Cruel as the Grave

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Yes, Lœssop thought, disappointedly, it is. Though skinny, Spalding looked fit enough and he had large hands; and temperamentally he thought an actor would be quite up to whacking someone who annoyed him.

  He didn’t want to slink away with nothing, so he said, ‘Can you tell me when you last saw him?’

  ‘Let me see – it would be in May, I think. I saw him twice weekly for about two months. Then the part finished and I didn’t need him any more.’

  ‘You didn’t keep in touch with him?’

  Another laugh. ‘When would I have the time? I barely keep in touch with my mother! Look, he was a good trainer, and actually I liked him as well. He was good company. But that was all there was to it.’

  He looked straight into Lœssop’s eyes when he said that last bit – the liar’s ‘tell’. Yes, the alibi was about as close to cast iron as it was possible to get, but he was hiding something, that was for sure.

  Lœssop tried another tack. ‘Did you do your training sessions at his flat?’

  ‘No, at mine. I’ve got a flat in Highgate, he came there. Oh, except once, when we met at a gym in Kensington. But I didn’t want people seeing me working out. You know, videoing me on their phones and asking me for autographs. So I said it had to be my place. Look, have you done? Because I haven’t got a lot of time.’

  Lœssop ignored that. ‘Was it just the fitness training? Because we’ve heard he was also good for some other services – little extras, you might say.’

  The eyes brightened, and an angry flush came to his face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Lœssop, going for steely – not a natural look for him, but it generally worked when there was a guilty conscience to hand. ‘He provided something more, didn’t he – not just the weights and the encouragement?’

  Now the eyes moved away. ‘Look,’ he said, capitulating, ‘it was nothing. Just a bit of charlie. One wrap. And it was just the once. I was out and he got it for me as a favour.’

  ‘Cocaine,’ Lœssop said evenly.

  ‘Everyone takes it,’ Spalding said defensively. ‘If you’re going to start cracking down on it, you’ll have to arrest everyone in Ham and High, not to mention the whole of the House of Commons. It’s a victimless crime, for God’s sake!’

  ‘He got you cocaine? Nothing else?’

  ‘That’s it, I swear.’ He spoke firmly with the full eye contact again. He practically excreted sincerity. ‘Are you going to arrest me? Because otherwise I’ll have to ask you to go – I’ve got to prepare myself for the performance.’

  ‘Was he still providing you with cocaine?’

  ‘I told you, I haven’t seen him since May. Or spoken to him. Or heard his name, come to that. It was a one-time thing, the training, and as far as I was concerned, it was over. I’m sorry he’s dead, but it was nothing to do with me, all right?’

  Lœssop stood up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Thank you for being so frank. I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  He left, turned the wrong way and got lost, came up against a metal staircase with pierced treads and lit at what was surely a criminally low level, turned back, wandered a bit, and finally found a sign with a kitsch pointing finger that said EXIT. It was so grubby with the passage of bodies squeezing past each other in a confined space that he almost missed it, but moments later he was emerging into the daylight, such as it was. And he still thought Spalding was hiding something. The cocaine had been a diversion, good for taking the attention away: illegal but almost never prosecuted. Victimless crime indeed! It added another unwelcome little facet to Lingoss’s character, though.

  The Abrams lived in one of those red-and-white Edwardian blocks of mansion flats. Swilley didn’t like old things. She preferred modern buildings and light, modern furniture, and when Myrna Abrams let her in and she saw how dark it was inside, she feared the worst. But everything was clean and polished and there was no damp or reasty smell – no smell at all, in fact, except for a faint hint of furniture polish. And as she was led through to the drawing-room, the impression she got was one of calm. It was a home designed first and foremost for being comfortable in.

  The drawing-room was huge, with a high ceiling, a big fireplace, and shelves and panelled cupboards built into both alcoves, stacked with books above and old-fashioned vinyl LPs on the taller bottom shelf. The polished wooden floor was mostly covered with a beat-up Persian carpet. The bay window was occupied by a seven-foot grand piano, gleaming softly, the lid invitingly open, music ready on the rack. It was such a presence in the room, Swilley could almost hear it purring. The rest of the furniture looked slightly shabby, infinitely comfortable and definitely used. The fire was alight, and the flickering of the flames was comforting against the grey day outside, though she couldn’t understand why anyone would bother when there was central heating.

