Cruel as the Grave

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘It’s a lot too expensive for a resting actor,’ Slider finished for her.

  ‘That’s what Jim said. Of course, he could be getting an allowance from his parents.’

  ‘You checked with them?’ He was surprised.

  ‘No, boss. I could do. I’d have to find them first. I suppose that’d be easy enough, given his mum’s an old friend of his agent’s. She could give us the name and address. But what I did do was have a look at the property. Greyling’s on the electoral register as the sole occupant—’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Slider. ‘The last thing we need is for a spouse or housemate to clog up the works.’

  ‘Right, boss. He’s the sole occupant, but he doesn’t own the place. Maybe he pays rent, we can’t tell without looking at his bank records, but I looked it up on the land registry, and the owner is Brian Seagram.’

  Slider almost put his hands over his face. ‘Oh, thank God,’ he said.

  Swilley gave him a curious look. ‘I don’t know why you suspected him. But there’s the connection between them, loud and clear.’

  ‘When did he actually buy the property?’ Slider asked.

  ‘July last year. Sixteen months ago. And three weeks after the date of the TV filming at his shop – that could be significant. I don’t know where Greyling lived before that – I’ve tried cross-checking his name with the land register, but as you’d expect he wasn’t a property owner. If he was renting, it’ll be hard to find out where – I’d have to try the electoral roll, or the last census. Anyway, you have to ask, why did Seagram want the house at all? If you buy a property as an investment, you either sell it again, or you rent it out. Even if he put Greyling in as a caretaker, to stop it being vandalized, there’s still no return on his capital – if we’re assuming Greyling couldn’t pay a commercial rent.’

  Slider nodded. ‘Let’s assume that. So you’re thinking there was a more personal relationship?’

  ‘Maybe Greyling was the son he never had.’ It was plain she meant it ironically. ‘On the other hand, Jim did say Greyling was as gay as a row of tents.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. But even if it’s true, it poses as many questions as it answers,’ said Slider. For one thing, as he didn’t need to say, there was no suggestion Seagram was gay.

  ‘I know, boss. It gives us a connection between Seagram and Greyling, all right, but it’s still a fact that Steenkamp had never rung Greyling before that night, and she said she didn’t know him. If he was her husband’s tenant or even caretaker, surely his name would have come up somewhere, some time? And if he’d kept him secret from her for some reason, why would she suddenly phone him?’

  ‘All good questions,’ said Slider.

  ‘Of course, if Steenkamp and Seagram were in it together, and Greyling was just his tenant, she might know about him but never have had reason to ring him. Before that night. And then she’d deny she knew him because he was involved in the plot – somehow. But how?’ Her tone betrayed her frustration with the half-ideas. ‘If it weren’t for that phone call, we’d never even be looking at Greyling, and he may be nothing to do with it anyway. I hate that phone call!’

  ‘All we can do is keep pushing on, find things out, ask the questions. And keep in mind the end we’re working towards, to find out who killed Lingoss.’

  ‘I hate Lingoss, too,’ Swilley said irritably. ‘He was a slimeball. Why have men always got to be so disgusting? Makes you wonder why you even bother.’

  ‘Let’s never forget he was the victim here. It’s not just an intellectual puzzle.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ It was dutiful rather than convinced.

  ‘For now, try and find out where Greyling lived before Adam and Eve Mews. You might be able to find friends of his online and pick their brains. And – Atherton! In here.’

  Atherton had been passing the door, and looked in enquiringly.

  ‘The other thing that’s been sticking in my mind is Seagram’s car. Have a look into it. Why was it out of commission, just so conveniently at the time of the murder?’

  ‘Conveniently? How was that convenient?’

  Slider gave an impatient sigh. ‘I’m feeling my way here. I don’t know why I’m asking the questions I’m asking, you’ll just have to go with me. Bentleys hardly ever go wrong, but here’s this one out of order on Saturday, and still out of order on Tuesday. Where there’s an anomaly, you have to look at it.’

  Swilley said, ‘Have you got an idea which way you’re going with this, boss? I’m just asking.’

