There was a pause while he mopped up. Then Slider said, ‘So your father said he had actually made out the will? Or was he just talking about doing it?’
‘No, he said he’d done it. He said he’d left something to Diana, and some bequests to charity, but most of it to me. He said when it was all done and dusted and the tax paid, I ought to end up with enough to set up my club – maybe one and a half million.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course, I’ve always known the old man had money, but I never realized it was that much.’ He lapsed into a brooding silence.
Atherton broke it. ‘Did he give you a copy of the will? Or did he tell you where he’d put it?’
Danny looked up. ‘No. I never asked. I suppose he thought there was plenty of time – that’s what I thought, anyway.’ He frowned. ‘Why are you asking me that?’ The long-delayed suspicion caught up with him. ‘I mean, not to be rude, but why are you here anyway? I wouldn’t have thought it was the police’s job to break this sort of news. Is something wrong?’
So the moment arrived, in which he had to be told. Since Atherton had been so eager for it, Slider let him be the one to tell. And he used the period of exclamation, explanation and tears to think through what he had learned.
They left him at last to get ready and go and do his act. Despite the news he had just received and his shock and grief, the show must go on. Slider knew about the professional code from Joanna, for musicians were just the same. No matter how wretched you were feeling – or how bad the traffic might be – you turned up, you turned up on time, and you did your job. There were no ‘duvet days’ in the world of entertainment.
They arranged for him to come to the station the next day to do next-of-kin things, but told him he did not have to identify the body, since Mrs Kroll had been able to do it. ‘I’d like to see him, anyway,’ Danny had said. ‘I think I owe him that.’
‘That can be arranged,’ Slider said. ‘And there should be no difficulty about releasing the body, so you can go ahead with the funeral.’
A grave look had settled on his face as he realized he was now responsible for such grown-up things. His long boyhood was finally over.
Outside, the slanting autumn sunshine was gilding the ragged edges of the clouds and the air was distinctly cooler. The golden part of autumn seemed to have passed.
‘You shouldn’t have told old Berrak it was a dead end,’ Atherton said as they stepped into the street. ‘Now it’s gone and turned into one just to spite you.’ They had asked Danny the usual questions, but he had not known of any enemies or fears Bygod might have had.
Slider found himself savagely hungry – they had not had any lunch in the end. ‘Fancy a quick bite?’ he asked. The good thing about Soho was that there were plenty of old-fashioned sandwich bars where you could get a freshly-made one and a cup of coffee, and sit on a high stool at the window and watch the world hurrying by.
When they were settled, Atherton sipped his coffee, took a bite of his ham and mustard, and said, ‘Well, where does all that get us?’
‘It clears up a few small questions,’ Slider said, savaging his corned beef and tomato.
‘And leaves the main one unanswered. It’s a good thing he has an alibi, given he’s the main beneficiary from the death.’
Slider said, ‘I suppose we’ll have to check with the club that he did actually go on that afternoon, but I have no doubts about him. What possible motive could he have?’
‘Suppressed rage all these years towards the father who effectively turned him out,’ Atherton said.
‘What I was thinking,’ Slider said, ignoring that, ‘is that according to Diana Chambers, Lionel told her he was going to change his will, but he told Danny he had changed it. He saw Diana on the Thursday, and Danny the following Tuesday, which suggests he actually made the new will some time over that weekend.’
‘Unless he was just being careless with his tenses,’ said Atherton.
‘He was a lawyer. I’d say he knew the importance of using words accurately. Anyway, assuming the will was actually drawn up between Friday and Tuesday—’
‘I suppose he’d do it himself?’
‘Can’t see any reason why not. But he’d still have to find two people to witness his signature.’
‘That could be anyone,’ Atherton said.
‘Indeed. But none of his friends said anything about witnessing a will when they were asked about next-of-kin.’
‘He could have got two people off the street.’
Slider made an equivocal face. ‘Yes, and I know novels talk about people doing that, but I imagine it would be harder than it sounds. In real life, most people approached by a stranger on the street and asked to come into their house and witness a document would pin their ears back and scarper like hares. Anyway, I don’t think Lionel would consider doing that. I think he’d want people he’d know would be around, at least for the next few months. People he knew.’
