‘It was Running Man’s sister, and she says he didn’t do it, but was too scared to come forward because he doesn’t trust the police and he’s got a minor record.’
‘Just the way you predicted, guv,’ she said. ‘So, do we cross him off?’
‘Not just yet,’ he said. ‘He’s run away and gone into hiding with a friend, which might be excessive caution for a man who really hasn’t done anything. And we don’t know that he didn’t know Darren. He used to smoke weed and got done once for possession, according to his sister, so he may have bought something from Darren at some point. We’ll have to look into him a bit more closely before we eliminate him.’ He passed over the sheet of paper. ‘Check with his employer what time he arrived that morning, then we can work out if he had time to do anything between leaving home and getting to work other than getting there. Run his record, see if the sister’s told us everything. See if you can find any connection between him and Darren. Show this photo to Mrs Hammick, see if she remembers him ever coming to the house. And try to find this Baz King he’s supposed to be staying with, lives somewhere in Acton.’
‘D’you want me to go round and roust him out when I’ve found it?’
‘Definitely not. I don’t want him flushed out and running. We’ll leave him be until we find out whether there’s anything in it.’
They reached his door and she eyed the greasy bag in his hand. ‘Want me to get you a tea to go with that?’
He hesitated long enough to feel he ought to discourage her from mothering him, but the thought of tea won by a couple of lengths.
‘Yes, thanks,’ he said. He heard his phone begin to ring and with an inward sigh pushed into his office to answer it, wondering if he’d get to the sausage sandwiches before they grew hair.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Silence of the Labs
Baz King also turned out to have a record – for possession, carrying an offensive weapon, shoplifting and a couple of TDAs – which made it easy to find out where he lived. So if it became necessary to collar Dennis Proctor they could be there in a jiffy. But it seemed less and less likely they would need to. The owner of the small printing shop on the corner of Becklow and Askew Roads, a Mr Badcock, who had the honour to be his employer, was not best pleased at first at being tracked down and bothered on a Sunday afternoon when there was an international on telly; but when he heard that the cause was eliminating Dennis from enquiries he straightened his shoulders and got down to it. Dennis was a good boy, he said, and he was glad to be helping him overcome his unfortunate beginnings. He firmly believed that Dennis had been influenced by a bad lot and that underneath he had the right instincts, inculcated by his late father (who had been a friend of Mr Badcock – they had worked together at one time at the Gillette works on the Great West Road) and upheld by his mother and sister who were decent people.
What time had Dennis arrived at work on Wednesday? Wednesday, Wednesday – oh, yes, wait a minute, that was the morning he was late. He’d been late once or twice before, and Mr Badcock had warned him very sternly about it, so that lad had really been making an effort. How late? Well, not by much. He’d arrived out of breath from running at five past, and Mr Badcock had forgiven him because he’d obviously run so hard to make it on time he couldn’t speak for about five minutes. Mr Badcock had advised him to start out earlier in the morning, and set him to work. How did he seem that day? Oh, just his usual self: cheery – a bit cheeky, if you want to know, but that was youngsters, these days, and there was no harm in him. You’d to keep after them, none of them had an idea of hard work, but Dennis was no worse than the rest in that department, a bit better if truth be told because he was interested in the business. Had quite a little flair for setting things out – artistic, you might say. How had he been the rest of the week? Well, now you come to mention it, he was a bit absent-minded on Saturday, and he dashed off on the dot of five without tidying up, which Mr Badcock was going to have to talk to him about. But Wednesday, no, Wednesday he’d been fine.
‘You’ve been a big help,’ Hart said. ‘There’s just one more question – can you remember what he was wearing on Wednesday when he came in?’
‘Well,’ Mr Badcock said slowly as he thought, ‘well, now – no, I can’t say that I do. They all dress much the same, don’t they, these lads, baggy pants and a T-shirt? Always clean, though, Dennis, I’ll say that for him. Spotless, really. I expect that’s his mother’s influence. But I can’t remember exactly what he had on, what colour or anything. I wouldn’t really notice, you see.’
