Body Line

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

‘It’s the astroturf of lettuce,’ Slider said. ‘All right, gripes satisfied. Did you get anything? I see you did. Sit down.’

  ‘Piece o’ cake,’ Connolly said modestly, sitting down opposite him. ‘I shared a flat with two nurses for six months so I can talk a good talk. And I’ve a friend who’s an agency nurse. I borrowed one of her dresses and just walked in.’

  ‘Into the Cloisterwood?’ Slider asked in alarm, remembering Porson’s final warning.

  ‘No, no, not there,’ Connolly said in a tone that implied the words ‘you eejit’ had been left out. ‘The Royal Orthopod. I’d a stuck out like a sore mickey in the private hospital. I wouldn’t know what agency they use, if they use one at all. But in an NHS hospital the trick is to find two nurses wearing the same thing. So anyway, seeing as I got there about lunchtime, I went up to the staff canteen and got talking to some o’ the nurses.’

  ‘No trouble getting them to open up?’

  ‘Are you kidding? They wore the ear offa me. The Cloisterwood is all they talk about. Mostly it’s the money – how much the patients pay and how much the staff are paid and why couldn’t they get a piece of it and the wickedness altogether of the private sector. And when I got on to kidneys! It was all, the queue-jumping, and the rich foreigners getting in ahead of our people. It’d make your head bleed. Nurses are the great levellers.’ She eyed the cold moussaka with which he was fiddling, despite the defensive crust it had grown. ‘Would you not leave that? It’d break your teeth. It’s like the horny plates on a Tasmanian devil.’

  Slider smiled. ‘A Tasmanian devil doesn’t have plates. It’s furry.’

  ‘So what’s that giant lizardy thing?’

  ‘Never mind,’ Slider said, and pushed the plate aside. ‘Look, no hands. Go on with your report.’

  ‘Well, after all the bitching it wasn’t hard to work them round to specifics, especially as I told them me anty was on a waiting list for a kidney. I had their hearts scalded with her sufferings! Anyway, kidney transplants at the Cloisterwood are done on a Thursday. They start at ten o’clock, and go on through the day, two operating theatres working at the same time, so they’ll do eight or sometimes ten altogether. The op takes about two hours if there’s no complications.’

  ‘Eight or ten. That sounds like a lot.’

  ‘I thought so. I wondered about it, eight kidneys a week for the one hospital? But all the nurses said was that rich private patients could always get what they wanted, it was the rest of us eejits that had to queue up and suffer. It was all part of the bitching. When I asked about me anty they said the NHS waiting list is two years minimum, and even then you’ve only a fifty-fifty chance of getting an organ. So you can see their point of view – especially when I asked what it’d cost to jump the queue, and they said these people’d be paying over a million for that one little bit of meat and a few tubes o’ gristle.’

  ‘And a chance of a normal life.’

  ‘Well, there is that, I suppose.’

  She stopped and looked at him intelligently, and he roused himself from mental arithmetic to say, ‘You did very well. And you’re sure no one suspected you?’

  ‘God, no. That lot of Miserable Margarets don’t mind who they complain to, as long as they can ride some ferocious crying-shame. By the way, I also found out that the Cloisterwood does corneas of a Friday, same system, non-stop, only it’s a quicker op so they only use the one theatre. But they get through about the same number.’

  ‘Corneas on a Friday,’ Slider said.

  ‘Makes you think,’ said Connolly.

  They walked downstairs together, and Slider found Atherton in his office.

  ‘You’re becoming very elusive,’ he complained.

  ‘I went to the canteen for lunch.’

  ‘Good luck with that. Did you get any?’

  ‘Not really.’ He waved at the windowsill. ‘Have a pew. I’ve things to tell you.’

  At the end of it Atherton wrinkled his nose and said, ‘I’ve heard of two lips from Amsterdam, but kidneys and corneas? Wouldn’t they go off?’

  ‘I checked. Properly refrigerated, kidneys can last forty to fifty hours, and corneas ten days.’

  ‘But where do they come from?’

  ‘You may well ask.’

  ‘I did,’ Atherton pointed out. He pondered. ‘Not diamonds?’

  ‘Porson himself said it sounded more like something perishable. There’d be no need for a regular day for diamonds – in fact, doing diamonds on a schedule would make it more dangerous – more likely to be spotted.’