  ‘I’ve got my eyes shut, flying blind, using the Force,’ he said. ‘Try to keep up.’

  ‘There is no try, only do,’ said Atherton.

  ‘Go!’ he told them. ‘Find things out!’

  If you were a very rich Londoner and wanted a very rich sort of car, you probably never thought further than P.F. Barclay, the old-established firm that had started with Rolls-Royces and Bentleys and gone on in modern times to Bugattis, Ferraris, Maseratis, and anything else that turned heads as it roared its way through London’s more expensive boroughs. There was a prestigious showroom in Mayfair – where else? – but the headquarters were in South Kensington, just round the corner from the main service department.

  When you deal with mega-rich people, discretion has to be a prime characteristic, and the service manager, Poole, was reluctant to admit anything, even after Atherton had shown his brief. He barely even acknowledged there was any such person as Brian Seagram. Atherton had to quote address, telephone number, model and registration index and get just a little impatient before Poole would allow him to penetrate the workshop and speak to the mechanic.

  The mechanic, Haslett, by contrast, was chatty and forthcoming, a youngish enthusiast with wiry fair hair, healthy outdoor complexion and frank blue eyes. In a previous age, Atherton could have imagined him as the cheery young groom who looked after his lordship’s favourite hack. ‘Oh, the Bentley,’ he said. ‘Yes, that was a bit of a mystery.’ He was wearing blue overalls, but they were pristine, and he didn’t even need to wipe his hands on a grubby rag before conducting Atherton into his glass cubby. Tightening things with a spanner and, as a last resort, giving them a clout with the heavy end, no longer featured much in car repairs.

  ‘He rung me late on the Friday,’ said Haslett. ‘Said he got an intermittent fault, an error message on the display screen, and could he bring it in. Well, everything’s supposed to go through Mr Poole, but he said he was sure it was nothing and he wanted the motor for something special on the Saturday, so I said pop it round and I’d have a look. Well, of course, once he’d got it here, the fault never showed up.’

  ‘Isn’t it always the way?’ Atherton said sympathetically.

  ‘Yeah, intermittent faults are a bugger. So I said what did he want to do, and he said, better check it in and get it seen to.’

  ‘Was it something that could affect the performance of the car?’

  ‘Not from what he said,’ said Haslett. ‘And she was running lovely when I tried her. But of course, it’s all electronics these days, and to get her on the diagnostic computer I’d have to have her at least for the Saturday. And I said, as he’d got something special on, like he told me, would he prefer to keep her over the weekend and I’d have her picked up on Monday. He said, no, he’d leave her with me, I could get her booked in, and keep her for as long as it takes.’

  ‘That’s what he said?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’ Haslett nodded.

  ‘So he thought it was going to be a long job?’

  Haslett shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t have been. These Bentleys are lovely bits of kit, they never go wrong, an electrical glitch like that should’ve showed up on the computer right away. Anyway, I said I’d check her in for him, but he’d have to speak to Mr Poole about a replacement motor.’ Haslett gave Atherton a look. ‘And he says don’t bother, he’ll manage without.’

  ‘But he’d said he had something special on.’

  ‘Well,
that’s what I said. But he said it was only in London and he’d manage all right. I couldn’t see him using public transport, but I suppose he could’ve got a taxi. Anyway, the long and the short of it is, he left his motor with us and he didn’t want a replacement.’

  ‘And did you find the fault?’

  ‘No, I never did. I got her on the computer the Saturday and ran everything, but nothing showed up. And I took her out a couple of times and never saw this fault he’d mentioned. So Monday morning I rung him up and said there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her, and would he like her back. I said maybe it was just one of those gremlins and it’d never happen again. But he said no, I must keep it and find out what the fault was. And he still didn’t want a replacement. Well, I run her through the computer again, and took her out I don’t know how many times, but I couldn’t find a thing wrong. I talked to Mr Poole about it, and he said to his mind Mr Seagram had imagined it, but we had to do what the customer wanted.’

  ‘Yours not to reason why?’ Atherton suggested in a friendly way.

