Cruel as the Grave

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘And where was Mr Seagram all this time?’

  ‘He was in the back office most of the time. He wanted to make sure nothing got damaged. And the producer asked him to stay on hand in case they needed to consult about anything. Of course, they’d got their own experts, but they used some of our furniture for the set – paid Mr Seagram rental for it too. There was one particular table – a lovely marquetry console – and in the story one of the characters was trying to buy it.’

  ‘Do you remember one of the actors, man called Leon Greyling?’

  She shook her head quite naturally. ‘No, that name doesn’t mean anything to me. But like I said, I only saw them going in and out.’ He produced the picture of Greyling, and she looked at it, but slowly shook her head. ‘I don’t recognize him. He wasn’t one of the stars, anyway. But there were a lot of other people there, crew and extras and so on. I didn’t really notice them all.’

  Poor Greyling, so forgettable, Atherton thought. ‘Did Erik ever mention Leon Greyling to you?’

  ‘No, not that I remember.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Are you saying Erik knew him? What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘Probably nothing,’ Atherton said soothingly. ‘We have to follow up every possible connection. Did Mrs Steenkamp come down to the shop while the filming was going on?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not that I knew of, anyway. Unless she came in the back way to see Mr Seagram. But he never mentioned to me that she did – though of course there’s no reason he should.’

  ‘There’s a back way?’

  She gestured behind her. ‘There’s a door from the back office into the yard, where the dustbins are. But if she did come to have a look, she’d be more likely to come in the front way and demand a guided tour. She’s quite famous you know. And she knows her way around – she visited the set of both her books that were made into TV. I bet the producer would have known who she was and bent over backwards for her. People always do, somehow.’

  Atherton was silent a moment, thinking again of the difference between the bright sun of Steenkamp’s international celebrity and Erik Lingoss’s little local gleam, more warmth than light. But creatures who got too close to flames often got burnt. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of blackmail. It was, after all, the thing that could most easily be imagined bridging that gap between the nobody and the somebody. But if Lingoss and Greyling had blackmailed her together, why had she killed Erik and not Leon?

  Lucy was looking at him curiously. ‘You haven’t found out who killed Erik, then? Do you think this Greyling person had something to do with it?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ he said. ‘We’re working very hard, I promise you.’ She nodded, and blinked away the momentary brightness of her eyes. ‘You still care for him?’

  ‘I knew him a long time,’ she said, by way of answer.

  ‘When he broke up with you, and he said he was seeing someone else – you had no idea who it was?’ She shook her head. ‘You still have no idea? Do you think your brother knew who it was?’

  ‘No. Why would he?’

  ‘Erik might have told him. They were friends. And Jack was very angry about it.’

  ‘He was angry because I was upset. I’m sure Erik wouldn’t have told him. He’d never kiss and tell.’

  Men like Erik always kiss and tell, Atherton thought; that’s part of the thrill. But he didn’t say it. There was something about being surrounded by lovingly cared-for antiques that booted up the old-fashioned chivalry. Even in a hound like him.

  Slider got home in reasonable time for once, but no less tired for it. Feeling your way forward through a fog was exhausting. There was no adrenaline rush to it. He’d had a long talk with Mr Porson, who agreed with him that they couldn’t yet make a case the CPS would run with, and that arresting Gilda Steenkamp at this point would attract nothing but unwelcome publicity, which could go either way. The fickleness of fandom might turn against her, or might vilify the police for daring to suspect her.

  As Porson had put it, ‘She might end up a social piranha, or it might all resound on us.’ There was nothing to do but keep buggering on and hope, Micawber-like, that something turned up.

  He found his father pottering in the kitchen, and a savoury smell on the air. ‘Got hold of a bit of venison,’ Mr Slider said, his bright blue eyes considering his son thoughtfully. ‘Knocked up a bit of a stew for you.’ He still had difficulty calling stew ‘casserole’. ‘Reckoned you wouldn’t want to be cooking when you got back.’

  ‘Venison?’

