Star Fall

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Bluff,’ Mrs Sholto said, with as close to a critical tone as she had yet come. ‘Oh, I suppose he’d picked up a bit by then. But of course, he always had John at his elbow. The shows aren’t live, they’re recorded. He couldn’t have managed if he’d had to give instant opinions about the things they brought him. But there was always time for John to brief him. John was the one with the real knowledge – Phil just coasted along on the back of it.’

  This was a new and interesting slant, Slider thought. He wondered how Mrs Sholto had come by that opinion.

  ‘Didn’t Mr Lavender mind that?’ Connolly was asking. ‘I mean, there was he, the one who knew all that stuff, and there was Mr Egerton taking all the glory.’

  ‘You’d have to ask him that,’ said Mrs Sholto. ‘He didn’t seem to mind, to judge by the times I saw them together. And the partnership lasted all this time, so he couldn’t have, could he?’

  ‘How well do you know him?’ Slider asked.

  ‘John? Oh, not at all, really. I’ve met him with Phil, that’s all. I don’t think,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘he’d be an easy person to get to know. He doesn’t say much when Phil’s around.’

  ‘When did you last see them?’ Slider asked.

  ‘At Christmas. They both came over for lunch. I don’t think John has any family.’

  ‘Your husband got on all right with them?’

  ‘Jeremy doesn’t mind them. And he thinks family is important.’

  ‘Did your father say anything about any troubles, or worries he may have had? Did he seem different in any way?’

  ‘No,’ she said, leaving him nothing to get hold of.

  The thought of the four of them sitting round the dining table gave him the willies. Of course, he didn’t know what Mr Sholto was like, but anyone who could choose Dale for a wife must have very low expectations of social merriment. He imagined the leaden lunch, wallowing along like a waterlogged ship, only kept afloat by the sparkling flow of Egerton’s self-regard. An invitation to avoid.

  And what of the ineffable John Lavender? He was no closer to fathoming him.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask, but do you know how your father’s estate was left on his death?’

  She didn’t seem to mind the question. ‘You mean, who inherited? I believe he left everything to me.’ She shrugged. ‘I was his only relative. I’ve never seen a will, but he told me a few years back he’d had one made. He’d had a bit of a heart scare – it turned out to be nothing serious, but he said it was a wake-up call, he ought to set things in order just in case. He told me he was making me his beneficiary. I’ve no idea what he had to leave,’ she said indifferently.

  Slider tried fishing. ‘The house is full of things, probably many of them valuable.’

  ‘Some of them might be John’s,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t want them. I don’t like clutter.’

  You can say that again, Slider thought, with a glance round the bare room. And Egerton might have been a magpie, but it was rather dispiriting to hear his lifetime collection of treasured objects dismissed as ‘clutter’.

  ‘I expect he did rather well out of his television appearances,’ he suggested. ‘There may be money to leave.’

  But she didn’t stir. ‘Perhaps. But Jeremy and I both have good salaries. We have everything we want.’

  ‘What’s your line of work, might I ask?’ said Slider.

  ‘I’m a dental surgeon,’ she said. ‘Like my mother.’

  ‘And she never even offered us a cuppa tea, the meaner,’ Connolly said as they climbed back into the car. The grey had settled heavily into the sky now, like hypostasis, and the cold was numbing. ‘Jesus, Mary an’ Joseph, I wouldn’t want to go to the dentist and find her hangin’ over me with a pointy bit o’ metal. Did you not find her scary, boss?’

  ‘I found her sad,’ Slider said, backing out into the empty street.

  ‘Creepy,’ Connolly amended firmly. ‘All that calling her dad by his first name. That’s never right, even if he did bale out on them. And he seems to have hung around enough to give her presents. I wonder –’ she distracted herself – ‘what the hell he found to give her?’

  ‘I wonder,’ Slider said, ‘what she and her husband spend their good salaries on.’

  ‘Wild hedonistic debauches,’ Connolly suggested drily. ‘Sure, they’d come expensive.’

  ‘Still, no-one has so much that they wouldn’t like a bit more,’ Slider said, following his own stream. ‘I’ve seen so many fatal resentments build up over inheritances.’

