‘Hmm,’ said Slider. ‘Well, I agree with you at least that Darren is the best suspect we’ve got, and that efforts should be put into finding him.’ He looked across at Hollis. ‘Follow up the Manchester lead, and find out from Brixton who his associates were and get after them. I leave that to you. And the other thing we must keep on with,’ he addressed the room at large, ‘is identifying Running Man, and finding someone who saw the face of the man seen talking to Chattie by the shrubbery – we’ll call him Standing Man. Also, if Chattie really was selling drugs, she must have had customers. Find them, if they exist. Follow up on Toby Harkness. What else?’
‘Find out where Chattie was on Tuesday?’ Swilley suggested.
‘Yeah, and what this DC 10 malarkey is,’ said Hart. ‘That’s bugging me.’
‘Well, it may or may not be important where she was on Tuesday, but I agree we ought to know. Try her friends and contacts, see if it makes sense to any of them.’
‘If only the killer would use her mobile,’ Swilley said wistfully.
‘If the wooden horse of Troy had foaled, horses today would be cheaper to feed,’ Atherton said.
‘Eh?’ said Swilley.
‘It’s the epitome of pointless speculation.’
‘I wish you came with sub-titles,’ she complained.
CHAPTER TEN
Outrageous Fortune
As Slider was about to return to his own office, Porson appeared at its communicating door with the CID room, and beckoned. ‘A word,’ he said.
Slider gave him one. ‘Sir.’ Obedient to Porson’s gesture, he shut the door behind him.
‘I’ve had one Henry Cornfeld on the dog. The grand fromage of Cornfeld Chemicals. Business typhoon, baron of industry, what you will. VIP.’
‘Ah,’ said Slider.
‘You didn’t tell me the victim was one of those Cornfelds.’
‘We’ve only just worked that out, sir. The mother was not entirely frank with us. She didn’t let on who he was, and told us Chattie had nothing to do with her father. She said she didn’t know where he was living.’
Porson waved all that away. ‘He wasn’t best pleased we hadn’t told him.’
‘I ’m surprised he didn’t contact us himself. He must have seen it on the news,’ Slider countered.
‘Ah, well, he’s been out of the country for a week. Just back from the States this morning on the red-eye, and various members of his staff all thought one of the others had told him. Carpetings all round.’
‘It’s a bit much blaming us, then,’ Slider complained.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I told him the circs, identification-wise, and he understood. He’s not a raging ecomaniac out to see heads roll. Upset, more than anything, that he was out of the country. Says if he’d had any inclination anything would happen to her blah-di-blah. As if he could have stopped it – but that’s a father’s paternal feelings for you. Anyway, he wants someone to go and talk to him, and you’re it.’
‘Has he got anything useful to tell us?’
Porson rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t give him the first degree over the phone.’
‘It’s just that there’s a lot to do and I don’t want to waste time hand-holding. If that’s all he wants, we can send him a PC. Preferably a female one.’
‘No bon, Slider. You’re the persona gratis,’ Porson said. ‘You don’t have to be all day about it. Look on it as thinking time. Little trip out into the country, lovely weather for it. And you never know, he might have a tale to tell.’
Slider thought, on the contrary, that he did know. Henry Cornfeld didn’t need to have a tale to tell. Like the congenial dustman, he had friends in high places.
It certainly was a lovely day, and as he headed out on the A41 Slider thought what a pity it was that Joanna was working. Her company in the car and a pub lunch – even if a snatched one – would make it all worth while. The Cornfeld mansion was in a village called Frithsden, not far from Hemel Hempstead. So Henry had returned to Stella Smart country in his ripe years, Slider thought.
He wondered at the magnate’s coming down to the country after an absence of a week rather than powering his way through his office finding dereliction on all sides. And, Slider reflected, he hadn’t threatened Porson or thrown his weight around. He obviously hadn’t been to the right school of tycoon paranoia.
