Cruel as the Grave

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Gascoyne came in from the corridor. ‘What are we talking about?’

  ‘Dez Wilson’s alibi’s blown,’ Hart said. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Computer room,’ he said. ‘I’ve been having a look into Jack Gallo and Dez Wilson. Can’t find anything on Gallo, apart from that one fracarse outside Dean’s. But Wilson had a bit of trouble as a juvenile. Shoplifting, fighting, a couple of run-ins with soft drugs.’

  He had avoided getting a criminal record but was heading that way until he had been put in touch with a programme especially designed for troubled youngsters.

  ‘So I’ve just given Tommy Rylance a bell – my dad’s old pal?’ said Gascoyne, looking round to gather their nods. Gascoyne’s father had been in the Job before him and knew practically everyone in the area; Tommy Rylance had been a boxer, later turned promoter and manager, and had been a useful police liaison for a certain section of the population. ‘He used to be involved with this scheme called Boxing Angels. They worked from a gym behind the Angel Islington. A bit like the thing Lingoss was in, FitFunKidz, but this was for troubled older boys and it was all about boxing – give them a healthy outlet for their aggression and teach them discipline and self-respect. Course, it’s everywhere now, but it was a new idea in those days. Tommy says they had a lot of success with it. He remembered Dez Wilson, got interested in him because of his size and physique, thought he might have a career in the ring, but Dez just wasn’t interested enough in boxing. But he liked the fitness side of it, so Tommy pointed him in the direction of The Muscle Factory – that’s a power gym in Islington – helped him get a part-time job there, cleaning up and so on. Well, we know he went on to a proper job there later, training. And he’s not been in trouble since.’

  ‘The redemptive power of flexing your muscles,’ said Atherton witheringly.

  ‘Just because you’ve got no muscles,’ Hart retorted.

  ‘The brain is a muscle,’ said Atherton, ‘and mine is well-developed.’

  ‘That must be why you’ve got such a big head,’ she said.

  ‘The point is,’ Gascoyne said patiently, ‘that he’s been straight since then.’

  ‘The point is,’ LaSalle countered, ‘that he was a bad lot. The violence is in him somewhere. And he lied about his alibi.’

  ‘Him and Gallo both,’ said Hart.

  ‘And sadly we’ve got nothing else by way of a suspect,’ said Slider. ‘They’re big, strong men and they knew the victim well enough to be let in by him.’

  Atherton eyed him. ‘But you don’t like it.’

  Slider stirred restlessly. ‘I can see them killing him in hot blood, in a row or a fight, but a plot thought out beforehand? It doesn’t sit right with me.’

  ‘Well, maybe they went round without a plot or a plan, just to see him, and something was said, a row blew up, and hot blood got spilled,’ Atherton offered.

  ‘That’s possible,’ said Slider. ‘I think if you’re going to go that route we need to find some evidence of the movement of Gallo and Wilson between Lingoss’s flat and wherever they ended up.’ This was addressed to McLaren, who fielded it phlegmatically.

  ‘Meanwhile, we must keep looking in other directions. If Lingoss was in the habit of having sexual relations with his clients, there’s plenty of scope for resentments, jealousies, murderous feelings of all sorts. Let’s see who else might have had it in for him.’

  ‘I thought he had no trouble putting it in for himself,’ Hart muttered as they dispersed.

  TEN

  The Impotence of Being Vermin

  Slider was in his room, going over things with Atherton, when Swilley came in.

  ‘You wanted a list of Lingoss’s clients, boss.’

  ‘Did you find something on his laptop?’ Slider asked.

  ‘No,’ said Swilley. ‘It’s those two black books we brought back from the flat. One was a list of names and addresses and contact details—’

  ‘Usually known as an address book,’ said Atherton.

  She gave him a look that could have taken paint off a car. ‘It was an ordinary notebook and they weren’t arranged alphabetically, so I’ll call it what I like.’

  ‘You two have really got to learn to play nicely,’ Slider sighed. ‘Yes, Norma, what have you found?’

  ‘It makes interesting reading,’ she said. ‘From the addresses alone you can tell they’re wealthy, and I’ve done a bit of background research, and a lot of them are influential people, or the wives of influential people.’

  ‘There are men as well?’ Slider asked.

  ‘The majority are women.’

