Work was the great refuge. It was hard on Joanna, who hadn’t any, other than housework and child-minding. ‘What can you tell me about the deceased?’ he prompted.

  ‘He’s a smart dresser,’ Freddie said, with perhaps a touch of relief at being back on neutral ground. ‘I love this tie. Rubinacci of Mount Street. I want to steal it. I hate to think of it mouldering away in an evidence bag.’

  ‘But as you know where it came from, you can buy one like it,’ Slider pointed out.

  ‘I don’t have a hundred nicker to spare,’ said Freddie.

  ‘And the rest,’ Atherton said. ‘Wasted on you, anyway – you only wear bow ties.’

  ‘To work,’ Freddie said. ‘I do have a private life, you know.’

  ‘Don’t boast. How did he die?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Looks like a single, forceful blow with a narrow, sharp implement,’ Cameron answered. ‘Penetrated the windpipe and nicked a vein. There’s a secondary wound to the back of the head, here.’ He demonstrated on his own. ‘That was from hitting the table as he went down.’

  ‘We’ve found a trace on the table edge,’ Bailey put in.

  ‘A glancing blow,’ said Freddi
e. ‘Cut a little flap but there’s virtually no bleeding from it. All this red stuff is from the throat.’

  ‘And we think we have the murder weapon,’ Bailey said, pleased with himself. He held up an evidence bag, inside which was a paper knife in the form of a Toledo steel dagger, the hilt elaborately chased, the blade narrow and about five inches long. ‘It was lying on that little table just there. It’s been wiped,’ he said, anticipating the next question. ‘But with all that scrolly stuff, there might be something left.’

  ‘I can confirm it by a microscopical examination of the wound, but it’s certainly the right size,’ Cameron said. ‘The angle of the blow appears to be slightly upwards. You can imagine the perpetrator reaching down, picking it up, and striking all in the same movement.’ He demonstrated, looking like a tennis player returning a dolly ball. ‘He’d have got up a good momentum that way.’

  ‘That would suggest it was unpremeditated,’ Atherton said.

  Freddie shrugged. ‘Don’t put words into my mouth.’

  ‘Time?’ Slider asked.

  ‘From the nasal temperature I’d say he’s been dead less than four hours,’ Freddie said. ‘Rigor only just beginning in the jaw. So you’re looking at some time after noon – with all the usual caveats.’

  It was a smallish slot, Slider thought. Lavender and the burglar could almost have passed each other.

  ‘Anything else?’ Freddie asked. ‘Or can we take him away?’

  ‘Take him away,’ Slider said. ‘I’d like to bring Mr Lavender up to see if he can spot if anything else is missing.’

  ‘Give us half an hour,’ said Bailey, ‘to do the doors and light switches and so on. All these knick-knacks’ll take for ever. Then you can bring him. I’ll cover the bloody bit with a tarpaulin. And make sure he keeps inside the tapes and doesn’t touch anything.’

  Slider sighed, but he didn’t say, ‘Tell your grandmother,’ as he might have.