‘Do you remember if he was wearing a grey top with a hood?’
‘No, no, I’m sorry, I can’t say. I believe he has worn one of those but whether it was Wednesday or any other day …’ He laughed. ‘I have a job to remember what I’ve got on without looking. Typical man, my wife says.’
‘So you see, boss,’ Hart said to Slider later, ‘it looks as though Dennis may not be our man. For one thing, if he’d just done a murder he wouldn’t’ve been likely to seem just like his usual cheery cheeky self – unless he’s a total psychopath. Also, his mum says he left home for work on Wednesday at ten to eight. They live in the flats in Rivercourt Road and that’s a mile as the crow flies, a bit more allowing for corners and that. Well, you can do a mile in fifteen minutes at a brisk walk, and he was running like the clappers, but even so—’
‘Yes,’ said Slider. ‘Hardly time to fit in a murder on the way.’
‘Unless they’re all lying.’
‘There’s always that,’ Slider said. ‘But it seems more likely that he dawdled along with his head in the clouds and then realised he was going to be late and dashed the last bit.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hart. Also, McLaren took the photo of him round Mrs Hammick’s, and she said she’s never seen him. It don’t prove Chattie didn’t know him, but it’s all on the same side. It’s a pity the old geezer can’t remember what he was wearing. If he didn’t have the hoodie on, that’d mean he’d chucked it on the way, which would be a help, but—’ She shrugged.
‘Hmm,’ said Slider, pondering. ‘Well, I think we’d better go round to his friend’s house and get him, ask him a few questions, get a voluntary buccal swab from him for elimination purposes, and then take him home. Tell him he’s not wanted for anything and there’s nothing to worry about. Make sure he believes that. If he really is innocent, I don’t want to lose him his job and ruin his life; and if we find evidence against him later, it’ll be easier to pick him up if he’s going about his normal daily business than if he’s on the run.’
‘Yeah, boss, good one. Who’s going?’
‘I think you should do it – you look nice and unthreatening. Take McLaren with you in case he panics, but tell him to keep his mouth shut. We want to reassure this boy, not frighten him.’
‘Understood. I’ll make ’im stand behind me,’ Hart said.
She turned to go, and in the doorway passed Atherton, just coming in. He answered her enquiring look with a shake of the head. To Slider he amplified, ‘Nothing. No blood anywhere except in the living room where he attacked Jasper. No traces on any clothes or shoes, nothing down the drains. No evidence at all. It’s all on the knife, now. If they don’t find Chattie’s DNA on that, we’ve got nothing but his confession. Haven’t you heard from them yet?’
‘They only had it this morning, give them a chance.’
‘God, is it still Sunday? It feels like a week. That flat! I don’t know why we have prisons. Making someone live in that would be punishment enough.’
‘To you, not to them,’ Slider said. He could see Atherton was depressed. He said, ‘The hospital phoned to say that Stalybrass is making progress. There were some internal injuries but nothing life-threatening, though they had to remove his spleen. They’ve got him patched up and it’s a matter of rest and recuperation now.’
‘That’s not all it’s a matter of,’ Atherton said. ‘Remember, I’ve been there.’
‘Well, yes, of course, I k
now that—’
‘But do you? You seem to be taking it very lightly.’
‘I’m just trying to reassure you. Don’t bite my head off.’
Atherton sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Yes, sorry. I’m tired, that’s all. I think I’ll knock off now, if you’ve nothing else urgent for me.’
Slider nodded, and then, unwillingly – but compassion demanded he didn’t let his friend walk into it unprepared, ‘Have you got plans for tonight?’
Atherton clearly didn’t know how to take it. Was he going to be quizzed on his love-life or was it an invitation to supper? ‘Um, well, nothing definite.’
‘Were you meaning to see Marion Davies?’ Slider asked, hating it.
‘Nothing planned, but I thought I might call in and see if she’s all right. It must have been a big shock for her. Why?’
‘So she hasn’t phoned you?’
‘No. What is all this about?’
‘Have you checked your answer machine at home?’
‘For God’s sake!’