  ‘Surprise surprise,’ said Atherton. ‘He was a sexual predator.’

  ‘The pot calling the kettle black.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m a fully evolved homo sapiens. He was low life.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s dead, so being a predator didn’t do him much good, did it? Maybe you should watch your step.’ She turned back to Slider. ‘But for instance, boss, there’s Tim Tobias, the TV presenter, and Anthony Bolger, who’s a footballer.’

  ‘He’s the Gunners’ top scorer,’ Atherton said.

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’ Slider said. ‘You don’t like football.’

  ‘He was on the news last night. In the running for Sports Personality of the Year.’

  ‘Well, anyway, he must be mega rich,’ Swilley went on. ‘Footballers make millions. And there’s a William Rutherford, who’s some top cat at Goldman Sachs.’

  ‘He spread his net widely, then,’ said Slider. ‘But God forbid we have to go and interview all of them. If they’re rich and influential, it’ll be a minefield.’ He was still smarting from the fallout from the Kayleigh Adams case, when top bods from politics, business and even the Met had come under scrutiny. Top bods tend not to like attention from the Vogons. It puts them off their golf swing.

  ‘We might not have to investigate them all,’ Swilley said, ‘because the other black book is a diary. He puts down appointments using initials – like “A.B. ten thirty”, that sort of thing. And a quick look suggests the initials match people in the other book. I think this was his private clients diary, because there’s nothing in it about sessions at Gillespie’s, for instance, or social contacts like Kelly-Ann or Ivanka. He may have kept those sorts of dates on his phone – or just kept them in his head.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep us on tenterhooks,’ Atherton said impatiently. ‘What’s he got written in for the last day?’

  ‘There’s only two on Tuesday,’ said Swilley. ‘There’s M.A. at eleven a.m. and G.S. at nine thirty p.m. Nothing after that until Wednesday. There’s an M.A. in the address book, Myrna Abrams, who lives in Bayswater – Moscow Road. I’ve checked the address and it comes back to a Gerald Abrams who’s a musical agent – you know, books soloists for concerts and such. Classical music, not pop.’

  ‘Yes, I know who Gerald Abrams is,’ said Atherton.

  ‘You may, but nobody else does.’

  ‘I do,’ said Slider meekly. ‘I’ve heard of him, at any rate.’

  ‘But you’re married to a concert musician,’ Swilley said kindly, as though forgiving him a slightly regrettable habit. ‘Anyway, I suppose being an agent makes you rich?’

  ‘Richer than their clients, anyway,’ Atherton said. ‘There’s an old saying: “If you can, do; if you can’t, be an agent and make a fortune.”’

  ‘And who was the nine thirty appointment?’ Slider asked. ‘That’s the more important of the two. That could be our murderer. GS you said?’

  ‘There are two GSs in the book,’ Swilley said. ‘One is Gavin Spalding. He’s an actor. I looked him up, and he’s been in some TV soaps, like Hollyoaks and Holby City, and he’s doing a West End play at the moment.’

  LaSalle and Lœssop had appeared in the door behind Swilley.

  ‘Gavin Spalding?’ said LaSalle. ‘He’s that actor with the big nose.’

  ‘Graphic,’ Atherton murmured.

  ‘You know him, Funky,’ LaSalle insisted.
>
  ‘No, I don’t,’ Lœssop replied. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s in lots of stuff. He was in Line of Duty. He played that copper that went out with that woman, that got mistaken for that other bloke. It looked for a bit as if he’d done it. But in the end he hadn’t.’

  Atherton rolled his eyes.

  ‘What’re you doing watching Line of Duty, anyway?’ Lœssop wondered. ‘I can’t stand cop shows. They’re total bollocks.’

  ‘I don’t mind if it’s a good story,’ LaSalle protested. ‘You don’t expect them to get the technical stuff right. I mean, it is fiction.’

  Slider felt it was time to tug the reins. ‘You said there were two GSs,’ he said loudly to Swilley. ‘Who was the other one?’

  ‘Gilda Steenkamp,’ she said.

  ‘The Gilda Steenkamp?’ Atherton said, eyebrows agog.

  Swilley looked impatient. ‘No, a Gilda Steenkamp. They come in a six-pack.’

  ‘Who’s—?’ LaSalle began.

  ‘Max Ridley,’ Swilley said.