  ‘Yeah, but she and her hubby were out of the country, weren’t they?’ Connolly said, a little sadly – she’d have liked to put robot woman into the frame, just for not putting the kettle on like any civilized person.

  ‘We only have her word for that,’ Slider said. ‘And we only have her word that they’re well off enough not to need Egerton’s money.’

  ‘I’ll check it out,’ Connolly said eagerly. ‘Wouldn’t that be a grand alibi, though? They could book the flights, tell the neighbours, get a taxi to the airport for extra corroboration, then sneak back and do the deed … Or, wait, they could go on the holiday and hire someone to whack the old geezer!’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Slider, and the excitement drained out of her.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Can I quite see your woman as a murderer? I can’t see her wanting anything that much. She’s a seething cauldron of indifference.’

  ‘Or a very good actress,’ said Slider.

  ‘Talking of seething cauldron, though,’ Connolly went on, ‘it does make you wonder about Lavender.’

  ‘Yes. He seems to have got the fuzzy end of the lollipop all along.’

  ‘And if your man left everything to Robot Woman, what about him, and his business, and the house, and all those antiquey yokes? How does it leave him?’

  ‘That’s also something we’ll have to find out,’ said Slider.

  They drove in silence for a while, then Connolly said in discontented tones, ‘I can’t get over that gobshite Egerton, though. Swanking about pretending to be the big expert, and all the time he was Nobby Nobody and knew nothing. It’s no wonder somebody lamped him. He was a complete phoney.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Slider said. ‘You could also say that, coming from nothing, he worked hard, improved himself, and found a way to make his particular skills pay handsomely. Isn’t that something to be admired?’

  Connolly didn’t want her opinion shaved. ‘What about changing his name, and all that sucking up to the nobs?’

  ‘Well, that’s harder to admire, I admit. But he probably gave a lot of pleasure to a lot of people.’

  ‘Huh?’ said Connolly.

  ‘Most people love to be sucked up to.’

  Something round and wet smacked into the windscreen. ‘Rain?’ said Connolly.

  ‘Snow,’ said Slider. More followed, and soon it was snowing quite fast. They had left the flooded fields behind, and it settled quickly on the drier lands, turning the everyday greens and browns to sophisticated black-and-white. Slider felt triumph. He’d said it would snow, and it had.

  No, not triumph – relief. The relief of having the problem you’d worried about finally arrive, out in the open, so you could get on with tackling it. Something solid to be dealt with – unlike the nebulous veil of other people’s loss, bereavement, and sadness.

  SEVEN

  They Caecum Here, They Caecum There

  The office was quiet, with most people out supervising or taking part in the various canvasses. Swilley had received the shop’s accounts from Lavender’s accountants and was going over them, along with various bank accounts, business and private. And Hollis was there, drooping as sadly as a heron, looking thinner than ever with a grey sweater over his shirt that had a hole in one elbow. Such hair as he had ever had seemed to be abandoning his head in despair.

  ‘Message for you, guv,’ he greeted Slider. ‘A Peter de Wett rang, and would you ring him back.’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t know any Peter de Wett,’ Slider said.

  ‘SCD6,’ Hollis further elucidated. ‘Art and Antiques crime.’

  That must be Pauline’s work, Slider thought. ‘Get me a cup of tea, will you,’ he said, heading for his desk. Outside, the greyness had turned whirling white.

  De Wett answered at once, in the kind of accent that only the English upper classes ever master – anyone else trying it always sounds false. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘Bernard Eason asked me to call you. He’s a good chap and I owe him a favour – an investigation we cooperated on. So you’re looking for a Berthe Morisot?’

  ‘Do you know about her?’ Slider asked.

  ‘About her, yes. I’ve never had one through my hands. Frankly, we tend to deal with rather more important works. Morisot is one of the minor Impressionists. But I’ll be happy to put through the usual enquiries for you. Art appraisers, auction houses, galleries, various agents. I’ll also leave a marker with shipping companies and air and maritime insurance agents in case there’s an attempt to get it out of the country. And HM customs will be asked to be on the lookout for suspicious cardboard tubes.’

  ‘That sounds comprehensive. Thank you.’

