Fell Purpose dibs-12

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

He blinked. ‘Well, there’s nothing else around there. And it said on the news report that’s where the murderer – this Oates man – had been. So I just assumed.’ He stared at Slider an instant and then laughed loudly. ‘That wasn’t one of those Columbo questions, was it? “But I never mentioned what the murder weapon was, sir.” Oh dear, you can’t possibly think I did it! What possible reason could I have for wanting to kill poor little Zellah?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ Slider said calmly. ‘It was a simple question, nothing more.’

  ‘Well, if the next question is, “where was I that night?”’ he went on, still laughing, ‘I was here at home, painting. But I’m afraid as my wife was working I can’t call on her for an alibi. So you’ll just have to take my word for it. I can produce the painting I was doing, if you want to see that.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ Slider said. He thought the laughter was rather overdone, but the man was down the bottom of the second large glass, and he doubted they had been the first two of the morning. He stood up. ‘By the way, the car outside, parked on the hardstanding – is that yours?’

  ‘I don’t own a car,’ he said. ‘It’s hardly worth it in London, with the cost of parking and everything. One of the reasons we bought this flat is it’s so handy for both our places of work. My wife can cycle to the hospital from here. She works at St Charles’s. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason in particular. I’m just interested in cars. Well, thank you for giving me your time, and your opinion of Zellah. It was very helpful. One of the hardest things about an investigation like this is that one never gets to meet the victim. And there’s something about Zellah that haunts me, I don’t know why.’

  ‘She was a sweet kid,’ Markov said seriously. ‘And I must say it’s refreshing to hear you talk like that. One somehow assumes that you policemen all get so hardened to stuff like this that it doesn’t affect you any more.’

  ‘It affects us,’ Slider said. ‘You learn to cope with it, but you never stop feeling it.’

  Atherton was being regaled with tea and biscuits by the Wildings’ next-door neighbour, who was plainly thrilled to bits with the whole affair and couldn’t wait to be asked her opinion. She was a woman in her sixties, thin, with a tight perm. Her face – so wrinkled it looked like a dry river bed – was thick with foundation and powder; she wore crimson lipstick, and the strong lenses of her glasses emphasized that she was wearing not only eye-shadow but mascara. Done up like a Christmas turkey, Atherton thought, in case there was any chance of getting on the telly or in the papers.

  But the media pack had mostly dispersed. When he arrived there were only two of them left, a weedy youth with an adenoidal look who was from the East Acton Times – a lowly subsidiary of the Acton Gazette – and a very young, plump girl with a camera whom he didn’t recognize, and took for a freelance. They were beguiling their lonely vigil by chatting to each other, and getting on so well they barely glanced up as Atherton drew up in front of a house two doors down. Mind you, neither did the policeman on duty, who seemed too sunk in lethargy to care about movements outside his own immediate line of sight.

  So it was balm to the Barretts’ souls when Atherton introduced himself and asked if he could ask them questions. Or rather to Mrs B’s soul – she practically abducted him into the over-furnished, over-stuffed sitting room, barking out an order to Mr B, neat and over-dressed in suit and tie and highly polished shoes, to fetch the tea. The kettle must have been on the boil and the tray already laid, for it all arrived in double-quick time, after which Mr B subsided in one of the armchairs and sat mute, stroking the black-and-white cat which ambled in from the garden and jumped on to his lap.

  Apart from appealing to her husband from time to time for confirmation, which she never waited for, Mrs Barrett ignored him. She had stuff to say and she was going to say it.

  ‘I never liked them,’ she said, ‘and I never trusted him. Thought himself so superior, that Mr Wilding! Thought himself better than everybody else, that’s the truth of it.’

  Atherton got it: the greatest damnation you could offer in this present age. To think yourself better than other people was the sin of sins.