Slider gave in. ‘She phoned here, asking for you, and when I said you were out she asked me to give you a message. I made it clear I don’t do that sort of thing, but if she hasn’t phoned you – well, I don’t want you to …’ He hesitated, looking for the right words.
‘Make a fool of myself?’ Atherton said, with a sour smile. ‘What was the message? From your face I gather it was thanks but no thanks.’
‘She doesn’t want to see you again. I’m sorry,’ Slider added awkwardly. ‘I didn’t want to get in the middle of this.’
‘No, it’s all right. I’m sorry you got let in for it.’ Atherton wandered across the room and sat down on the windowsill. He stared at his feet, still kneading his neck muscles. The angled sunlight picked out the planes of his face and Slider realised the boy wonder was showing signs of wear.
Atherton looked up suddenly, and gave Slider a rueful smile. ‘Can I tell you something? I find I’m actually not too disappointed. I think I went a bit off the rails with her.’
Slider nodded, not to indicate agreement, which would have been tactless, though true, but to show he was listening.
‘She’s a gorgeous girl, and I couldn’t resist her. But – God, she’s so young! I mean, not so much in years but – her mind. She doesn’t know anything! How can someone educated be so ignorant? History, geography, literature, current events – all closed books to her. Half of what I said to her went straight over her head. And she wasn’t even curious; she didn’t care, she didn’t even seem to know how ignorant she was.’ He paused. ‘And I hated the way she talked. All that “you know” and “sort of ” and “like”. All we had together was bed.’
‘Well, that’s always been enough for you in the past,’ Slider couldn’t help saying.
‘Mm,’ said Atherton; and then, ‘Can I tell you something else?’
‘Is it going to hurt?’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t tell me anything that’s got body fluids in it. I’m squeamish.’
Atherton acknowledged the hit with a movement of his hand and a tired smile. ‘I’ll keep it basic. I was just going to say that even bed wasn’t that great. Not that there’s anything wrong with her. She is gorgeous. But it just seemed – oh, I don’t know – odd. When I woke up in the morning and she was there, it seemed so weird I jumped straight up and went and showered.’ The pause was so long that Slider didn’t think he was going to finish, though he had guessed what it was. ‘It seemed weird because she wasn’t Sue,’ he said at last.
Slider kept silence. When people tell you their troubles they rarely want your advice, though the human urge is always to give it. And he didn’t want to get into the position of agony aunt to Atherton, who was not only his friend but his colleague and subordinate, which complicated things. Atherton was staring at his feet again, his thoughts far away. At last he said, in a low voice, ‘I miss her.’
Despite his noble resolve, Slider found he had said, ‘Why don’t you ring her?’ before he could stop himself. He cursed inwardly.
Atherton looked up, the steel coming back into his face. ‘She dumped me, if you remember. She was the dump-er, I was the dump-ee. I am not going to extend my rear for a second kicking, thank you.’
There was an awkward silence (and serve him right, Slider chastised himself, for opening his mouth), and then Atherton rose from the windowsill and said, ‘I’ll get off home, then, if that’s all right?’
‘Yes, okay. Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.’ He hesitated and then added, ‘Do you want to come round later for supper, when Jo gets home?’
‘No, thanks all the same. I might have an early night. I’ll just clear my desk and be off.’
He went away into the CID room. Slider returned to his work. A short time later he heard the phone ringing through there, but it stopped quite quickly so Slider assumed someone had picked it up. A few minutes more, and Atherton appeared in the doorway. ‘News,’ he said.
‘Good or bad?’
‘Depends on your viewpoint. We’ve found Darren. He didn’t get very far from Brixton, home and beauty. He’s been staying with a friend in Coldharbour Lane, about five minutes from Ferndale Road. He and the friend went out in the friend’s car this morning to get some more supplies, and got stopped for running a red light: the car’s rather conspicuous, death’s-head paint job, no silencer and no tax disc.’
‘Dumb,’ said Slider.
