They checked the call log of Steenkamp’s mobile. There were a number of calls in and out during the day up until around eight forty-five. ‘I’ll have to check ’em all, but I can see Lingoss’s number’s not there,’ Hart said.
‘Probably normal traffic,’ said Atherton. ‘She did have a life.’
‘Then there’s two missed incoming calls between eight fifty-nine and nine fifteen.’ Hart looked up. ‘Missed calls could mean the phone was switched off.’
‘She said she turned it off when she was working,’ said Slider.
‘Right boss. Then there’s the outgoing call we know about, at nine twenty-five to Lingoss’s mobile.’ She went on down. ‘And one more outgoing, at ten oh five. That’s after the Mazda leaves Russell Close. Don’t recognize this number.’
‘Find out who it’s registered to,’ Slider said. ‘It must have been important, if she had to make the call right then.’
‘It would have to be someone who was involved, wouldn’t it?’ Gascoyne said. ‘Because all her friends and close contacts would know she was always out of touch during the working hours. If she’d phoned one of them, they’d want to know why.’
‘Good point,’ said Slider. ‘But if someone else was involved, we’re into a whole different game – and one I don’t like at all.’
‘Jack Gallo,’ said LaSalle stubbornly.
‘I notice that you’ve started calling her Steenkamp instead of Gilda Steenkamp,’ said Atherton. ‘So she’s just a suspect now, not the famous author.’
Slider looked up from shuffling papers together on his desk. ‘Your point being?’
‘It’s taking me a bit longer to process it. I suppose because I’ve read her books. It’ll be a tragedy if the author of Bitter Mountain and Blood River goes to jail – she is a genius.’
‘I expect Erik Lingoss would think it was a tragedy to get killed,’ said Slider.
‘Right. But do you really think she could have done it?’
‘I don’t think anything. I’m just assembling evidence.’ He gave Atherton a curious look. ‘It was you who said there was a lot of violence in her books. You called her a cool one.’
‘I’m just thinking of the loss to literature.’
‘You’re not.’
‘Wouldn’t you sooner it was a man? Jack Gallo, for instance.’
‘Go home,’ Slider instructed. ‘You’re getting sentimental.’
Atherton drew himself up. ‘There’s no need to be insulting,’ he said.
Joanna looked more tired than she had on Saturday.
‘I thought you’d have been all rested and relaxed,’ Slider said, kissing her, and stooping to stroke Jumper, who was headbutting his legs. ‘Staying at home with nothing to do all day.’
‘Nothing to do?’ she said derisively. ‘You plainly haven’t noticed the pristine state of the house. Carpets don’t hoover themselves, y’know. Kitchen floors aren’t self-washing. And staying at home is also popularly known as “cooped up”.’
‘Kitchen floors do not a prison make, nor ironing a cage,’ Slider offered.
She scowled melodramatically. ‘Men have been slapped for saying less than that.’
‘You don’t need to scrub and slave for my benefit. I’m not made of sugar – I can stand a bit of dirt and disorder.’
‘I needed to keep busy. Doing nothing leaves too much time to think.’
‘You’re missing work?’
‘Actually, not, just at the moment. But doing nothing makes you realize how many bits are hurting.’
‘Anything I should know about?’
‘Settle down. Nothing like that. Just general strain on the bod. I’m fine, really. How’s the case coming along?’
He told her the day’s developments while she made him a gin and tonic.
‘Well, that’s pretty conclusive, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘A good lawyer would pull it to pieces,’ he said, ‘and she’s got a good lawyer.’
‘I should hope so, with her millions.’
‘Michael Friedman, brief to the stars, according to Atherton.’
‘I know that name,’ she said. ‘He’s been in the news a couple of times. Didn’t he get that TV presenter off – the one with the silly name?’
‘Foxy Fairbairn?’
‘So you do know.’
‘Atherton told me. He reads the papers. Anyway, Friedman would say that her mobile travelling through those zones means nothing, that she could have been going anywhere. We’ve got to get visual evidence of the car, pin it down to actual roads, if possible. And that’s a laborious business.’
‘Gilda Steenkamp,’ she marvelled. ‘Best-selling author. You really think she did it?’
