Slider, with his often unwelcome trait of seeing both sides of everything, now found himself playing devil’s advocate. ‘Toby was very disturbed by then. A raving man doesn’t give detailed accounts. And the plunging-and-blood bit would have been the part he really cared about, and so the only part worth talking about.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, somewhat comforted. ‘I can see that. He wants to come out king of the jungle, the stalking tiger, not the weak-kneed wally who can’t stab a girl unless she’s unconscious.’
‘Still,’ said Slider, ‘it doesn’t help the case against him. And it’s just what a man would say, making a false confession on the basis of what he’s read in the papers.’
Hart opened her mouth and shut it again, then gave him a bright smile and took herself away. Now she thinks you’re irrational, Slider told himself.
Jenkins was evidently enough intrigued to make Slider’s enquiry his first priority, for he telephoned again later in the afternoon.
‘Good of you to call back so soon,’ he said.
‘Oh, not at all. I assumed it was a matter of some urgency. Well, the Telegraph article was a piece of speculation, based on a rumour that Cornfeld himself was thinking of retiring. He is nearly seventy, and though he seems hale enough there was some talk, or rumour, of a heart condition, and a desire on his part to enjoy the sunsets or take up watercolours or something of the sort, before it was too late. Of course, if he did retire, it would mean a big change in the company, seeing as he really does run everything himself – and the old boy’s very autocratic. Iron hand in the iron glove, so to speak.’
‘Would his retirement mean the company failing?’ Slider asked, on the tail of an idea.
‘Oh, no. The business itself is pretty sound. But there would be an upheaval and inevitably some reorganisation. And given that GCC was thought to be looking for acquisitions, the article speculated that Cornfeld might be a suitable target.’ Jenkins hesitated, and added, ‘My chum on the Telegraph said that he heard a definite rumour that GCC was looking at Cornfeld, but it was all hush-hush, of course, and he couldn’t reveal his source, but he says to tell you that you can take it as read that there was something in it. But he hasn’t heard anything since, so he’s assuming that the idea has gone away or been shelved.’
‘Why would they go off the idea?’
‘Oh, any number of reasons. I don’t think it’s because there’s anything wrong with Cornfeld itself. It may be that Global is thinking, given Henry C’s age, they could just wait until he dies and then pick the place up more cheaply in the aftermath. Or they might be looking at another company to buy. Or someone at Global might have been kite-flying, and it was never more than an idle thought.’
‘But there was nothing – sinister about it? I mean, if it had gone ahead, would anybody stand to lose?’
‘No, not really. Certainly all the shareholders would be likely to do well out of it. Global would offer them a good price, so they could cash in and do as they pleased with all that lovely lolly. Apart from the dividend, shares have no actual value until you sell them, you know. And given that Cornfeld is quite a tight ship, there wouldn’t be likely to be many redundancies, so the employees would be happy. They’d probably expect better peripheral benefits from the larger parent company. The only difference would be that the Cornfeld name would probably be dropped – Global don’t go in for that Glaxo Smith Kline Beecham business – but I can’t see that anyone would do murder to preserve the company name,’ he concluded shrewdly, ‘which I suppose is what you’re trying to get at.’
‘That’s the sort of thing I’m wondering,’ Slider admitted.
‘No, I can’t see any reason anyone would be against it,’ Jenkins said. ‘And especially why anyone would kill the Cornfeld girl over it. I’m assuming she was a shareholder?’
‘She was. She held ten per cent.’
‘Really? That’s quite a lot. But not enough for her to block the deal, so that can’t be it.’
‘Who could block the deal?’
‘Well, Henry himself, I suppose. As I said, he’s an autocrat. If he was against it, the board would go with him and not recommend it to the shareholders. But I can’t see why anyone would want to block it. It’s what they call nowadays a win-win situation.’
‘Well, thank you,’ Slider said. ‘You’ve been most helpful. Just one more thing.’ A thought had occurred to him. ‘I’m a complete ignoramus when it comes to shares and stock markets and so on, so forgive me if it seems a stupid question to you—’
‘No, no,’ Jenkins murmured, impelled by his native politeness.