  Myrna Abrams must have been in her fifties, but she was a shining example of what HRT could do: she seemed bursting with health, with bright eyes, firm skin and glossy hair – Swilley bet she had a cold wet nose as well. The hair was very dark, arranged in giant-roller waves, and showed no thread of grey – helped, obviously. Her figure was trim and her movements lithe. We should all look so good after menopause, Swilley thought. She was smartly dressed in slacks and a cashmere sweater and made up to going-out standard.

  Myrna Abrams was not surprised when Swilley introduced the topic of Lingoss. ‘I had heard about it already,’ she said. She had a brisk way of talking, and a faint South African accent. ‘Gerald told me on – Wednesday, was it? It was all over the internet. He picked it up as soon as he got to the office and rang me so I shouldn’t hear it some other way. It’s a dreadful, dreadful thing. Poor Erik. Is that right, he was murdered? Who would do such a thing? It wasn’t as if he mixed with bad lots – or did he?’ she added, fixing Swilley with a sharp gaze. ‘Of course, I didn’t know everything he got up to, but he didn’t strike me as the sort.’

  ‘What sort would that be?’

  ‘Well – Erik believed the body was a temple. He was always exquisitely clean and perfectly groomed and he didn’t drink or take drugs, so I can’t imagine he’d fit in with bad lots.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Even after a workout he still smelled fresh. I used to say he sweated distilled water.’

  ‘You saw him on Tuesday morning,’ Swilley said, not making it a question.

  ‘Yes, it was my usual weekly session. Oh dear!’ She put her hands to her face. ‘He was killed on Tuesday, wasn’t he? That’s what they’re saying. It’s a horrible thing to think of. All the time we were together he was living his last hours, and he didn’t know it.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘No different from usual. I’m sure he had no idea of anything coming. We did our session, then we had a cup of tea together and chatted a bit, and then he went. I had no idea I’d never see him again. It’s dreadful.’

  ‘What did you chat about?’

  ‘Goodness, I don’t remember. It was just the usual, you know.’ She frowned in thought. ‘No, I honestly can’t remember anything in particular we talked about. It was just chit-chat between old friends.’

  ‘You have your sessions here?’

  ‘Yes, always. I have the equipment set up in a spare bedroom – would you like to see it?’

  ‘Perhaps later.’

  ‘I use it every day – one must keep fit.’ She looked Swilley over appraisingly. ‘And Erik comes once a week to keep me up to scratch, keep me motivated. I’ve tried to get Gerald to take some lessons with him, because my God he needs it! It isn’t good at his age to be so sedentary. I’ve told him, you’re getting flabby. I refuse to be married to a flabby old man. But he won’t do it. He hates the idea of exercise for its own sake. And he didn’t entirely take to Erik, if I’m honest. Called him a poseur. He doesn’t trust health fads, clean eating, veganism, any of those modern things. Calls it navel-gazing and narcissism. It’s all I can do to get him to take a multivitamin every day
.’

  ‘Was there any other reason he might have objected to Erik?’ Swilley tried.

  The bright gaze sharpened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you know what I mean. Your relationship with Erik Lingoss – did it go beyond fitness training?’ Same bright look – she wasn’t going to give it away that easily. Swilley went for broke. ‘Did you sleep with him?’ She half expected an indignant protest, but Myrna Abrams laughed.

  ‘Fair question! Yes, I did sleep with him, but only a couple of times.’

  ‘You mean twice?’

  ‘Twice or three times. No more than that. Then I told him it must stop. He was good, he was very good, and it was all perfectly congenial – no pressure, no expectations. What is it they say in America? No harm, no foul. He used to massage me, you see, after the workout, and it’s easy to slip into an amorous mood when you’re relaxed and naked and a handsome young man has his hands all over you. And he was very good at massage – knew just where to dig in. You find yourself going all the way even when you had no intention beforehand. So I don’t have the massage any more – too much temptation.’