‘The evidence seems to be heading that way,’ he said.
‘That’s not what I asked. I know you – you won’t want it to be her. You have a soft spot for women.’
‘I have a soft spot for one woman,’ he said, putting a hand on her neck, which he liked to nuzzle in more relaxed moments.
She ignored it for the moment, pursuing her thoughts. ‘What would make a woman in such a public spotlight do something like that?’
‘Couldn’t be money. Emotion of some sort, I suppose.’
‘Jealousy? Because he was sleeping with other women?’
‘Possibly. Who knows what goes on between lovers, except the lovers themselves? Passion is at the bottom of so many violent acts.’
‘And enjoyable acts, too,’ she said, turning her face to kiss his stroking hand.
He eyed her hopefully. ‘Are you having a hormone surge?’
‘I wish.’ She gestured to her embonpoint. ‘NB my uncooperative shape.’
‘Here’s something interesting, boss,’ Swilley said, coming in with the bank print-out.
Banks were usually the slowest to provide information, but Porson had called in a favour from a very senior director whose son had got into trouble a year ago; heads had been banged together and stops had been pulled out.
‘Most of this activity looks routine – I haven’t had time to examine it all in detail, but she was in the habit of drawing out quite large sums of cash, which is slightly unusual these days. I’m guessing some of it found its way into Lingoss’s pocket. And, here’s the interesting bit – there’s a withdrawal on Tuesday night from a cashpoint in Ken High Street at nine twenty-three.’
‘That’s just before she makes the phone call to Lingoss.’
‘Right, boss. And we know there was a brief stop on the way. She must have a premier account, because the amount she draws out is seven hundred pounds.’ She looked at him hard to make sure he got the point.
‘The same amount as was under his pillow,’ Slider said obediently.
‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s not proof it’s the same money. But, boss, who takes out seven hundred? It’s such a specific amount. People usually take out two, two-fifty, three. Five, even. But seven—’
‘That’s a good point. It is unusual. And it certainly strengthens our case.’
Hart was the next in. ‘That phone call she made after the murder at ten oh five – the number she called is a mobile belonging to someone called Leon Greyling, with an address in Adam and Eve Mews. Which is in our zone two, where Lingoss’s phone ended up.’
‘Leon Greyling?’
‘Yeah, boss, I’ve not come across him either. He’s not in her phone contacts, and as far back as I’ve gone, she’s never phoned him before. Or, not on the mobile. I haven’t got house phone records yet. And he’s not in Lingoss’s contacts either – I checked just in case.’
‘Interesting. Better see what you can find out about him.’
‘Maybe she was lining up another trainer, now she’d offed the one she’d got,’ said Hart, and was not entirely joking.
‘You might as well find out if anyone else knows him – Gallo or anyone at any of the gyms. Everyone in this case seems to be connected in some way.’
‘Will do. It’s weird, though, innit
? Can’t just be a random call, not when Lingoss is still warm.’
He went to see Porson. ‘I need every man I can get to trace the car from Russell Close to – wherever it went in between – and back to Campden Hill Gardens. It’s easier, obviously, to verify a suspected route than discover one starting from nothing, but even so, there are a lot of cameras – shops, traffic, Transport for London. It’s labour intensive.’
In a rare reaction, Porson beamed, from ear to ear and for some distance beyond on either side. ‘That’s what I want to hear,’ he said. ‘Work to be done, lots and lots of it. Can’t possibly spare anyone from the department.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘On the subject of which, I had a bell from Mr Carpenter. Apparently he’s had his elbow jolted by Michael Friedman, the solicitor to the stars.’
‘That was quick,’ Slider commented. ‘But not unexpected.’
Porson rolled his eyes slightly. ‘Apparently he was kicking up a pavlova about “my client this” and “my client that”. Professional ear-bending. I told Mr Carpenter we’re putting everything we’ve got into it. Nose to the grindstone, eckcetera.’
‘Celebrity is a two-edged sword, sir,’ said Slider. Steenkamp’s fame meant that they could keep their warm bodies, but it also meant Head Office would be watching, so they couldn’t make any mistakes.
‘Right,’ said Porson. ‘So you’d better get me a result.’