  ‘Well, you don’t expect criminals to be intelligent.’

  ‘IJmuiden is a short distance from Amsterdam airport, by a fast motorway link. Speed would be of the essence.’

  Atherton thought a moment. ‘But it’s all supposition. We actually have nothing to connect Rogers with Cloisterwood, apart from Webber being his old pal.’

  ‘I want you to get on to the Hendon ANPR, see if you can trace Rogers’s car from Southwold the Thursday morning before he was killed. He’d probably use the most direct route, A12 and M25, if he was coming back to London. If he wasn’t—’ He shrugged. That was whole-new-ball-game country.

  ‘Right,’ said Atherton. ‘But it probably was London. Even if it was fish in that cool box, or an entire mixed grill, where would he go with it but London?’

  ‘He could have another wife tucked away somewhere for all we know.’

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ Atherton said. He headed for the door, then turned back. ‘It could still be diamonds.’

  ‘I know,’ Slider said. ‘In a way, I hope it is.’

  Phil Warzynski rang from Notting Hill. ‘I promised you I’d keep you up to date,’ he said, ‘but don’t let Hunnicutt know, or he’ll have my guts for garters. He doesn’t want anyone else muscling in on his ground.’

  ‘You’re a mate,’ Slider said. ‘Everyone here seems to have forgotten that poor girl.’ He had himself, for a bit, but didn’t let on, of course.

  ‘Grapevine says you’ve stumbled on to something big,’ Warzynski said hopefully. ‘There’s a certain buzziness in the big brass dining-room – talk of Europol . . .’

  ‘I can’t say anything,’ Slider said. ‘Sorry, but it wouldn’t just be guts they’d turn into garters.’

  ‘Oh well. I won’t be hard-nosed about it. You can have my bit of gen for nothing. Two bits, actually. Nothing too exciting, but you’re welcome to them. First off we’ve got a motor seen hanging around before the murder, parked up just past Portobello Mews. It might be nothing, or it might be the villain. You know how these things go. Somebody noticed it because it drove up and parked and no one got out, and after waiting a bit it drove off. If it was chummy, he could’ve been sussing the place out before going to park.’

  ‘Did they get a number?’

  ‘No, that’s why I warned you not to get excited. It was a black four-by four – MPV type, not Land-Rover type – with black windows. Sounds like a drug-dealer’s wheels,’ he added, free of charge. ‘Any use to you?’

  Slider remembered something. ‘Could it be an Audi Q7?’

  ‘That sort of thing,’ Warzynski agreed. ‘Witness was a woman so it’s no use asking her for make or model. She was looking out the window on the way to bed. If she’d waited a bit she might’ve seen something useful. Oh well.’

  ‘It’s better than nothing,’ Slider said encouragingly.

  ‘Is it? My day hasn’t been wasted then. The other bit of gen is about the victim’s mobile – we checked 1471, and it went to another mobile. It was pay-as-you-go.’

  ‘Of course,’ Slider said. ‘It’s time they tightened up on that.’

  ‘Gets my vote. The good news is, we were able to triangulate the signal.’

  ‘They haven’t chucked it away?’ Gloriosky, they’d made a mistake! Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive.

  ‘Don’t go mad,’ Warzynski warned. ‘The bad news is it’s a hospital, so tracking down the actual individual will be a job and
a half, especially when they’re moving about inside.’

  ‘I don’t mind. In fact, I bet I can guess which hospital.’

  ‘The Cloisterwood Hospital in Stanmore? You were expecting that?’

  ‘Hoping for it. It doesn’t give me the answer, but it’s a help. Thanks a lot, Phil.’

  ‘Welcome,’ Warzynski said, with questions sticking out all over his voice.

  ‘When I can tell you,’ Slider promised, ‘I’ll give you the whole story, I promise. Over a drink. At least.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  Slider put the phone down and thought a moment, then looked up a name in the great file of notes that had been decorating his desk all day. Lonergan. That was it. Detective Sergeant Mick Lonergan. He rang Stanmore nick. With a name like that he was expecting an Irish voice, but it was your basic Middlesex when Lonergan came on.

  Slider introduced himself. ‘A couple of my lads were over your way looking at Embry’s yard.’