‘So – what? You think he didn’t make the will?’
‘No, as I said, I don’t think he’d have said he had if he hadn’t. It’s just a little puzzle.’
‘The bigger puzzle is, where is it? The natural place for him to have put it was in that document safe, with a copy going to Danny, or whoever the executor was.’
‘Yes, I wonder why he didn’t give Danny a copy that Tuesday,’ Slider said. ‘Forgot, maybe. He had a lot on his mind. As to where it is now, the obvious conclusion is—’
‘That the murderer took it. Which means (a) that he knew about it and (b) that getting rid of it was to his advantage,’ Atherton said. ‘But we don’t know who the money was left to before. The ex-wife springs to mind.’
‘But any will made while he was married to her would have been made invalid by the divorce,’ said Slider.
‘Maybe he made another will later leaving everything to her.’
‘But then where is it? No point in stealing the new will if the old one isn’t there to be found.’ He shook his head. He thought about what Joanna said: Who wouldn’t wait for the cheque? Someone who would get the money anyway. But there’d be no getting the money without the will. ‘It’s a puzzle.’
‘Well,’ said Atherton, ‘all we have to do is wait for someone to turn up brandishing the old will, and nab them.’
Slider gave a crooked smile. ‘Mr Wetherspoon will be ecstatic about such a passive approach. Gives him so much to talk to the press about.’
Joanna had got home just before him from an afternoon recording session in Barnes. He found her in the kitchen reading a book at the kitchen table with George, who was in his jammies ready for bed, his hair brushed into gold silk feathers.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked, kissing the top of her head. ‘You looked tired.’ He looked critically at his son, who seemed as stout and rosy as a barrel of apples. ‘Has the boy been a good boy? Dad gave him a good report, I hope?’
‘Your dad,’ Joanna said portentously, ‘wants to speak to us.’
‘What about?’
‘He didn’t say. He dropped George off when he heard me come in and said he’d come back when you were home. That’s the “us” in “speak to us”.’
‘You’re unusually snarky, my love,’ Slider observed, sitting down beside her and taking George from her. The child weighed a ton. ‘What does Grandad feed you on?’ he murmured. George regarded him drowsily and gave nothing away.
‘I’m not snarky, I’m worried,’ Joanna retorted. ‘When someone wants a formal talk like that, you obviously start thinking of bad news. Like the withdrawal of babysitting privileges, perhaps.’
Slider shrugged. ‘If that’s what it is, we’ll weather it. I’ve told you. We’ll work something out.’
Joanna snorted. ‘I was talking to some of the others at the break this afternoon about teaching, sounding out whether there’s enough around and what it pays these days. Just in case.’
‘That’s a bit premature,’ he said.
‘They all rolled their eyes. From the orchestra to p
rivate teaching is a big step down.’
‘Haven’t you ever taught?’
‘Oh yes, years ago, when I was first out of college and needed the dough. I had this kid, once, Damien – his mother thought he was a genius. He produced the worst noise you can make with catgut without the rest of the cat being present.’
Slider laughed, glad she had retained her sense of humour.
‘I’m not kidding,’ she went on, seeing he was enjoying it. ‘They had this Jack Russell, used to sit outside the door and howl all the time he was playing. Damien’s mother stuck her head in one day and said, “Couldn’t you play something the dog doesn’t know?”’
He patted her hand. ‘That’s better. Shall I put him to bed while you make us both a gin and tonic? I had a hard day too.’
‘Oh dear, the middle-class resort to alcohol,’ she said solemnly. ‘It’s a slippery slope, you know.’
Slider stood, hefting George up against his shoulder. He smelled of apples and sweetness. Slider thought of Lionel Bygod perhaps putting Danny to bed the same way, and ached for the love of fathers and sons, and the sorrow that is love’s ultimate ransom.