And it gets dumber. The friend pulls over, and as soon as he stops, Darren’s out and running for it. Of course, that’s a hare to a greyhound as far as the Brixton officers are concerned. Suspicion circuits engage, they go after him and bring him down running. He manages to break loose and lands a punch on one of them. He gets nicked for assaulting a police officer, while the friend meanwhile takes the opportunity and scarpers.’
‘A tale for our time.’
‘The patrol takes him in, he refuses to give his name and has no ID on him, but the custody officer recognises him from the picture we circulated, takes his tenprint and runs it to confirm. So Darren is now sitting in a cell in Brixton nick waiting for us to go and interview him.’
‘Well, that sounds like good news. Where’s the bad news bit?’
‘I only said it depended on your viewpoint. It’s bad news for Darren.’
Slider stood up. ‘I’d better get over there. This Sunday never seems to end.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Atherton.
‘I thought you were going home?’
‘When all that awaits me is the cold hearth and the empty chair? I’ll take a sweating villain any time.’
Darren was sweating. He was also sullen. There was a bump on his forehead, presumably where he had hit the pavement after the rugger tackle that brought him down. But he hadn’t the look of a junkie, for which Slider was grateful. There might be more frustrating jobs than having to interview the chemically altered, but he hadn’t come across one yet. Darren looked well fed and strong, he didn’t twitch, his eyes didn’t wander – on the contrary, they glared with full resentment and purpose. He looked like a dangerous animal. His hair hung round his head in matted dreadlocks, and he wore a tuft of beard between his lower lip and his chin. There were rings in his ears and eyebrows and a tattoo of a rearing cobra on one forearm – which must have been a bit of a handicap to a criminal wanting to avoid identification. He bared his teeth when Slider and Atherton came in.
‘Darren Barnes?’ Slider said. The reply was a profanity. ‘Give it up, son,’ Slider said. ‘We know who you are. We want to ask you some questions. Don’t make things worse for yourself.’
‘What you want?’ he snarled.
‘I want to know about you and Chattie Cornfeld,’ Slider said. He pushed a packet of cigarettes across the table. ‘Smoke?’
Darren took one automatically, and then the action seemed to give him pause. He stared at Slider with sudden fear. In a moment of telepathy, Slider saw that the small piece of kindlines
s had made him realise this was something grave. It was like the consideration of the executioner. Darren, Slider concluded, was not as thick as he looked.
Darren lit the cigarette and dragged the smoke down. His eyes flitted once to Atherton, who was being a self-effacing stork, standing a little back from the table, but then returned to Slider as if drawn by strings.
‘Let me help you along a bit,’ Slider said. ‘I’d hate you to waste your time denying things that are established beyond any doubt. A large stash of cocaine was found in Chattie’s house, hidden there by you. This, as I’m sure you know, is too large an amount for a mere possession charge. This is dealing, and you know what that means.’
‘You can’t prove it’s mine,’ Darren said, his voice husky with smoke and fear.
‘Don’t be stupid, of course we can,’ Slider said, in an offhand way.
Darren clenched his fist. ‘Don’t call me stupid!’ he shouted, his eyes glaring.
‘On the contrary, I don’t think you’re stupid at all, Darren,’ Slider said calmly. ‘You’ve done some stupid things, but you’re not such a fool you think you can get away with them. How well did you know Chattie?’
‘She’s my bird’s sister, that’s all.’
‘You knew her house well enough to know where to hide the charlie, didn’t you?’
‘I stayed there wiv Jass sometimes.’
‘Were you and Chattie closer than that? Were you selling her stuff?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘That’s no answer. Did you sleep with her, Darren?’
His nostrils flared. ‘That snotty slag? I’d sooner shag a dog.’
‘She turned you down, did she? That must have made you angry.’
‘I never asked her. I told you, I wouldn’t touch her wiv a bargepole. I just—’
‘You just used her house to hide your stash until the heat was off,’ Slider supplied. ‘Well, we know that bit. What I don’t understand is why you killed her.’
Sweat jumped out of his pores almost visibly. ‘I never! I never! Get outa here, you pig bastard! You ain’t gonna stick that on me. I know what you’re like, you fucking pigs.’
Dear Departed Page 23