  ‘Present. Old friend of mine from back home popped in for a visit.’ In Dad’s world, you didn’t pay a visit without taking something. You mustn’t leave the house poorer than before you arrived. ‘You remember, Doug Forrest? Doing a bit o’ culling on the estate where he works. Nice shoulder, he brought me. I’ve cut us off a bit, left it marinading, done the rest for you.’

  ‘It smells wonderful. Where’s Joanna?’

  ‘I made her go upstairs and lie down.’

  Slider felt a twist of his stomach. Back home, on the farm, Dad had always somehow known when a cow was going to calve, even though he wasn’t a cowman. He had a sixth sense about it. ‘She’s not …?’

  ‘No, no. Just tired. It’s too much for her, taking care of little George.’

  ‘She was looking forward to spending more time with him.’

  ‘Ah, but he’s a lively lad, and she’s carrying a lot around with her. Just getting up and down’s an effort. I’ve had him most of the afternoon, give her a break. Done some drawing together. He did one for you, I promised to give it you.’

  He handed it over. There was a house, of the sort children drew, a box with a triangular roof, four windows and a door. Next to it was a stick man in a top hat, and a thing that, best guess, he thought must be a giant mutant space-centipede about to eat all before it. A circle with sticks coming out all round was the sun shining relentlessly down on the unfolding disaster.

  ‘I suppose that’s our house,’ Slider said, ‘and that’s me.’ For some reason, George always drew him wearing a top hat. Slider didn’t know how he even knew what a top hat was. ‘But what’s this? Is it a story?’

  Mr Slider chuckled. ‘He’s a one, that lad. I was telling him about when you were a boy, and how in those days we didn’t have computers and Nintendos and all that sort of thing. So he says, “Were you poor people, Grandad, like Mary and Joseph?”’

  ‘Christmas again,’ said Slider. ‘Well, at least it wasn’t the Three Kings and the gifts.’

  ‘S’right. So I says to him, what does he think poor people had in their houses instead of central heating and dishwashers and such-like. And he has a long think, and he says, “a lion”. So I ask him, why would they have a lion, and he says, “cos they’d have room”.’

  Slider laughed. ‘Logical!’ He looked at the drawing again. ‘Is this supposed to be our old house, then?’

  ‘That’s our house on the farm, and that’s you as a lad.’

  ‘Complete with top hat. And the centipede?’

  ‘He wanted to draw the lion, but I couldn’t find a picture of one for him to copy, but I did find a cow.’

  Slider studied it. ‘It’s got eight legs.’

  ‘Four of them’s the udder. I had a lot of trouble explaining the udder. I said he could leave it out and let it be a boy cow, but he insisted.’

  ‘I hope the udder doesn’t come back to haunt us,’ Slider said, looking for a place to prop up the drawing. The artist would expect proper appreciation in the morning.

  ‘I didn’t go into a lot of detail,’ said Mr Slider. ‘But you got to face up to udders sooner or later.’

  Slider shuddered. ‘Especially with a new baby coming.’

  Mr Slider nodded. ‘Well, now you’re back, I’ll pop off back home. Get our supper started. Your … Lydia’ll be waiting.’

  ‘You almost said, “your mother”, didn’t you?’ said Slider.

  ‘Slip of the
tongue.’ Mr Slider examined him for a moment, and said, ‘I don’t interfere.’

  ‘I know you don’t. You could if you wanted. We wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘She’s very tired. It takes a lot out of a woman at her age.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say “at her age” when she can hear you.’

  Mr Slider wouldn’t be joked out of what he wanted to say. ‘Nature expects women to be mothers in their teens. Can’t be doing with that sort of thing now, of course. But – us men, we’ve got the easy part.’

  ‘I know,’ Slider said humbly.

  ‘She might say things to me she wouldn’t say to you,’ said Mr Slider. ‘Looking after a kiddie, let alone two – it’s harder work than playing the violin. I don’t think she’d want another one. You should think about having the snip.’

  ‘Da-ad!’ Slider protested, resisting the urge to cross his legs. This wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have with (a) your father or (b) anyone.