  ‘Oh yes. That squatty little toerag! Well, I’ve nothing new on him for you, sir. But it’s building up nicely. We’ll get him. He’ll make a mistake sooner or late. They always do.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slider, thinking of the mobile.

  ‘It’d be nice to clear that blot off our ground. Our intelligence says he’s supplying all the criminals in a wide area – wheels, shooters, information, even false documents – every bloody thing. What we need is a big multi-agency operation to catch him with the goods and close him down.’

  Slider shuddered at the words. ‘As you say, he’ll make a mistake one day. But it wasn’t him I wanted to ask you about.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I wanted to pick your brains. You told one of my men you thought you recognized the photo he showed you, of the man we were interested in, the one who bought the false plates from Embry.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I remember. Dark hair, big build. I know I’ve seen him somewhere but I can’t place him. It’s on the tip of my mind, but—’

  ‘I wondered whether he could be anything to do with the Cloisterwood Hospital – whether that’s where you saw him.’

  ‘No–o,’ Lonergan said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think it was that. I don’t think I’ve ever been over there, tell the truth. We don’t get a lot of trouble from it.’ This was a joke. ‘Drunks and fights and so on.’

  ‘Oh well, it was just a th—’

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ Lonergan said in a eureka tone. ‘You’re not wrong after all. I’ve got it! It wasn’t at the hospital I saw him, but it was to do with the hospital. He’s a chauffeur. I caught him on a double yellow outside the Council Chambers one day, waiting for Sir Bernard Webber.’

  ‘He’s Webber’s chauffeur?’ That wasn’t what he expected. ‘What car was he in? A four-by-four?’

  ‘No, it was a Jaguar. That’s what caught me out at the time, because I’d have known Sir Bernard’s Bentley anywhere. I told this joker to move on and he refused, then when I said I was going to ticket him he said he was waiting for Sir Bernard, so of course I had to let it go.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Well, he’s a bit of a local hero, Sir Bernard. He’s put Stanmore on the map with the Cloisterwood, plus he’s into all sorts of charities, on every committee God made, and he supports all the local events and stuff – most of it wouldn’t happen without him. He’s very generous. People round here wouldn’t hear a word against him, so we’d never hear the last of it if we moved his car on and made him walk.’

  ‘But it wasn’t his car?’

  ‘Not his personal one, but it was a hospital car, one they use to collect patients from the airport or the station. They’ve got several, apparently. I suppose the Bentley was in dock for some reason.’ The facts caught up with him and he paused, and then said in an uneasy voice, ‘You’re not telling me that he’s your suspect, sir? Not Sir Bernard’s chauffeur?’

  A friendly warning to Webber from the supportive local police could jeopardize everything. Slider said, ‘No, it can’t be. It must be a mistake. The picture my lad showed you – it wasn’t very clear.’

  Lonergan seized on this. ‘That’s right. It was blurred and grainy. You couldn’t really tell who it was. I thought it looked like this chauffeur bloke, but now I think of it, it wasn’t really anything like him.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Slider said comfortingly. ‘Oh well, never mind. It’s another dead end.’

  ‘There’s not any trouble down at the Cloisterwood, is there, sir?’

  ‘No, no trouble. Just trying to work out what the connection with Stanmore is.’

  ‘Embry’s yard,’ Lonergan said promptly. ‘That’s what the connection’ll be. This bloke you’re looking for is a pal of Embry’s, sir. You can bank on that.’

  ‘I’m absolutely sure he is,’ Slider said. ‘Thanks a lot, you’ve been a great help.’

  ‘I haven’t told you anything,’ Lonergan said in a puzzled tone.

  ‘No, but you’ve set me straight about a few things.’

  He got up and wandered out into the CID room. Hollis was standing at Atherton’s shoulder, reading over it, and they both looked up as he came in.

  ‘Got that ANPR trace, guv,’ Hollis said. ‘On Rogers’s car.’

  Slider read the quizzical expression on his face and tried to straighten up and be brisk. I must look like a road accident, he thought.

  Atherton swivelled round and read off the printout. ‘Picked him up just after four a.m. on the A12, at the junction with the Aldbrough turn-off. Then the Ipswich roundabout. Couple more pings before he comes off the A12 on to the M25. Comes off the M25 at the A1, Barnet Way. Pinged him at the Northway Circus turning on to the A41, and then it’s our old friend the camera at the A410 roundabout for Stanmore, smile please, turn your head and cough, and out goes he.’