  ‘I suppose he was educated,’ Mrs Barrett conceded with the deepest reluctance, ‘but so were other people. My husband was an accountant, you know – weren’t you, Gordon? Well, a bookkeeper, which is the same thing. Double entry. Forty years with the Co-op – they’d have been lost without him. They gave him a plaque when he retired. Anyway, if Mr Wilding was such a great businessman, how come he lost his business? Everyone knew Wildings. Up Telford Way, it was. My sister worked there at one time, and my niece, and one of my cousins was a machine operator. I never worked, of course. My hubby couldn’t do with a wife at work, could you, Gordon? And I was married straight from school. That’s another thing – she didn’t have anything to brag about, that Mrs Wilding. Just a typist, she was, though she called herself a secretary. And he was already married when she got her hooks into him. Ramshackle business that was, whichever way you look at it. But I was sorry for her, if you want to know. I wouldn’t have wanted to be married to that man. Something very sinister about him, that’s what I always said, didn’t I, Gordon?’

  ‘In what way, sinister?’ Atherton managed to ask. The armchair was so old and soft he had sunk almost to the floor, and his knees were in danger of banging his chin whenever he moved. There was no way he could get his teacup to his lips, so he went without. Shame, because he was thirsty. It was a hot day outside, and while the room was on the shady side of the house, it was absolutely airless and smelled faintly of dust. It was like being trapped inside a Hoover bag.

  Mrs Barrett bridled and touched her hair. ‘Too good to be true! That’s what I always said. What was he hiding? All that do-gooding and churchiness. And High Church at that! Bells and smells and bowing and scraping. I can’t be doing with all that mumbo jumbo. Plain vanilla, that’s how we like our religion, don’t we, Gordon? Next door to Catholics, his lot. All that fancy dress, robes and hats and gold embroidery. Hypocrisy, that’s what I call it. Sheer hypocrisy. If I want to worship my God, I can do it naked in a field, that’s what I always say.’

  Atherton tried not to imagine this. ‘So you think he wasn’t really a Christian?’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t say that,’ she said with the air of one determined to be fair at all costs. ‘He may have been a Christian. But he thought himself better than us, and that’s not a very Christian attitude, is it? Refused our invitations – our Christmas drinks party, Gordon’s birthday, any number of things. Barely gave you the time of day when you passed on the street. And the way he treated that girl of his! Wouldn’t let her join in anything! When my nieces were staying, I always asked her to come over, because it must have been lonely for her, being the only child. But he wouldn’t let her. My nieces weren’t good enough for his daughter, oh no! Wouldn’t let her go anywhere or do anything. Watched and spied on, she was, all the time, which isn’t natural for a girl. No wonder she got into trouble.’

  ‘Did she?’

  Mrs Barrett was short-circuited for a moment, and then resumed indignantly. ‘Well, if you don’t call getting murdered by a sex-fiend “getting into trouble”, I don’t know what is! I wouldn’t have liked one of my nieces to be seen in public dressed like that. Ida Sharp on the corner said she spoke to someone who knows someone who was there when she was found. That Zellah Wilding was dressed like a tramp, she said, with a skirt so short it left nothing to the imagination. And what was she doing there at that time of night, that’s what I want to know? So the Wildings have got nothing to be snooty about. My nieces would have known better than that, wouldn’t they, Gordon?’

  ‘Now, dear,’ Mr Barrett began in mild reproof.

  But she was off again. ‘And what does he do in that shed of his all night, night after night? Charity work my foot! There’s something suspicious going on in there, you mark my words. Night after night I see the light on, and his shado
w moving about, two in the morning sometimes. Built it right down the bottom of the garden, so no one could see in – and he’d no right to that land. Calls himself a Christian but he’s not above breaking the law when it suits him. I had a word with him about it when he took down the fence – or Gordon did, didn’t you, Gordon? And he said he had to do it because the weeds were invading his garden. As if his garden’s any better than anyone else’s! And complaining about our poor Lucky every time he sets foot in it. Chased him with a garden hose, he did once. I’d a good mind to report him to the RSPCA. Mrs Delancey on the other side lost her cat, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he hadn’t killed it and buried it somewhere. Always digging in his vegetable patch. I said as much to Mrs Delancey, and she agreed with me. She never liked him either. He shouted at her once about her Sooty – a poor old lady like her! You could hear him right across the garden. He had a temper on him all right, despite claiming to be a Christian.’

  ‘Was he violent towards his wife and daughter?’