The country round Frithsden was lovely: rolling hills, deep lanes, trees, hedges, beech woods. There were fields of green wheat and fields of brown cows – it somehow comforted Slider to see that farming still went on, even so close to London – and the froth of elder dripped petals onto the kex and moon daisies in the lush verges. God, England was beautiful! he thought. It took him three passes through the village (with a longing look at an ancient village pub with chairs and tables set outside) before he found the almost hidden entrance, because trailers of traveller’s joy had hung down and roadside grasses, bartsia and mallow had grown up to cover the nameplate. But apart from this obscurity, there were no other security measures, no cameras and electronic gates but just an open, if narrow, driveway bending round some mature rhododendrons to the out-of-sight house.
The house turned out to be mid-Victorian church gothic, and charmingly appropriate, Slider thought, for a self-made mogul, given that it had probably originally been built for one such. An ancient yellow Labrador was lying in the sun outside the arched oak front door, and banged its tail on the gravel in welcome as Slider got out of the car, but indicated that it was far too fat and old to get up. Slider stooped and scratched its head, noting that the front door stood open, and wondering again at the lack of security. No-one was in sight, so he lifted and dropped the cast-iron knocker, which must have weighed ten pounds, then spotted a bell almost hidden by the wisteria and rang that.
A young woman appeared, clacking down the decorated tiles of the hall on impractical high heels. She had a fine figure well displayed by her tight toreador pants and sleeveless, low-cut top, dyed blonde hair and a lot of gold jewellery.
‘Detective Inspector Slider?’ she said. ‘I’m Kylie, Mr Cornfeld’s companion.’
At last, thought Slider, a cliché I can recognise. She even said, ‘Would you like to come this way?’ and walked off with a wiggling rump. Slider repressed the Carry On response and followed her into the cool, lofty hall.
‘He’s in the morning room,’ she said, showing Slider through an open door. The room was large and light and airy, with a twelve-foot-high ceiling and fine pieces of furniture thoughtfully placed and gleaming with care. There was a vast Victorian-mediaeval stone fireplace, and in the hearth an arrangement of blue and white delphiniums in a Chinese vase was spitting petals onto the glazed tiles. Cornfeld was sitting at a small table by open French windows onto a garden, reading one of a stack of newspapers.
‘Can I get you coffee or anything?’ Kylie asked.
‘No, thank you very much,’ Slider said.
She beamed and withdrew, and Cornfeld stood up and came across to shake his hand. He was not a tall man, and though not fat he had an elderly thickness through his body – Slider had worked out that he was sixty-eight – but his movements were easy and alert, and there was firmness in the lines of his face and the grip of his hand. This was a man in his power, not ready yet to babble of green fields, even if he liked inhabiting them. His face was tanned, his white hair thick and elegantly cut. Despite being at home he was dressed in a suit of admirable cut and beautiful cloth, the style a nicely judged balance of modernity and dignity; but his tie was black, and he did not smile, though Slider guessed that charm would always have been one of his tools in securing his advantage in the world. And there was something in his eyes that Slider recognised, the blankness, the almost wandering look of shock.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Cornfeld. ‘I suppose you think it’s a great nuisance, when you are so busy, to trek all the way out here just to see me. But I had to see you myself, and hear for myself what’s been happening.’ His voice was stron
g, the accent neutral, the delivery rather clipped, as though he expected words to do an efficient job like everyone else. But as he said the next word, his voice thickened and wavered, and Slider saw that he was close to tears. ‘Chattie – was my favourite child. I know one isn’t supposed to have favourites, but she was always the pick of the bunch. So bright, so quick, so clever. I need to know – I need very badly to know – who has done this thing.’
He drew Slider to a chair at the table, and sat himself, folding his hands and pointing his face and his attention straight at him. So, Slider thought resignedly, it is just hand-holding. There was a strong resemblance between Chattie and her father. He had only seen Chattie dead, of course, but the shape of the face was the same, the nose, the chin; there were the blue eyes, too, and he could imagine that the thick wavy hair had once been gold. In Cornfeld père he could see what Chattie might have had in life, the sharp intelligence, the firm resolve. He wished again, strongly, that he had known her, and resented less the time he was being forced to give to her progenitor.