  Haslett warmed. ‘Yes, sir, and to be fair, we charge them plenty for our time, so if that’s what they want …’ He shrugged. ‘We’re not losing by it. Though it’s frustrating when you could be doing other things.’

  ‘And you never saw this error message?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Then, the Wednesday morning, Mr Seagram rings me and says how’s the motor, and I say I can’t find anything wrong with it, and he says in that case he might as well have it back. So I dropped it back to him that morning – or Phil did, my lad. And that was the end of that. He never come back to say the fault had showed up again, so it must’ve cleared itself, or maybe Mr Poole was right, and he’d imagined it.’ He gave a straight look that said rich people were different from normal folk, but there was no real harm in them. You just had to get on with it.

  ‘It’s quite a new car, isn’t it?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s the 2018 Flying Spur, the all-new model they unveiled at the motor show last year. Mr Seagram saw it there and fancied it, put his order in right away, and we got it for him the beginning of June. He had a Continental before that – we did a part exchange. He likes Bentleys – says they’re comfortable.’ He smiled. ‘His wife’s got a little Mazda, and he says he can’t stand it, nearly cripples him any time he has to get in it. Course, he’s not a Mazda sort of person, Mr Seagram. Bentley’s much more his style.’

  ‘And if you remember,’ Atherton said, perched on Slider’s windowsill, ‘the motor show in May last year was where Greyling was working as a demonstrator when he got busted for snorting charlie. So we know he was there, and now we know Seagram was there, so although it’s not proof, they could have met there. And he bought the mews house two months later.’

  ‘Reasons why Greyling recommended the antique shop for the TV episode,’ said Swilley, leaning on the door jamb. ‘Not just because he’d seen it opposite when he came out of the gym, but to do a favour for his … what? Friend?’

  ‘Benefactor. Patron,’ Slider suggested.

  ‘Sugar daddy,’ Atherton countered. He intercepted their looks. ‘What? You think that house is the sort of gift you give a random chap who’s a decent sort and happens to need a place to sleep?’

  ‘He didn’t give it to him,’ Swilley said fairly.

  Slider said, ‘There’s another thing to ponder – how does Seagram afford new model Bentleys and mews houses in Kensington? Does the antique business bring that much in? Or is he independently wealthy? Norma, you’re our financial guru. Can you find out?’

  ‘I can certainly look at the business accounts,’ she said, and heaved herself upright. ‘He bought her diamond earrings for their anniversary, too,’ she remembered.

  ‘She’s rich enough to buy her own diamonds,’ Atherton said. ‘Must be. He doesn’t actually need a flourishing antiques business – he could live off her.’

  ‘I hope he’s rich in his own right,’ Swilley said. ‘It’d be a bummer if he bought her earrings with her own money.’ She left.

  Atherton got up too. ‘Norma says you didn’t pick up on Greyling being gay.’

  ‘I saw what you saw, but I think you should be cautious about jumping to conclusions. Many actors are camp, without being gay.’

  ‘True, oh king, but one’s gaydar is calibrated to allow for that.’

  Slider stared at the wall. ‘I wonder …’

  ‘What?’ Atherton asked. But Slider didn’t answer, so he left him alone.

  Slider went alone to Gillespie’s, driving slowly, grinding his thoughts. Deedee Donnelly, the manager, greeted him kindly, and sent him to the GLicious cafeteria, saying she’d find Ivanka and send her up to him.

  He went past the gym with its brain-bleed music, felt the thump coming up through his soles, looked in at the people running on treadmills, their faces blankly serene, and had a sudden strange urge to be one of them. It seemed a blessed thing to pound away, the mind empty, remote, untouchable. To run and run, your feet flashing away down there in a relentless rhythm, your heart thumping steadily in your chest, your lungs sucking air in and out, the hypnotism of the ever-reeling road taking you far, far away from your worries and responsibilities and fears and failures.

  Except that if you looked down, you would see those worries and responsibilities and fears and failures racing alongside, keeping pace effortlessly; like a pack of zombie dogs, tongues lolling, eyes bright with the knowledge that you would eventually tire and slow, but they never would; that when you finally stopped …

  He shook himself and went up to the cafeteria. Shortly afterwards, Ivanka came in, in a pale lilac leotard and leggings, a towel round her neck, her horsetail of pale bright hair swinging as she moved, her skin sleek and shiny with decent honest exercise. She sat down opposite him and looked at him expectantly; and did not speak when he failed to say anything. It was a rare person who could walk into a silence and leave it intact.