  Mr Slider remained steady. ‘A man ought to take responsibility. Contraception’s hard for women. All sorts of problems, it causes. And it’s not a hundred per cent. A man wouldn’t put all that worry onto the woman he loves. If you don’t want any more, you should be the one to do something about it. That’s all I’m saying.’

  And he gave a brisk nod, and left Slider to it.

  In the bedroom he found Joanna on the bed, under the counterpane, with Jumper curled up against her. They both gave him a squinty look.

  ‘I was just going to get up,’ Joanna said.

  ‘No hurry.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over the cat to kiss her. ‘Supper’s in the oven.’

  ‘Your dad’s a marvel. I thought I heard voices?’

  ‘Yes, he was still here. I think he was waiting to have a stern word with me.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Oh. I’m all right. Just tired.’

  He took hold of her hand. ‘I was thinking – maybe two is enough.’

  ‘I thought one was enough. This wasn’t planned, if you remember.’ She searched his face. ‘But I’m happy about it now. Honestly. I really do want it.’

  ‘I know. But no more after this?’

  ‘That’s what you said the last time,’ she grinned. ‘You don’t know your own strength, Bill Slider.’

  ‘Prize stud, that’s me,’ he said modestly. ‘But I shall take responsibility after this, so don’t you worry about it.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? It sounds alarming.’

  Before he could answer, a small figure appeared at the open bedroom door, a small plaintive voice said, ‘Daddy?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be asleep,’ Slider said, getting up.

  ‘Can I have a drink of water?’

  Joanna stirred. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘No, I’ll see to it,’ said Slider. He scooped his son up onto his hip, managing to scrape the pyjama pants into place in the same movement. ‘One drink of water coming up.’

  ‘Can I have a biscuit, too?’ asked George. ‘And a story?’

  ‘That’s blatant opportunism. You should have been a cat,’ said Slider.

  ‘If you could be a animal, Daddy, what animal would you be? I’d be a tyrannosaurus rex.’

  ‘Predictable choice. Why not a lion?’

  ‘A tyrannosaurus could fight a lion. Daddy, if King Kong fought a tyrannosaurus, which one would win?’

  Debating matters of cosmic import, Slider took his son back to bed.

  By the time he got back downstairs, Joanna had got the table laid, and the potatoes Dad had left peeled, quartered and covered in water in the pot were boiling.

  She directed him to the table. ‘I had the dinosaurs earlier. Could an elephant fight an allosaurus? Could a golden eagle fight a pterodactyl? Could a hairy mammoth fight a crocodile? I’m in need of adult conversation. Sit down and tell me about your day. Unless there are prehistoric animals in it, I’ll listen to anything.’

  He sat, and she brought him a glass of St Joseph. ‘I should be waiting on you,’ he protested.

  ‘It’s easier to stand than sit, and easier walking about than standing. Your day, please. Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end, then stop.’

  He was sharp enough after a day with Atherton to recognize a quotation. ‘Sartre?’

  ‘Alice in Wonderland. It’s so easy to get those two mixed up.’

  ‘Wasn’t it Sartre who said, “I am what I am”?’

  ‘No, that was Popeye the Sailor Man.’

  Slider sighed happily. ‘It’s lovely talking nonsense with you. Atherton was quoting E.M. Forster today.’

  ‘Then I gather you haven’t solved the case yet.’

  He told her about the day’s events. ‘Why did she ring Greyling?’ he concluded. ‘Why? If it was to say she was on her way, why did she visit him? If she didn’t visit him, where did she go?’

  Joanna pondered as she strained the potatoes. ‘Do you think he’s another lover? She’d had one toy boy, why not two?’ He shook his head – a ‘don’t know’ shake, not a negative. ‘It would make her a cold, predatory woman, wouldn’t it?’ He looked up. ‘Oh, not the having two lovers,’ she said impatiently. ‘Anyone can have two lovers—’

  ‘You’d better not.’

  ‘—but going to see number two when she’d just killed number one.’

  ‘That would be ruthless.’

  She got in amongst the potatoes with the masher, pretty ruthless herself. ‘But why did she kill number one?’