Hart came in, flopped into the visitor’s chair, interlaced her fingers and stretched them backwards until they cracked. Interesting dumb-show, Slider thought, designed to show him how hard she’d been working. Probably wasn’t even aware she was doing it.
‘Leon Greyling,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Age twenty-five. Criminal record: busted twice for possession of cocaine. First time, four years ago, let off with a warning. Second time, May last year, caught in the act of snorting up in the gents’ loo at the motor show and got six weeks’ suspended.’
‘Motor show?’ Slider queried. ‘What was he doing there?’
Hart shrugged. ‘Everybody’s got to be somewhere.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘No, actually, he was doing demo work, apparently.’
‘I thought they usually draped female models across the bonnet of the new Ferrari.’
‘That was the bad old days. Equal opportunities now, innit. Anyway’ – she consulted her notes – ‘born in Hertfordshire. Private school. His dad’s a solicitor and lives in a house called The Old Rectory, so he must be rich. Studied at the London School of Dance and Drama. Done some modelling and demo work, as noted. And three months in the chorus line of a chorus line.’
‘Come again?’
‘The musical called A Chorus Line. It was on at the Palladium. And he was in one episode of Lockhart – you know, that telly series about the dodgy antiques dealer.’
‘I remember. Lovable rogue syndrome. Was it a big part?’
‘No, walk-on. Anyway, apart from that, I can’t find that he’s ever done anything, dance-and-drama-wise so I don’t know what he’s living on. Maybe his folks stake him. Or he’s a waiter or a barman. He’s got a LinkedIn, touting for business, says he can act, sing, dance – tap, modern and ballet – and play piano and clarinet. And I’ve found some photos. He looks the goods, all right.’
She passed one over – a willowy youth, fair, with crinkly hair and large pale eyes, posing in the close-fitting vest and tights combination that trapeze artists call skins. He seemed to be wearing make-up – at least, it didn’t seem natural for someone so fair to have such dark eyelashes – and the pouty, stunned-fish expression that was the required look for models.
A second picture Hart passed him was a straightforward actor’s black-and-white, in dinner jacket and black tie, three-quarter face and smiling urbanely: the sort of picture you see on the walls in theatre corridors.
Slider handed them back. ‘But what’s his connection to Gilda Steenkamp?’
Hart spread her hands. ‘That’s the really interesting bit. I can’t find any.’
‘You call that interesting?’
‘Interesting, but stupid,’ she modified. ‘OK, she rung him that night, but maybe it was a wrong number. We could check if she’s got a contact with a similar number. Or maybe …’
‘Yes?’
‘Maybe he was on the game, sidelining while he “rested”, and she saw his advert somewhere.’ She read his expression and added, ‘Well, she’d got a taste for it by then.’
‘On the way home from murdering her lover? Isn’t that a bit cold and ruthless, even for an author?’
‘The female of the species is deadlier than the male,’ Hart reminded him.
Slider looked pained. Not that old chestnut again. ‘Do you like Kipling, Sergeant Hart?’ he asked discouragingly.
‘Dunno, boss. I’ve never kippled,’ she said.
When you were to search a suspect’s home, it was important to move fast, before they had a chance to clean up – although clumsy attempts at cleaning could be useful in pointing, screamingly, at the things you should be looking at. But Slider couldn’t imagine Gilda Steenkamp doing anything clumsy. In her case, the fear was that she would get rid of some piece of evidence entirely. Of course, she would have to do it without her husband’s knowing – unless, intriguing extra possibility, he was in on it. Not the original murder, obviously, but by now he must know that she was under suspicion, and it would not be the first time a husband, even a deceived husband, had rallied to the defence of a guilty wife. My woman, right or wrong. Mine. Or old-fashioned, damson-in-distress chivalry. Brian Seagram looked the sort to suffer from that.
At all events, the warrant was hurried through, and the team went in just before six in the evening. Slider went to the flat to see the work begun, and to field any questions from Steenkamp or Seagram. He was met at the door by Michael Friedman, who had a look of combined satisfaction and anticipation, like a lion resting beside a half-eaten wildebeest. He almost licked his lips as he said, ‘You have made a very grave error. My client is entirely incapable of the sort of actions you are imputing to her. I’ve reviewed your evidence, and it is pitifully circumstantial. You have no direct evidence against her, none at all.’