  ‘He must a been tanking it, guv,’ Hollis said, ‘because he did the lot in less than two hours.’

  ‘From these lips to your ears. From Southwold straight to Stanmore with a box of fish. Don’t it make your heart sing?’ Atherton enquired.

  ‘Maybe the fish was poorly,’ Hollis tried in his jollity. ‘Took it in the A and E and said, “Here’s the sick squid I owe yer.”’

  Slider didn’t even notice. ‘Speed would be of the essence,’ he said.

  Atherton nodded. ‘A hospital would be great cover for diamond smuggling. But I’m beginning to see it your way. If it wasn’t perishables, why risk it? Even in the middle of the night there can be traffic cops around, especially in the outback where they’ve nothing else to do.’

  ‘What are you going to do, guv?’ Hollis asked. They were all looking at him, hopefully, like dogs who’ve heard the rattle of the lead being taken down. His eye wandered, his brain having forgotten to tell it what he was looking for. It came to rest on Connolly, who half rose, ready to be of assistance.

  ‘Just one more little job for you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, guv,’ she said smartly.

  ‘You made some friends at that hospital. Can you use the connection to find out the name of Sir Bernard Webber’s chauffeur? He’s a good-looking bloke, so you could pretend you fancy him, if that helps. And when you get his name, run it and see if he has a criminal record.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ she said cheerily; like a good lieutenant, not asking any questions.

  Swilley came across. ‘That bank account, guv – it is Amanda Sturgess’s all right. They didn’t like telling me, but when I said I didn’t want to look at it, only know whose it was, they eased up a bit.’

  ‘Good. Thanks.’

  ‘What was that about a chauffeur?’ she enquired.

  ‘Bank account?’ said Atherton.

  ‘Gather round, people,’ Slider said. ‘It’s time I filled you in on recent developments – not the least of which is that we’re forbidden to do any more sleuthing until after Thursday morning, so you can all have early nights until then. But – and this is important – you’re not to speak about any o
f this to anyone. Not your mum, your aunty, your spouse, your lover and especially not the press. Because if one word gets out we could all end up in the Tower.’

  Slider had not noticed how quiet the whole place had gone, but one by one the minions had departed. Connolly, almost the last, brought him the final piece of information: the man who chauffeured Sir Bernard Webber, when he didn’t drive himself, was Jerry McGuinness, forty-five or thereabouts, unmarried but according to rumour living with a woman, though no one had ever seen her, in a former farmhouse on Harrow Weald.

  ‘I’ve looked up the house on Google,’ Connolly said, ‘and it’s a desperate sort of a kip, middle a nowhere, down the end of a long track. Humpy little cottage covered in ivy, with a bunch o’ derelict sheds falling down all round it. Can’t see a woman living there voluntarily, but there’s no accounting for folly. Nobody’s sure exactly what he does,’ she went on. ‘He drives the hospital motors – there’s several, including a Beamer, guv – but apart from that there’s a feeling he’s Webber’s odd-job fixer and trusty bagman. Known to be well in with the big cheese, goes way back with him apparently. General opinion is he’s fit as a butcher’s dog, but a bit scary with it. Likes to give the girls a thrill, flirting with them, but doesn’t take it any further. For which they seem to be glad and sorry in about equal proportions.’

  Butcher’s dog, Slider thought. Yes, that was apt. I am not the Butcher but the Butcher’s dog. ‘Interesting,’ he said.

  She cocked a sympathetic eye towards him. ‘He’s got no record, guv. So we can’t check the murderer’s hand-print against his.’

  ‘It’s only what I expected,’ Slider said, and lapsed into silence.

  At last she said, hopefully, ‘Is there anything else you want me to do, guv?’

  ‘No, thanks. Not just now,’ Slider said absently.

  It wasn’t the answer she had wanted, but there was nothing for it but to shrug, turn away, and say, ‘Goodnight, then.’

  Slider didn’t even hear her. Deep in the notes, he was unaware of his surroundings until, looking up, he found Atherton leaning on his door frame with an empty CID room behind him.

  ‘Not gone home? Did you want something?’