  ‘Why did you stop? Did your husband find out?’

  ‘Gerald? You’re imagining he walked in on us?’ She laughed. ‘Like a French farce! No, that never happened – though I wouldn’t be surprised if he guessed. I was always in a euphoric state after Erik’s visits. But he wouldn’t have minded if he did know. We haven’t had a physical relationship for years, not since the boys left home. We’re very good friends, our marriage is solid, but there’s nothing sexual between us any more.’

  ‘Even so, men can be very territorial about their wives.’

  ‘Oh, Gerald is a most civilized man. I’m sure he has his little poppets when he needs recreation. I don’t mind in the least, and he wouldn’t mind if I did the same.’

  ‘So why did you break it off with Erik?’ Swilley asked.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Break it off? It sounds like a teenage crush. Why did I stop sleeping with him, you mean?’ Swilley nodded. ‘Because I discovered he was sleeping with my sister, and I felt that was just a bit too – what shall I say – tacky. Too close to home. It didn’t sit right with me, so I just said no more. Erik said he understood. We were both fine about it – there was no quarrel, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ She laughed. ‘I thought my sister needed it more than me. Definitely. So I let her have him.’

  ‘Your sister is also a client of Erik’s?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘And what is your sister’s name?’

  ‘Gilda Steenkamp,’ she said.

  ELEVEN

  Sisters Do It for Themselves

  ‘I thought you knew,’ Myrna Abrams said.

  ‘We have her name from Erik’s client list,’ Swilley said, ‘but we didn’t know she was your sister. Are you close?’

  ‘Always have been. There’s just the two of us, you see. Pappy died young and Mommy had to bring us up alone. He had two restaurants in Cape Town, and restaurants are hard work. He had good managers, but he would never leave it to them. Had to be hands-on. Control freak, you see. The restaurants killed him. He was only forty-six when he died. Pappy’s best manager took over running the business, but Mommy still struggled. It was hard on all of us. In the end she married him, the manager. It was the only way she could cope. We didn’t mind,’ she added, as if Swilley had asked. ‘Mervyn was all right. He was good to us girls. But the eighties wasn’t a good time in South Africa, and Mommy wanted us out. So we came to England. I was twenty, and Gilda was eighteen.’

  ‘Who looked after you?’

  ‘Grandpa Gershon was already here – Mommy’s father. We lived with him and Granny. Of course, the first thing he did was to get me married off to a nice respectable man. Gerald was the son of a friend of Grandpa’s so he ticked all the boxes.’

  Swilley picked up on the word ‘off’. ‘It was an arranged marriage?’

  She frowned a little. ‘Of course not. It wasn’t like that. Marriage is an important life decision – why wouldn’t you take the advice of someone older and wiser? Gerald’s been a good husband and we’ve got along just fine. We had two boys, they’ve both done well. I’ve never wanted for anything. And Gerald and I are still friends, though we lead our separate lives. I’ve nothing to complain about. But Gilda, she was the wild child. She didn’t want to do what was expected of her. She wanted to be different. Well, I was the eldest, so I had to toe the line, but the younger daughter can get away with murder.’

  Interesting choice of word, Swilley thought. ‘Like what?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, for a start she wanted to earn her own living. I’ve never had a job – it just wasn’t done in those days. And then she married out. That put five thousand volts through the family. Oh, the ructions! Grandpa bellowed, Granny wrung her hands. Mommy wrote tear-stained letters from Cape Town, and when Gilda wouldn’t change her mind she refused to come to the wedding. She died less than a year later, so of course everyone says she died of a broken heart and Gilda as good as killed her.’ She made a rueful face at Swilley. ‘Happy families!’

  ‘But you were on her side?’