‘But why would it have to be hush-hush if GCC did want to buy Cornfeld Chemicals?’
‘Oh, well, because an impending offer by a big company like Global could affect the share price, and the FSA would be down like a ton of bricks on anything that looked like price-rigging or insider-dealing. My chum on the City desk had to go through the paper’s lawyers for a pretty rigorous combing even to write what he did, which was a very innocent appraisal of the company and didn’t mention Global by name. If Global really were going to make an offer the preliminaries would all be conducted very secretly, and the principals would have to be very careful what they said and who they said it to.’
‘Thank you,’ Slider said. ‘I’m most grateful.’
‘My pleasure. If I hear anything more, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
Slider put down the telephone absently, and began to search through his papers for the transcript of his interview with Mrs Cornfeld senior. Yes, there it was. Cornfeld’s eldest daughter Ruth had married a David Cockerell, who had won opprobrium from his father-in-law by leaving the family firm and going to GCC. Was he, Slider wondered, still there? That was definitely something worth finding out. Possibly there was nothing in it – and, as Jenkins had said, what reason would anyone have to kill Chattie over the supposed acquisition, which in any case hadn’t come to anything?
But, as he ought to have realised before, or at least connected in his mind, David Cockerell’s initials were DC. And wasn’t it possible that ‘DC10’ meant David Cockerell, ten o’clock? If she had had a meeting with her brother-in-law on the last day of her life, it was possible he might know something of interest about her circumstances, or her state of mind – if not her death.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Who Thrilled Cock Robin?
The Global Chemical Company had its London office in Northumberland Avenue. Slider knew it, one of those huge anonymous buildings, part of a long block lining the street that always reminded him of the Hauptmanised part of Paris. Northumberland Avenue, just off Trafalgar Square. Trafalgar Square. He wrote the words down and stared at them. DC10 TFQ. But Trafalgar Square would be TS as initials. Yet someone jotting down a note while talking on the phone would not necessarily use strict logic, but write down what the mind picked out as significant. TF for Tra-Falgar. And though Square began with an S, the Q was the most significant letter in it. It was eccentric, but it was not unbelievable. Idiosyncratic, rather, was the word. And the whole point of a mnemonic was that it triggered a response in your own brain, not anyone else’s.
He went to the door of his room, beckoned Atherton in, and tried it out on him.
‘Trafalgar Square? Well, it’s possible, I suppose. When I do that sort of thing in my diary I do a little square for Square, and a circle with a dot in it for Circus. We all have our own methods. Why would she meet her brother-in-law in Trafalgar Square?’
‘Because his office is in Northumberland Avenue.’ ‘Yes, but I meant why would she meet him at all?’ ‘Because his company, GCC, was thinking about taking over Cornfeld Chemicals, and she was a large shareholder.’
‘You think?’
‘Well, I’d like to find out. Shall we go and see him?’
Atherton looked doubtful. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the results on the clothes to come back? We’ll look like fools if it turns out that Toby did it after all – which is still the most likely scenario.’
‘Curiosity I’m always willing to indulge,’ said Atherton. ‘Why not? Let’s go.’
The GCC building was very old-fashioned inside. A lofty reception hall was lined with polished stone – granite, Slider thought – and at the far end was a wide, dark wooden desk behind which two elderly porters stood, wearing heavy navy uniforms and flat caps reminiscent of the defunct GLC. Was there such a thing as a GLC Surplus Store? Slider wouldn’t have been at all surprised. There was a bank of lifts to one side and polished stone steps going up at the side of them, and in all the expanse of floor space there was not one potted plant, leather chair, glass coffee table or magazine. This was a stern, no-nonsense reception hall of the old school, where you stated your business and were admitted, or were firmly ejected with the coldest of cold eyes.