‘He’s all bathed and everything,’ Joanna’s matter-of-fact voice called him back. ‘Here, take the book.’ When they reached the door she said, ‘I’ve got four more recording sessions for next week. And Tony Whittam says the orchestra’s in line for the new James Bond film. He’s pretty sure we’ll get it.’
‘Jolly good,’ Slider said. Wasn’t it? Was she trying to remind him how much they would lose without a babysitter? Or was she just imparting glad tidings? He smiled back at her, and went out, stumped upstairs with his hundredweight of son, thinking about the new baby to come and how much more they’d need the money when it arrived. Joanna worried that she would not get the work after she had taken time off to have the baby, that her name would drop out of the fixers’ minds for newer, fresher players. He hated the idea of their child coming into the world as a burden rather than a blessing; he worried that she was already doing too much, but knew that she would not slack off – the self-employed could never afford to say no; and he didn’t want her to know that he was worried, in case that upset her.
‘It’s good to have problems like this at home to take your mind off your problems at work,’ he informed George, who took the information silently but with a sage nod, his mind on Pooh and Piglet and events in Hundred Acre Wood.
Slider heard the distant sounds of his father arriving as he was tucking George in after the story. There seemed to be natural-sounding conversation going on; but of course, neither of them would ever be uncivilized. He kissed George, turned off the light, and went down to find everyone in the sitting room with gin-and-tonics. Everyone included Lydia, and his father was smiling so much it was a wonder his face didn’t fall in half. It didn’t take all Slider’s detective skills to work out that it probably should have been champagne rather than G&Ts.
‘I’m guessing congratulations are in order,’ he said as he stepped in, receiving his glass from Joanna.
‘That’s right, son,’ said Mr Slider. ‘Lydia’s done me the honour of saying she’ll marry me. I don’t know why, but I’m not asking, case she changes her mind.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Slider said. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’ He kissed Lydia, who kissed him back with new enthusiasm. She was small and solidly put together, like well-made furniture, with wiry, curly dark hair threaded artistically with grey, and careful make-up. He didn’t know how old she was – younger than his father, certainly. It was odd to think of Dad kissing a new woman, sleeping with her – in the future if not already; and of course, why not, except that it was one’s father, and parents always existed outside the bounds of sex. He turned his mind away from that contemplation. ‘So, what are your plans?’ He saw Joanna turn her face minutely towards him at the question. But might as well get it over with.
‘A quiet wedding,’ Lydia said. ‘We’re too old for a big fuss. Just something nice – family and a few friends.’
‘We thought, some time next month,’ Mr Slider said. ‘So we can have a honeymoon and be back before Christmas.’
‘Honeymoon where?’ Slider asked.
‘Oh, somewhere warm,’ said Lydia. ‘Not sure where is warm in November. Florida, maybe? I’ve never been to America.’
‘And then,’ Mr Slider said, looking from Slider to Joanna and back, ‘if it’s all right with you, we’d like to settle down here – in the flat, I mean. Lydia’s got a house, but we’ve discussed it and we’d like to live in the flat, so as to be near you.’
‘My son’s in Devon and my daughter’s in Canada,’ Lydia added, ‘so it would be nice to be near George’s family if I can’t be near mine.’ She smiled at Mr Slider fondly. It was a shock to Slider to hear him called George again, for the first time since his mother died. Slider’s name was George too – George William, but he’d always been called Bill to distinguish. So little George was the third generation.
‘And that way,’ Mr Slider went on, ‘we’d be able to look after the children for you whenever you like.’
‘My only grandchildren are in Canada,’ Lydia said wistfully. ‘I miss seeing them.’
‘So that’s what we thought,’ Mr Slider concluded. ‘If it’s all right with you two.’
‘If it’s all right!’ Slider exclaimed. He looked at Joanna and saw to his disconcertion that she was trying not to cry, so he spoke for them both. ‘Of course it’s all right! It’s perfect! We’d like nothing better than to have you here. If you’re sure the flat is big enough for two?’
Lydia laughed. ‘You haven’t seen my house – a little modern box. I had to get rid of all my nice furniture when I moved in – it just wouldn’t fit. The rooms in the flat are so big in comparison. And there’s the garden, too.’