Slider merely nodded politely. ‘I shall have to ask you to stay out of the way. Please do exactly as Detective Constable Swilley asks you.’
‘I shall wait with my client,’ Friedman began, but was bustled out of the way by Seagram, who came, red-faced, to protest in less measured tones.
‘This is an outrage! An outrage, I tell you! My wife is an internationally acclaimed writer! She cannot and must not be harassed and troubled in this way. Your ridiculous and unfounded suspicions are affecting her creativity! She is in the middle of a book – millions of readers worldwide are waiting for it! And you have absolutely no right to subject her to this sort of thing. I’ve told you she was at home with me all evening on the night in question. Do you think I’m lying?’ He said it indignantly, as though such a possibility was literally beyond question.
Slider said gently, ‘No, sir. But you admitted yourself that you did not actually see her at all after nine p.m.’
Seagram opened his mouth, shut it abruptly, opened it again, and could find nothing to say. Was it possible, Slider wondered, that Mr Doubt had finally paid a long-promised visit? Out of the corner of his eye, Slider saw Friedman about to intervene, but at that moment, Swilley, who was to co-ordinate the search, came in for a word and he was able to turn aside.
‘There’s been a clean-up,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Fresh Hoover tracks everywhere. And no dust.’
Slider turned to Seagram. ‘Do you have a cleaner, Mr Seagram?’
‘Yes. She comes in once a week. She came this morning, as a matter of fact,’ said Seagram.
It was a nuisance. But blood leaves a hidden presence even after it’s been washed away, and forensic tests could find the least traces, on clothes, on carpets and upholst
ery – even in the waste pipe of the sink.
Having seen that the occupants of the house – Steenkamp, Seagram and Friedman – were safely corralled in the drawing room, under the watchful but soothing gaze of PC D’Arblay, Slider prepared to leave. Seagram was still steaming and muttering, but Steenkamp, Slider noted, had shut down. Her face was stony and closed and she sat rigidly upright, staring at nothing. It seemed a good moment to jolt her out of it.
‘Ms Steenkamp, what exactly was your relationship with Leon Greyling?’
Both Friedman and Seagram looked at him sharply, but Steenkamp’s expression didn’t change, and she looked up only slowly, and didn’t seem about to answer. ‘Leon Greyling,’ he prompted her firmly.
‘I don’t know that name,’ she said faintly. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘Really? Yet you rang him on Tuesday evening, on your way back from Erik Lingoss’s flat. It must have been something important, to ring him at such a time.’
She stared at him so miserably, he almost felt sorry. ‘I’ve told you, I was here all evening.’ Tears began to gather in her eyes, but she looked more exhausted than grief-stricken. ‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’
‘Inspector,’ Friedman said warningly, and then, to Steenkamp, ‘you don’t need to answer. You are not under arrest.’
Slider ignored him. ‘Just to be clear, you say that you don’t know the man Leon Greyling, who you called from your phone last Tuesday evening?’
Seagram jumped up. ‘She said she doesn’t know him! I won’t have her badgered! This whole business is a farce, and I shall have something to say to the commissioner about your behaviour.’
In America they said, ‘I’ll have your badge.’ It was fewer words, but it meant the same.
FIFTEEN
Breakfast, with Stiffer Knees
‘Mysteries,’ said Atherton. ‘Why did she take out seven hundred pounds on her way to kill Lingoss?’ He sat on Slider’s windowsill, blocking out the light – not that there was much, this being both November and overcast. And Shepherd’s Bush, despite its sylvan name, tended towards the dark and dreary end of the Arcadian spectrum.
Hart had done the breakfast run to Mike’s stall on her way in, but Slider was a slow eater, and was still finishing the last of his sausage sandwich. He was aware that Atherton was watching him with fascinated horror. Atherton was not above a bacon sandwich, in the way that the sea is not above the sky, but a sausage sandwich, on white, with tomato sauce, broke several of his taboos.
Cruel as the Grave Page 19