One of the porters examined both Slider’s and Atherton’s warrant card with almost offensive thoroughness, while the other telephoned ‘upstairs’, and carried on an inaudible conversation without ever taking his eyes from the visitors. At last he replaced the receiver, wrote laboriously in a visitors’ book, produced two clip-on visitors’ badges, and said, ‘Seventh floor. You’ll be met at the lift. Make sure you bring the badges back when you leave. They’re numbered,’ he concluded menacingly. Both porters watched Slider and Atherton walk to the lift with an air of being prepared to bring them down with a flying tackle if they veered towards the stairs. Neither of them had smiled at any time during the transaction.
Inside the lift, Atherton said, ‘Whew! I thought there was going to be a blood test and a retinal scan before we got in.’
The lift was panelled on two sides, but mirrored, behind a decorative grille, on the third. Slider cast his eyes towards it and said, without moving his lips, ‘Careful what you say. We may be being watched.’
Atherton smirked, but rode in silence the rest of the way.
Outside the lift doors was a corridor panelled in light oak, with grey carpet on the floor, filled with expensive silence. Whatever was going on behind the closed doors leading off it, no sound penetrated. A woman was waiting for them, a top-of-the-range middle-aged secretary in a fawn suit, silk blouse, knotted silk scarf round the neck, pearl earrings, and large, careful hair in a short bob held off the face with a velvet Alice band. It was like stepping back in time, Slider thought.
She didn’t smile, either. ‘I’m Mr Cockerell’s personal assistant,’ she said in a voice so cut-glass you could have sipped single malt from it in a gentlemen’s club. ‘Follow me, please.’
She led them down the corridor to an anonymous oak door in the oak wall, which led into what was obviously her room, for there was a desk with papers on it, a typewriter (really!) and a computer, filing cabinets and cupboards. It was windowless, which Slider thought horribly claustrophobic. She walked straight across to the door on the far side, tapped on it and opened it, saying, ‘Detective Inspector Slider and Detective Sergeant Atherton, sir,’ stepped aside to usher them through, and closed the door noiselessly behind them.
The room beyond was a different animal altogether. It was much larger, to begin with, and it had windows all along the far wall, though they were covered with venetian blinds and let in little natural light. The walls were wood-panelled, there was concealed lighting round the edges of the ceiling, and the carpet was thick and plush and blackberry-coloured. There was no office paraphernalia, only a vast oak desk, a sofa, coffee-table, and several chairs. On the left-hand wall was a unit, cupboards along the base, further cupboards up each side, and shelves across the middle, containing a few tooled-back leather-bound books and some photographs in heavy silver frames. The desk had on it only four telephones and a blotter. This was a man, said the office, so powerful he did not have to appear to work. Two of the chairs were pulled up to the near side of the desk, and Slider and Atherton trudged towards them, which was hard work given the depth of pile on the carpet. The man seated in a large, padded, leather executive chair on the other side, rose to welcome them.
He was a surprise to Slider too. He appeared to be about fifty, tall and well-built, immaculately suited and extremely good-looking. His thick dark hair was swept back from a lightly tanned face with even features, a straight nose, dark eyes and a firm chin with a slight cleft in it. The surprise, for this place, was that he was smiling. His teeth were white and even – perhaps a thought too white. Slider’s rapid process of instant summing up had said here was a man who had relied on his looks and charm all his life, with the corollary that he didn’t have many other abilities. He was aware that this was probably unfair, and also probably a reaction from all the stern inhospitality they had met up until this point. He summoned up a smile of his own, pushed away his judgement and prepared to meet the man with an open mind.
‘David Cockerell,’ said the man, extending his hand. His handshake was efficient, neither too hard nor too limp, and brief without being surly. Professional, Slider thought. ‘How can I help you? Please sit down.’
Slider sat. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your sister-in-law, Charlotte Cornfeld.’
The smile widened just a little. ‘I suppose I was half expecting this,’ said Cockerell. ‘You fellows have to be thorough, I know that. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you. I really didn’t have much to do with Chattie. That was her nickname, by the way. You knew that?’ Slider nodded. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ As he said it, he crossed to the unit and opened one of the upper cupboards, which proved to contain decanters and glasses. ‘Whisky, sherry, gin and tonic? Not too early, is it? The sun’s over the yard-arm somewhere in the world, that’s what I always say.’ He laughed, a purely functional laugh that had nothing to do with humour but was a social signal: I’m a good guy, you’re good guys, let’s all be good guys together.