Assembling his thoughts into order, he told Cornfeld about the manner of Chattie’s death, and what they had found out so far. Only once did Cornfeld turn his face away and pass his hand over his eyes; otherwise he listened with an almost audible whirring of the mental motor. At the end of his exposition, Slider asked the usual question, ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your daughter?’
‘No,’ he said at once. ‘I think she was universally beloved, or as nearly so as anyone ever is. She was a happy, friendly, funny girl, warm-hearted and generous. Too generous, at times. I can’t think what grudge anyone could have against her. If it had been the work of a madman, a serial killer, it would have made more sense to me.’
‘I’m sorry to ask this, but what about your business – rivals and so on? Could somebody have been striking at you through her?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Naturally, I’ve been thinking about that.’ The idea seemed to agitate him and he became less coherent than before. ‘But there’s nothing – I can’t imagine – there’s no situation I can think of where this would make sense. And surely, if I were the real target, something would have been said – some note, phone call, threat? Why kill her to get at me, and then not be sure I knew? No, it doesn’t make sense.’ He passed his hand over his eyes again, and said, ‘It is something I have thought about over the years. Not in terms of business rivalry, but simply money – kidnap, you know. But I am not so fabulously wealthy, and I’ve never indulged any of the children, or encouraged them to think they had expectations. I don’t believe the younger two even spoke about being my daughters. The parting with their respective mothers,’ he added, ‘was not friendly. I suppose by now you know things like that?’
Slider nodded.
‘Marriage has always been a toll on my time and energy, which I could ill spare from my business,’ Cornfeld said. ‘Thank God for modern times! Now I don’t need to marry them. I can have all the female company I want without repercussions.’
At that moment they were interrupted by another female entering the room – a very different proposition, this one, from Kylie. She was a very elderly lady, with such a look of frailty Slider almost expected the light to shine through her: thin as a rail, a halo of silver-white hair like spindrift around her face, cheekbones you could cut yourself on. She was dressed in an expensive knitted two-piece of brown jersey over a white lace blouse, high-collared with a cameo brooch at the throat, and glossy brown court shoes. But despite the thinness and age, her eyes were bright and her gait steady.
Cornfeld rose at the sight of her. ‘Inspector Slider, my mother,’ he said.
Mrs Cornfeld inclined her head. ‘Inspector.’ And then, to her son, ‘I came to tell you there is a telephone call from Brussels. Kylie is speaking on the other line.’
‘Ah!’ Cornfeld turned to Slider. ‘I must take this. It’s a very important call. I’m sorry.’
‘I will entertain the inspector while you are away,’ said Mrs Cornfeld. There was no German accent after all these years, only a certain precision about the consonants and a purity of the vowel sounds that might betray a foreign origin. ‘Go, my dear. They are waiting on the line. Hurry.’
Slider thought, with an inward smile, that, like his own father, she had not got used to the cheapness of international calls these days. Cornfeld went out, and Mrs Cornfeld walked across to the table by the window and allowed Slider to pull out a chair for her. When she was seated she waved him graciously to his own chair and said, ‘It will be a long call. It is the European drugs regulatory authority. We have something quite new coming out. When Henry went away to America he was so excited about it, he looked ten years younger. Now, today, he hardly cares. This has been a great blow to him, a great blow. I would not be surprised if he gave up and retired now, though a week ago he was fit to go on fifteen years more. But this has taken the heart out of him. I truly believe Chattie was the only thing he ever loved, apart from his business. He has always been a driven man; she was his one human weakness. It was I who gave her the nickname Chattie, did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Henry would not tell you that. Men never know any of the important things in life, only the serious ones.’ She looked at him intently. ‘I suppose you must be interested in minutiae, however, because of your job. It must make you a uniquely satisfying companion for a woman. Are you married?’