  ‘Oh, that detective series on TV!’ LaSalle was enlightened.

  ‘I watched one, but I couldn’t get into it,’ said Lœssop. ‘Was she in it?’

  ‘They were books before they were TV,’ Atherton said. ‘Gilda Steenkamp wrote the books. And they’re not detective stories, they’re on the detective/thriller cusp. And she’s a very fine writer.’

  ‘What’s a cusp?’ Lœssop said innocently, but he was just trying to wind Atherton up.

  ‘If they’ve been on TV,’ said Slider, ‘she must be pretty well off. Well, that gives us three new people to interview, including two possible suspects.’

  ‘Bags me Gilda Steenkamp,’ said Atherton quickly. ‘She can’t possibly have done it, but I know how to talk to writers.’

  ‘You’ve had enough excitement for one day,’ said Slider. ‘Swilley, Myrna Abrams. Lœssop, you can take Gavin Spalding.’

  ‘But guv, he’d never heard of him,’ LaSalle complained.

  ‘Exactly. You might go over the top with hero worship. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself,’ said Slider. ‘You can have another go at Jack Gallo, find out why he didn’t mention meeting Dez Wilson on Tuesday night. Right, off you go. Time and tide gather no moss.’

  Atherton unfurled himself reluctantly. ‘So who gets Gilda Steenkamp?’ he asked.

  ‘Guess,’ said Slider.

  Joanna phoned. ‘I suppose you’ll be working late?’

  ‘Saturday’s a good day to catch people in,’ Slider said apologetically.

  ‘No, it’s all right. Last session this evening and the brass section’s invited me for a drink afterwards. Don’t worry, I won’t drink,’ she added before he could speak, ‘but I’d like to have a last natter before we all disperse. Who knows when I’ll see any of them again.’ It sounded melancholy.

  ‘If you’re asking me if I mind, of course I don’t. Have fun.’

  ‘Anything new to tell me?’

  ‘We’re going to interview the wife of Gerald Abrams.’

  ‘What, Gerald Abrams the agent? He agented Nicky Adonis, the Famous Flautist.’ It was what Atherton called him – he was always rather caustic about him because he said he wasn’t that good, and had only been elevated to stardom because of his looks. Joanna, who had played in the same orchestra as him for many years before his transmutation, tended to agree with him. Actually, Atherton more often called him the Flatulent Flautist, but Joanna said that was needlessly reductive.

  ‘So would Gerald Abrams be a rich man?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Well, Nicky Adonis is everywhere. Concerts, recordings, TV shows. He’s never off Classic FM. And Gerald gets ten per cent of everything. Plus all his other super-successful clients. So I’d say, yes, he’s doing all right. Why?’

  ‘Our deceased liked to give private training sessions to rich women.’

  ‘Oh yes, you said. And the little extras. Intriguing – Abrams’ wife slumming with the help?’

  ‘We don’t know that she did, but she seems to have had an appointment with him on his last day, so she may have something to tell us – something he mentioned about his plans for the rest of it, perhaps.’

  ‘Oh well, good luck with that, then.’

  ‘And have a nice time with your brass. Bring me back a story.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s a given.’

  LaSalle had been right about the nose, thought Lœssop. It met you halfway to the handshake. It was thin at the bridge and sharp all the way down. You could have used it to open letters.

  Lœssop’s nickname wasn’t Funky for nothing. He wore his hair in shoulder-length dreads and affected a Jack Sparrow moustache and beard plaits (though without the beads – you had to draw a line somewhere) and with his general swarthiness and dark eyes he had a lot of Bohemian cred. The watchdog at the artists’ entrance almost let him through unchallenged. Almost. The downside of not looking like a policeman was that his warrant card got a lot of close scrutiny before it opened doors.

  ‘They’ve only just finished the matinée,’ the doorman said, ‘so he’s probably still in his dressing room. He’s not come past me, anyway. But he won’t like being disturbed, with another show to do tonight. They don’t get long to rest.’

  ‘Police business,’ Lœssop said. ‘Can’t wait. I’ll try and keep it quick.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said the doorman, and gave him convoluted directions.

  Lœssop had been backstage of enough theatres not to be surprised at the lack of glamour. The walls were bare brick painted black to shoulder level and dingy pale green above. The lights hung down under dark green tin lampshades like coolie hats. Doors were painted industrial maroon, and fire extinguishers brooded in the shadows ready to catch your elbow as you passed.