  ‘But the greatest likelihood is that it will go underground,’ de Wett continued. ‘Either straight to the end customer, if it was stolen to order, or to one of a number of specialist fences. I have my informants on the inside, and I’ll ask them to keep an eye out for me. Something may come up.’

  ‘You don’t sound as though you hold out a great deal of hope,’ Slider said.

  ‘It’s not a very memorable painting, and there are so many routes it could go. Now a more valuable piece, or one by a better known artist, tends to get funnelled into certain channels. There aren’t so many fences who will handle it. But smaller stuff slips under the radar all the time.’

  ‘I understand. When you say “smaller stuff” – what would you say it was worth?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Oh, very hard to say. Put to auction by its owner, it would depend on who was there on the day. I’d say anything from eighty to a hundred and fifty thousand. Stolen and fenced, half that – depending whether the fence had an end buyer ready.’

  ‘I see. Well, thanks – do your best for me.’

  ‘Of course. As it’s part of your case, I’ll make sure it’s to the forefront,’ said de Wett with curiosity sticking out all over his voice. ‘As I said, I owe Bernard a favour.’

  And now I owe Pauline one, Slider thought as he put the phone down. Not for the first time.

  His tea hadn’t arrived, and he went out into the main office, where he found Hollis with it in his hand as he talked to Connolly. ‘Oh, sorry, guv, I was just bringing it in.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Slider said, taking it from him. ‘What were you two talking about?’

  ‘I was telling Colin what your woman said about Egerton being a phoney.’

  ‘In her opinion,’ Slider warned.

  ‘I believe it. Sure, I’ve seen him on TV. He looks like a big shaggin’ fake, with the carry-on of him!’

  ‘It gives a bit more motive to Lavender as the murderer,’ Hollis said. ‘I mean, it must have griped his tripes, playing second fiddle to the bloke, if all the time he was the real brains behind the operation. He didn’t even have his name on the shop.’

  ‘But everyone so far has said he was devoted to Egerton,’ Slider said. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been two opinions about that.’

  ‘You can act devoted,’ Connolly said. ‘When it’s in your interests.’

  Swilley looked up from her books. ‘There is the discrepancy about the painting, guv. Lavender saying it was worth about ten thousand and that Georgia woman saying it was worth a hundred thousand.’

  ‘The SCD6 man I’ve just been speaking to says between eighty and a hundred and fifty,’ said Slider.

  ‘Well, still more than ten,’ Swilley said.

  ‘But why should he want us to think it was worth less?’ Hollis objected.

  ‘And why didn’t he say that he’d bought it as a present for Egerton?’ Swilley went on.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Slider said. ‘But equally, why would he steal it? And if he wanted to steal it, why would he kill Egerton to do so?’

  ‘Like Everest,’ Hollis said laconically. ‘Because he was there.’

  ‘He didn’t have to do it while Egerton was at home. He had the key,’ Slider pointed out. He sighed. ‘I’m going to have to have another word with him, I know that. But I can’t make sense of those two missing items, among a houseful. Why them? Why not anything else? And why then? And we don’t know,’ he added robustly, ‘that Egerton hadn’t sold them himself, or otherwise disposed of them.’

  ‘Why’d he do that?’ Connolly demanded.

  ‘Why indeed. But they were his to dispose of, and maybe they had nothing to do with his murder. After all, the other painting was moved to fill the gap. Who would do that but Egerton?’

  ‘Lavender,’ said Hollis and Connolly together.

  Slider shook his head.

  ‘All the same, boss,’ said Swilley, ‘Lavender is the obvious suspect. I mean, his alibi is no alibi at all. He was there at the right time, and we know he was there, and he can’t hide he was there, so what’s to say he didn’t do it? If it was someone else, they must have missed each other by minutes. Much the most likely it was him.’

  ‘But if it was him, why wouldn’t he skip off and set up an alibi,’ Connolly said, changing sides, ‘instead of calling the peelers and establishing the time o’ death to his own disadvantage?’

  ‘Because he had blood on his clothes,’ Slider said. ‘And maybe he’s clever enough to know that that’s what an innocent man would do.’

  ‘Double bluff?’ Connolly said. ‘I like it!’