  At last he said, ‘I need to know something about Erik. You were his best friend, I think. He probably told you things he wouldn’t tell other people.’

  Her lovely eyes did not waver. ‘Maybe,’ she admitted, waiting for the question.

  ‘Among his private clients, the ones he did extra services for, was there a special one?’

  ‘How you mean, special?’ The eyes were watchful.

  He shook his head, feeling for the words. ‘You said it was all about the money – he wanted lots of money for when he couldn’t do the work any more.’

  ‘Money, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Rich clients. But he enjoyed his work, too.’ She was helping him.

  ‘Perhaps sometimes it was more than just enjoyment? Did he ever speak to you of being emotionally involved with a client?’

  She tilted her head very slightly. ‘That what you mean by “special”? You mean – lo-o-ove.’ She elongated the word mockingly. He nodded. ‘Those like Erik and me, we cannot afford lo-o-ove. We are workers. Clients don’t see us as people. We give service, they pay, we say bye-bye.’ She waved her fingers as one does to a baby.

  ‘But sometimes,’ Slider prompted.

  ‘Sometimes?’ And she sighed. ‘When you get very close, one body to another, touching, looking, week after week – it can seem like love. Then there can be trouble. They want more than you can give. Then they get angry. You pretend for a bit, because they pay, but that makes it worse when they find out.’

  ‘Did Erik tell you about some trouble of that sort that he’d had?’

  ‘Never tell me. But I think – maybe. Last time I see him before – you know.’

  ‘Three weeks before his death.’

  She nodded. ‘We meet, have a drink, go back to his flat. He very quiet – not talk much. I think he has something on mind.’

  ‘Was he unhappy? Worried? Afraid?’

  ‘Not sad quiet. Thinking quiet. When we have sex, he not watching in mirror like usual. He smiling. But not at me.’

  ‘His mind was elsewhere?’

>   ‘Elsewhere.’ She seemed to savour the word. ‘He thinking about sex, but not sex with Ivanka. So I wonder to myself, Erik, you big fool, you falling for someone? Is dangerous. Those like you and me, we can’t afford to fall in love.’

  ‘You wondered – but did you ask him?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not my business.’

  ‘Did he mention a name – speak about anyone in particular?’ Shake of the head. ‘Have you any idea who it might have been?’

  ‘Maybe nobody. Maybe nothing. Maybe I big idiot – imagine things.’

  ‘But you don’t think you imagined it.’

  She shrugged again. ‘Who can say. But if there was someone, it was rich person. You can believe that. Erik would never fall where there was no money. Maybe big fool – not big idiot.’ She made a getting-up, this-is-over sort of movement.

  He held up a hand to stop her. ‘Did Erik ever mention someone called Leon Greyling?’

  She thought a moment, then said certainly, ‘No.’

  ‘One more question – was he bisexual?’

  ‘No,’ she said without hesitation.

  ‘So he never had sex with a male client?’

  She made an impatient sound. ‘Erik not gay. But he do what client wants, for good money.’

  ‘So, let me get this clear – if a male client wanted to have sex with Erik, he would go along with it?’

  ‘Not have sex. But do many things. Like we say at home, ox or donkey, pulls the cart the same. Do you know who killed Erik?’

  The sudden question took him by surprise, but he answered evenly. ‘Not yet. But I’m getting closer.’

  And she nodded and said, ‘British Bulldog.’ He couldn’t tell if she meant it approvingly or scathingly.

  When he got back to the station, McLaren was waiting for him with an air of suppressed excitement.

  ‘You’ve found who was driving the car?’ Slider guessed. ‘A different camera you hadn’t looked at before?’

  ‘No, guv, I told you, I’d already looked for that. I always do – it’s SOP.’

  ‘Then …?’

  ‘You know cash machines mostly have cameras in them?’