Slider smiled. ‘I’m afraid we can’t, but please don’t let that stop you.’
‘No! Really? I thought that was all bushwah, about you people not being allowed to drink on duty. Surely a small one?’
‘I’m afraid not, but thank you,’ Slider said.
Cockerell hesitated about the glasses, and then decided against solo drinking, closed the door and returned to the desk. He sat, folded his hands together, and placed them on the desk in front of him. ‘So, what can I tell you?’
‘What was your relationship with Miss Cornfeld?’ Slider asked.
‘Well, I can’t say I really had one. The family wasn’t all that close, you know. The occasional dutiful Christmas gathering, and that was that.’ He looked straight at Slider, like a man about to reveal something painful. ‘My wife and her father do not get on, I’m sorry to say, and so we aren’t at the old man’s house very often. I believe he and Chattie were very fond of each other, though.’
‘Did Chattie visit you and your wife at home?’
‘No, I don’t think Chattie’s ever been to our house. We only ever met at Frithsden – my father-in-law’s house – and not very often there, as I’ve said. Ruth, my wife, doesn’t approve of the way her father lives. His personal life. I don’t know if you know …?’ A delicate pause and lift of the eyebrows.
‘You mean Kylie?’
‘Ah, you have seen her.’ Cockerell leaned back with a faint man-to-man smile. ‘She’s one of a string of similar lovelies. In my humble opinion, the old man’s entitled to take his pleasure where he likes at his age, but Ruth doesn’t agree. So we don’t visit very often.’
‘So when did you last see Chattie?’ Slider asked, still as if going through the motions.
Cockerell was quite relaxed. ‘Oh, well, let me think. I suppose it must have been last Christmas. Did we go there at Christmas? Oh, yes, I remember there was some disaster in the kitchen and dinner was terribly late.’ He smiled. ‘One needs these signposts to remember one Christmas from another.’
‘So y
ou haven’t seen her at all for six months?’ Atherton asked, picking up the minute pause Slider left for him. They had worked together for so long they knew each other’s rhythms without having to think about it.
‘No, I suppose I haven’t,’ said Cockerell.
‘Then last week’s meeting must have been about something out of the ordinary,’ said Atherton.
Cockerell’s smile remained behind, like the Cheshire Cat’s, though the rest of his face had abandoned it. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.
‘Your meeting last Tuesday with Chattie,’ Slider took over. ‘It was obviously important, as it was so unprecedented.’
Cockerell blinked rapidly several times, and cocked his head slightly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you. I didn’t have any meeting with Chattie last week. Or indeed any week.’
It was well done; it was very natural. But having had the interrogation split, Cockerell did not now know who to look at, and when he looked at Atherton, Slider looked at his hands. The truth, like blood, will out. Cockerell had his face and voice under control, but Slider had seen the small, convulsive clasp of the hands. He relaxed, and felt Atherton beside him feel it.
‘Please, Mr Cockerell, don’t waste time. We know that you had a meeting with Chattie at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning. Now it may have been – I expect it was – a perfectly innocent meeting, but as it happened on the last day of her life, we have to ask about it. You do see that?’
‘I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken,’ Cockerell said. ‘I had no meeting with Chattie. Why should I? And now I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave.’ He half stood, admitting, though he was not aware of it, defeat.
Slider did not move. ‘It is pointless to deny it. We know that you met her – in Trafalgar Square.’ He waited a beat, and then said, gently, ‘We have the evidence. If you won’t tell us about it, we’re bound to become suspicious.’
Cockerell, still in his half-risen crouch, seemed to consider. Then he sat down, slowly, leaned back in his chair and swivelled a little, passed a hand over his mouth in thought, and then said, ‘Look.’
Dear Departed Page 26