  ‘Oh, Gerald and I aren’t observant. We kept up appearances while the Olds were alive, and for the boys, to an extent, while they were at home. But neither of us cares about the religious stuff. I like the family side of it, and Gerald loves the networking – so useful in his game. But I can’t take all the petty rules.’ She puffed out her lips. ‘I maintained Gilda had a right to her own life. Of course it didn’t go down well, but I toughed it out. It upset Gilda much more than me, all the disapproval and tooth-sucking. And then when there were no children, of course they said it was God’s judgement. Actually I don’t think Gilda ever particularly wanted children. By the time it was clear there wouldn’t be any, she had her books.’

  ‘Has hers been a happy marriage?’

  She hesitated for a telling second. ‘Oh, as happy as any marriage is, I suppose. The rose-tinted glasses have to come off, don’t they? And like with Gerald and me, there’s an age difference, and that matters more as you get older.’ She smiled at Swilley. ‘Men pull out all the stops when they’re courting you, but as soon as they’ve got the ring on your finger, they take off their corsets, figuratively speaking, and you see what you’ve really got.’

  ‘What do they quarrel about?’

  ‘I didn’t say they quarrelled. There’ve been little frictions, but there are in any marriage.’

  ‘Over the lack of children?’

  ‘Possibly. Men find the old tribal business important, don’t they? Of course, they don’t have to go through the actual child-bearing. Be different story if they did. And then there was Gilda’s writing – it can’t be easy for any man to see his wife more successful than him. Well, Brian always did all right, good enough for any normal couple, but when Gilda had a book made into TV, it moved her into a different league.’ She stared at nothing for a moment, reflecting. ‘I think that’s the attraction for Erik. He loves money, that boy. But in a strangely pure way. Well, everything about him is strangely pure.’ She seemed to have forgotten to use the past tense.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Oh, the body being a temple and all that sort of thing. I’ve never known such a clean man in all my life. I used to tease him about it sometimes – said he was going to turn into Howard Hughes. He didn’t know who Howard Hughes was – that’s another problem with the age difference. No shared references.’

  ‘Erik was obsessive? OCD?’

  ‘No, I was just joking. There was nothing wrong with him. No more than any of us, anyway. He came from a broken home …?’ She looked to see if Swilley knew that.

  ‘We knew both his parents had remarried and he didn’t see them,’ she said.

  Myrna Abrams nodded. ‘Poor kid. His parents hated each other, always rowing, and he was the only child so he didn’t even have a sibling to huddle with.
Breaks my heart to think how lonely he must have been. Then as soon as he was eighteen they got divorced – it was as if they’d just been waiting for his majority. And neither of them wanted him. He was thrown out into the big cold world, all alone. Had to fend for himself, and it was a struggle at first. Well, it’s no wonder he’s driven. He’s found something he can do and make money at, and he’s determined never to be poor again, or to have to depend on anyone else ever again. I get it, I absolutely get it. That’s why I say his love of money is pure, in a funny sort of way. There’s nothing dirty about money, for him.’

  ‘Or about the ways of getting it?’ Swilley suggested.

  She shrugged. ‘He didn’t think so. I’m sure it didn’t bother him, as long as it paid. But nobody got hurt, you know. It was all consensual.’

  ‘Did you pay him for sex?’

  ‘Oh, is that where you’re heading? Well, why shouldn’t I? It’s a service, just as much as a massage. You get naked, someone gives you pleasure. What’s wrong with that? If he didn’t feel it was dirty, why should I?’

  ‘You gave him money?’ Swilley wanted it said plainly.

  ‘I just added a bit to the basic fee. And when I told him we wouldn’t be doing it any more, I gave him a present as well, to sweeten it.’

  ‘What did you give him?’

  ‘A very nice watch. I’d bought it for Gerald’s birthday.’ She raised an eyebrow at Swilley. ‘Gerald didn’t know about it, and I bought him another one. I just happened to have it in the house, is all. It was a Patek Philippe. I expect Erik sold it for cash as soon as he was out of the door, but that was his business. That boy loved cash.’

  Swilley remembered the talk about the watch caddy on the bedside cabinet. ‘I don’t think he did sell it,’ she said. ‘Did you ever go to his place?’