  ‘By the same token,’ Slider said, ‘if it was him, it will be almost impossible to prove. Unless we can establish a motive strong enough to shake him into confessing.’

  ‘Which is where we came in,’ said Hollis.

  ‘If he’s got a motive,’ Connolly said, ‘it can’t just be living in Egerton’s shadow all this time. Because if it was that, why now all of a sudden? Why not any other time?’

  ‘Accumulation,’ said Slider.

  ‘No, my bet is it’s something new, something recent that’s come up,’ Connolly said.

  ‘Well, this isn’t a branch of Paddy Power, so we’re not taking bets,’ Slider said. ‘We want evidence.’

  ‘What of, boss?’ Connolly asked pertly.

  ‘Anything,’ Slider said, frustrated. ‘Why don’t you get on the Internet and find out what Egerton’s been doing lately – any recent sightings or chat about him.’

  She nodded and drifted away towards her desk.

  ‘Where’s Atherton?’ Slider asked Hollis.

  ‘I don’t know, guv,’ said Hollis. ‘He went out with the others. I suppose he’s canvassing, or following something up.’

  Slider nodded. He fidgeted a bit on the spot, putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again, staring at the window. The snow had stopped whirling and was now falling quietly and thinly. There was a little on the roofs opposite, but his window sill was only wet, and he could hear the traffic swishing down in the street, sure sign it was not settling. He felt restless with unresolved thoughts. He had to get out.

  ‘I’m going to see a man about a dog,’ he said, heading for the door.

  ‘Any particular dog, guv?’ asked the patient Hollis, whose duty it was to tell people where he was and when he’d be back, unless instructed otherwise.

  ‘I’m going to talk to some of my snouts,’ said Slider.

  It being Saturday afternoon, Lenny Picket was camped out in a bookies shop in Shepherd’s Bush Road, folded newspaper in hand, skinny roll-up clamped in his lips, eyes screwed up against the fitfully rising smoke. It was in the nature of roll-ups to go out every few minutes and to need to be relit, which meant the owner spent as much time ministering to the thing a
s consuming it. It had led Slider over the years to the conclusion that smoking them was less a need for nicotine and more a form of occupational therapy.

  Appropriately to his name, Lenny Picket had followed a lucrative career as a fence until, after a second stretch inside in the space of three years, his wife had put her foot down and he had retired from the profession. Despite his initial reservations about swapping sides, he had placed his wide experience at the disposal of the Met, did a little unofficial probation work turning youngsters back to the path of rectitude, and occasionally took a fee for sourcing a piece of kit, if it was unusual enough to tempt his vanity. He was now a respectable member of the community.

  Also appropriately to his name, he was a small, sharp, narrow man, neat as a pin and quick as a squirrel.

  ‘Hullo, Lenny. Had any luck?’ Slider greeted him.

  Lenny did a quick glance round before answering, but that was old habit. ‘Hullo, Mr Slider. Nah, nothing so far. Three-legged ponies. Did a nice bit yesterday at Haydock, but that was luck really. Trouble with National Hunt – too variable. Roll on the flat season!’

  ‘Too early for a pint?’ Slider said.

  ‘Is it ever?’ Lenny answered.

  ‘Shall we pop next door, then? I’d like a word.’

  ‘Figured you did. Just a mo.’ He stared at the muted television screen on which tiny horses strove their hearts out. The reaching legs dashed past the little white lollipop and the result came up. ‘Gah!’ said Lenny in disgust. ‘I don’t know why I bother.’

  In the interests of tact, Slider forbore to agree.

  They settled in next door with a pint of Pride each, and Lenny, starting another roll-up, said, ‘Well then, Mr S, what’s on your mind?’

  Slider told him about the missing artefacts. ‘I’ve got official sources looking for them, but often the unofficial is more effective. That’s you, in case you wondered.’

  ‘This something to do with that antiques bloke on the telly that got whacked?’ Lenny asked sharply.

  ‘You don’t need to know that,’ said Slider.

  ‘Which means yes,’ Lenny concluded. ‘Well, as you know, I’ve never been keen on that sort of kit. Never handle nothing that there’s only one of, that’s always been my motto. I got my fingers burnt with that Gainsborough, all them years ago, as you’ll no doubt remember.’