  ‘Why is often the least of it,’ Slider said, ‘though of course the jury likes to have a good, solid motive.’

  ‘And her alibi’s no good?’

  ‘It ought to be golden. It is a fact that she routinely works from nine to midnight and won’t allow anyone to disturb her in that time. But of course, that makes the time slot the perfect choice for someone bent on slipping out for a spot of murdering. And despite his loyal support of her, her husband can’t deny that he didn’t actually see her during that time.’

  ‘If he didn’t know she was there, she didn’t know he was there either.’ She was serving now. Green beans and broccoli, a mound of mash and a lake of Dad’s fragrant venison. ‘I can smell the juniper berries,’ Joanna said. ‘I’m always impressed your dad uses exotic flavourings, herbs and so on. I’d love to know where he learned to cook. Though I suppose juniper with venison’s fairly standard. Did he consult cookery books when you were young? After your mum died, I mean?’

  She turned with a plate in each hand, and saw the congested look on her husband’s face. ‘Either you’re awaiting a bowel movement, or you’ve had an idea,’ she suggested.

  ‘I think you may have just said something important,’ Slider said.

  ‘Everything I say is important. And juniper berries grow wild on English trees, don’t they, so they’re not terribly exotic.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Slider said, but wouldn’t go any further. And knowing that his mind worked best on the subconscious level, she placed the plates, sat down, and changed the subject.

  EIGHTEEN

  One Giant Creep for Mankind

  He went into his office in the morning by way of the CID room, and stopped at McLaren’s desk.

  ‘Can you go back over the Mazda camera shots, and see if you can see who’s actually driving it?’

  McLaren looked up from his Breakfast Burrito – the McDonald’s on the green had just started doing them, and McLaren had never met a chilli he didn’t like – and gave Slider a look that blended hurt pride with compassion. ‘I already did that, guv. I always check if you can see the driver, but you can’t. Can’t even see how many people’s in the motor.’

  LaSalle, lurking nearby, said, ‘You think someone else was driving her car? But it was her mobile as well.’

  Slider mentioned the important thing Joanna had said.

  ‘They were in it together, Steenkamp and her old man?’ said McLaren. ‘The alibi works both ways, for both of
them.’

  ‘If they were in it together, surely they’d have said they actually saw each other during that time,’ Hart said impatiently. ‘The way it is, it’s not an alibi for either of them.’

  ‘We’ve never considered before that Seagram even needed an alibi,’ said Swilley, looking keenly at Slider.

  Slider, thinking, had been looking at nothing. It was Hart’s eye he finally caught. ‘We need to find a connection between Seagram and Greyling.’

  ‘He could have met him during the filming at the shop,’ she said.

  ‘Could have’s not enough,’ he said. Then, restlessly: ‘There’s got to be some reason for that damn phone call.’

  ‘It’s a pity we can’t look at his mobile log,’ said Swilley.

  ‘We’d have to have reasonable grounds,’ he said.

  ‘But, boss, anyway, why Seagram? We’ve got no reason to suspect him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Slider admitted in frustration. ‘We’re getting nowhere with this case. And there he is, right in the middle. You could draw circles centred on his shop and cover all the other places.’

  ‘Steenkamp’s in the middle,’ Swilley corrected him in a motherly way, like Joanna telling George it wasn’t cargidan, it was car-di-gan. ‘She and Lingoss were lovers. Seagram only knew him by name. All the evidence is against her. We just need to find some connection between her and Greyling and we’re home.’

  Slider looked back stubbornly. ‘I’ve got a feeling,’ he said shortly. ‘Humour me.’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, well, if you’ve got a hunch … You should have said.’

  Now they think I’m irrational, he thought, going back to his office. But he was the boss, so they could damn well do as he said.

  And it was Swilley who came back to him first. Swilley was a good copper, and she trusted Slider. He’d never need to say ‘I told you so’ to Swilley. ‘Boss, when we got Greyling’s address from the mobile number, we didn’t check it any further. And now you’ve seen the place he lives—’