He disliked personal questions, but it was impossible to snub such a venerable lady. ‘I am – engaged.’
‘How nice. I hope you will be very happy. Henry has not been fortunate in his wives, but then, did he deserve to be?Now he does not think of marriage again. It is better as it is. You have seen Kylie?’ The eyes were cataloguing him. ‘I can see your thoughts. But, really, she is a dear creature. Like the hedgehog of legend, she knows one thing. I like her very much, and Henry cannot hurt her because she knows exactly what he wants her for.’
Slider could not think of anything to say, and cleared his throat noncommittally.
‘Am I being indiscreet?’ she said. ‘But surely that must be a boon to you, when people tell you what they ought not.’
Slider would not look at his watch, but there was a clock on a table behind the old lady and he allowed his eyes to slip quickly there and back. Not so quickly, however, that she did not note his change of focus.
‘You must be very busy,’ she said coolly.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘No, no, I understand. And you should be busy, trying to find out who killed my Chattie,’ Mrs Cornfeld said, and a world of grief came into her face. At my age, one gets used to losing people. Almost everyone I ever cared for has died. But I don’t think I can ever get over her death. Do you have any idea who killed her?’
‘Not yet. We have some leads to follow, but nothing definite. We think it must have been someone who knew her.’
‘Yes, I suppose that is the case with most murders.’
‘Were you and Chattie very close?’ Slider asked. Might as well make the best of it, he thought. ‘Did you see her often?’
‘Oh, yes. I loved her dearly and she was very attentive. Once a week at least. We had wonderful conversations. I truly believe she told me everything. She had an unhappy childhood in many ways, but I hope I was able to be an element of stability in it.’
‘Tell me about that,’ Slider invited.
She looked at him consideringly. ‘I go a little way further back first. So that you understand Henry a little.’
Slider settled in for the long haul.
‘First, Henry married Mary. She was the daughter of friends of ours in Enfield, a nice girl but plain, and five years older than him. She was thirty by then and “on the shelf” – that horrid phrase. This was – oh – 1960, I suppose. Girls then still did not have careers. They went to school, sometimes they had a little job for a year or two, and then they got married. So Mary was – what shall
I say? – not useless, exactly, but surplus to requirements.’
‘And Henry felt sorry for her?’
The almost transparent eyebrows shot up. ‘Sorry for her? Certainly not. He was engaged in building up his business – going through a crucial stage, trying to set up the manufacturing side. It meant much work, long hours, many difficulties, living on his nerves. He had no time for feelings, for sentiment.’
‘So why did he marry her?’
She looked faintly triumphant at having forced him to ask. ‘He wanted a housekeeper. He was too busy to cook his own meals and wash his own clothes, and he was not making enough yet to be able to employ servants. The only practical solution was to marry. Also, if he married, he would be able to have sex when he wanted it, without payment and without risk. Do I shock you? No, of course not. You understand the world. So, Mary was available, with the added advantage that she wouldn’t have to be wooed. Henry had no time then for wooing. All he had to do with Mary was to ask.’
‘Didn’t you try to dissuade him?’
‘Good heavens, why should I? Mary was no worse off as his wife than living at home with her parents. She was probably happy at first, relieved not to be a spinster. But Henry was not home much, and when he was, I doubt he ever talked to her. She was thrilled when she found she was to have a baby. Henry was not. He was taken aback. It was nuisance and expense. His home comforts were disrupted. And then it turned out to be a girl, not even a son he could leave his business to.’
‘That was Ruth?’
She nodded. ‘Poor child, she had the misfortune to be just like her mother – plain and dull. Henry could never be interested in her. And as his business grew, he began to move in different circles. Mary was no longer a suitable wife. He needed a hostess, someone who would sparkle in company. At a reception one day he met Stella, and thought how smart and clever she was. So he left Mary and married Stella.’
Dear Departed Page 18