‘Anyway,’ Mr Slider said with the ghost of a wink, ‘we’re only little people. We don’t take up a lot o’ room.’
Later, in bed, Slider said, ‘So there’s all your problems solved in one fell swoop. Now, if someone could only show me who killed Lionel Bygod and how to prove it, between us we’d be totally worry-free.’
‘Wouldn’t that be bland and boring?’ Joanna said, nesting against his chest. ‘A worry-free life?’
‘I’ll take it,’ Slider said. ‘Are you happy?’
‘About your dad and Lydia? Very. She seems good for him.’
‘But she’s no pushover,’ Slider said. ‘I sense a hint of steel inside that should keep his life interesting.’
‘I hope it will sustain her when she’s doing her share of babysitting,’ Joanna murmured sleepily. ‘I can’t get over it – sitters on tap.’
‘I told you we’d work something out.’
‘“We”? I see the hand of Father Christmas in this. It’s a miracle not of our making.’
‘But we’re such nice people, you see,’ said Slider. ‘If we weren’t, they wouldn’t want to live on top of us.’
‘Underneath,’ Joanna corrected, but she was asleep, really.
EIGHTEEN
A Mall and the Night Visitors
It was distinctly colder on Tuesday, with a high pale sky, strangely translucent, like onions cooked in chicken fat; and a brisk wind that found out every gap around door and window. Joanna hunched herself into a chunky sweater to get the breakfast. ‘We’ll have to think about putting the heating on,’ she grumbled. George in his chair, crust in hand, waiting for his egg, looked impervious. He seemed to have his own inbuilt central heating and never felt the cold. He sang to himself and supplied his own rhythm section with the spoon.
Some days it was agony to drag yourself away from the knobbly normality of home and face a world in which the sane rules did not apply, in which people did unspeakable things, and so often for pitifully meagre reasons. Everything Slider had learned so far suggested Bygod was a nice, even an admirable man. He drove with his mind slipping loosely over words, images, impressions, half out of gear – often the best way to a
llow cells to bind together. The day let him through indifferently, as if watching events in some other part of town. He parked in the yard, scurried through the sharp wind into the building, and mounted to the familiar 1970s’ ugliness of his office, his desk, and his pile of paperwork, where he sank gratefully below the surface as into a tepid but welcome bath.
Connolly was the first to disturb him, lounging in looking smart in a black cloth trouser suit over a lime green roll-neck. She had dangly earrings that looked like tiny bunches of green grapes. Slider stared at them blankly as his mind drifted back up.
‘I’ve found the taxi that picked up your man on Tuesday after lunch, boss,’ she said. ‘Cruising black cab picked him up in Shaftesbury Avenue just before three o’clock. He musta walked straight down to Shafters after leaving the restaurant. Cabbie left him home to Shepherd’s Bush, got there about quarter to four. So far no-one else has come forward to say they picked him up again that day, so …’
‘It looks as though he was home between three forty-five and seven,’ Slider said, picking it up.
‘Gettin’ whacked,’ Connolly concluded. ‘Narrows it down a bit, so.’
‘It does. Better have another look at any CCTV footage we’ve got, refine it to those hours. I’ll talk to Mr Porson later today about leaflets, now that we’ve got the time fixed a bit better.’
‘Right, boss. Oh, and I got on to Melbury Cars in Ken High Street, and the last time he hired a car was the Sunday right before he died. He picked it up ten o’clock and brought it back seven in the evening with two hundred and thirty miles on the clock.’
Slider didn’t know if he felt pleased or sorry. Now there was a whole lot more stuff to check, and who knew if it would yield anything as useful as a lead? Two hundred and thirty gave you a radius of about a hundred miles from the centre of London, which was a large world, and so full of a number of things. ‘Run and get me the road atlas, will you?’ he said. ‘And pass the car’s reg number to McLaren and Fathom, get them to start looking for it on the ANPR for Sunday.’
Hard Going Page 24