  There was a number on the door but no name. Lœssop knocked, and at the second assault a muffled voice inside said, ‘Oh, come in if you must!’ in martyred tones. The room was tiny, with a spotty mirror framed with light bulbs over a wide shelf that served as dressing table, with a wooden chair in front of it. A massive 1930s radiator occupied one wall; a forgotten wet cloth that had been dried on it had assumed jaunty planes and angles like a Frank Gehry installation. There was a tatty chaise longue against the opposite wall. Clothes hung everywhere on hooks on the walls and were piled on a basket-chair in the corner. A waste-paper basket overflowed with discarded newspapers and used tissues, and an old-fashioned enamel water jug held a bunch of long-dead roses. Other notable features were a stain the shape of the Isle of Wight on the ceiling, and a lurking red fire-bucket of sand waiting to trip you like a rake in the grass.

  And then there was the nose.

  Lœssop reflected that acting was about the only profession in which it could work as an asset. He tried not to stare at it. Gavin Spalding was tall for an actor, which meant he’d never be cast as the romantic lead. In showbiz only villains were tall. He was also thin, and with the help of the nose he looked almost gaunt, with dangerous cheekbones and a chin made for sinister stroking. He was wearing scruffy jeans and a blue Breton smock much stained at the neck with Max Factor (Lœssop wondered if it was part of his costume – he had no idea what the play was about) and his bony feet were bare. He looked tired, and stared at Lœssop as though his intrusion verged on the Last Straw.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

  Lœssop introduced himself, showed his warrant card, and apologized for disturbing him.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ Spalding said resignedly. ‘I suppose Marjie told you I was leaving for Hungary tomorrow so it has to be now or never.’

  ‘Marjie?’

  ‘Marjie Heinz. My agent. This piece of shit closes tonight. I’ve got two weeks filming for Walking With The Dead IV.’ He said it with a hint of pride, and Lœssop realized he meant the movie franchise.

  ‘I’ve seen the first three. They film it in Hungary?’ he queried. ‘I thought it was supposed to be England.’

  ‘Hungary’s cheaper,’ Spaldin
g said shortly. ‘They get government subsidies. Is there something I can help you with? Only I’d like to have some grub and a nap before I have to go on again.’ He gave a grimace instead of a smile. ‘It’s a glamorous profession, as you can see.’

  Lœssop gave his best cheeky Johnny Depp grin. ‘Yeah. Ours is, too.’

  Spalding sat down on the chaise and waved him to the wooden chair. ‘Has anyone ever told you you look like—’

  ‘Yeah, it’s deliberate. Gets me in to places a copper wouldn’t be welcome.’

  ‘I can see that. Well, what’s this about? I can’t remember having done anything illegal recently.’

  ‘No, you’re not in trouble. It’s just that your name came up in reference to Erik Lingoss.’

  ‘Really? I wonder why. What’s he done?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Lœssop.

  Spalding’s weary eyes opened wide. ‘Dead? God, that’s awful. He’s quite young, isn’t he? What happened?’

  ‘Somebody killed him.’

  ‘God, no! That’s terrible. How did they do it?’

  ‘I can’t go into that, I’m afraid. But I would like to know the nature of your relationship with him.’

  He looked put out. ‘What are you talking about, relationship? I didn’t have a relationship with him. What are you implying?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything, I’m asking. I’ll put it another way – how did you know him?’

  ‘I did some fitness training with him, that’s all. I needed to put on some muscle for a part, and Marjie found him for me. He was very good. But why on earth are you asking me? He must have had dozens of other clients since.’

  ‘Well, you were one of the last people to see him. You had an appointment with him on Tuesday evening.’

  Spalding tensed, but he looked worried rather than fearful. ‘No, there’s some mistake there. I haven’t seen him for months. Why would you think I saw him on Tuesday?’

  ‘It’s in his diary – your initials and the time, nine thirty.’

  He shook his head. ‘Well, it wasn’t me. It must be someone else with the same initials. Apart from anything else, I was here Tuesday night, like every other night except Sunday.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘About a thousand people saw me right here on stage. Evening performance, curtain goes up at seven thirty and the play’s two hours fifteen. Work it out for yourself. I think that’s a pretty convincing alibi, don’t you?’