  ‘Well,’ she hesitated. ‘I can’t say for sure if he was violent, but I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve heard him shout at them many a time. And the life he made that poor girl lead, with no friends and no fun, that was tantamount to abuse, wasn’t it? No, there’s something queer about him, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Now, dear—’

  She turned on him. ‘What about his night wanderings, then? What’s a decent man got to do with roaming around the streets at night? If he wasn’t in his shed, he was out in his car. Picking up prostitutes, as like as not. It’s always those churchy sorts that are the worst.’

  She had gone too far for her husband. He must have tensed, for the cat shot off his lap as he said with surprising sternness, ‘Now, Ruby, that’s enough!’

  Not as far as Atherton was concerned. ‘What’s that about roaming the streets?’

  She turned to him with relief, glad to have the chance to justify herself. ‘He goes out in his car at night. Sneaks out straight from his shed – I’ll swear his wife doesn’t know he’s gone, because she never stirs once she’s in front of the telly. He goes down the shed of an evening, and then as like as not he creeps out and down the path to the side gate, and when I look out of the front window the car’s gone.’

  ‘Perhaps he has evening engagements,’ Atherton said mildly. ‘Social engagements.’

  ‘Not him. Refuses everything he’s invited to. Besides, when it’s one of his committee meetings or whatever, he goes out the front door like a Christian. No, this sneaking out he does is something shady, you mark my words.’

  ‘Now, Ruby—’

  ‘You don’t see it,’ she turned on him. ‘You wouldn’t notice anything if it was right in front of your face! But I’ve been watching him. Sneaked out on Sunday night, didn’t he? Down to the shed he went, but he wasn’t in there more than ten minutes when he sneaked out again, got in his car and drove off.’

  ‘Did he?’ Atherton said with interest. This was good – this was gold! ‘You wouldn’t know what time that was, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she frowned. ‘I suppose it might have been about half past five, that sort of time.’

  ‘And did you see what time he came back?’

  ‘No,’ she said with reluctance. ‘I was watching television in here – wasn’t I, Gordon? I looked out at about ten o’clock when I went to make a cup of tea, and his car wasn’t there then. And it wasn’t there when we went up to bed, which would be about half-past eleven. I said as much to you, didn’t I, Gordon? I said he was out again, on the prowl, didn’t I?’

  ‘Did you, dear?’

  ‘The car was back the next morning, but he could have been out all night for all I know, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Up to no good, you mark my words. Well, now they’ve gone, and good riddance to them, that’s what I say.’

  ‘Gone?’ Atherton said, trying to sit up and failing entirely.

  ‘Yes, left this morning, early. With bags. Gone to stay with her sister in Basingtoke, I wouldn’t wonder. That’s the only family I’ve ever heard her talk about. But it’s good riddance to bad rubbish as far as I’m concerned. I don’t care if they never come back.’

  Skipped, by God, Atherton thought.

  Outside, he realized the Wildings’ dark-blue Focus was not in its accustomed place and cursed himself for not having noticed that when he arrived. It was the unfortunately named PC Organ on duty on the door. It was a muggy day, and sweat was rolling round his neck under his chin, and a trickle was easing down his cheek from under his helmet. Atherton stood in front of him, to mask any possible reaction from the press – their interest in each other still seemed to be greater than in the possibility of a story, but you could never depend on the press to remain indifferent when you wanted them to.

  ‘What’s this about the Wildings leaving this morning?’ he asked, low but urgent.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Organ. ‘Went off about eight o’clock. I’ve got the key, though, if you want to go in. Mrs Wilding left it with me in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘She didn’t say, sir. Just in case.’

  ‘And when are they coming back?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘And where have they gone?’

  ‘She didn’t say. But they had overnight bags with them.’

  Atherton rolled his eyes. ‘It didn’t occur to you to stop them, then?’

  ‘No, sir.’ He looked wounded. ‘I was here to keep the press from bothering them. I wasn’t told to stop them going out if they wanted.’

  ‘And it didn’t occur to you to let anyone know they’d gone?’

  He looked even more wounded. ‘No, sir. Why should it? They’re the victim’s parents, not suspects.’

  Atherton turned away.

  ‘Sir,’ Organ called after him. ‘Do I still have to stay on the door, now they’re gone? No one’s said anything.’

  ‘I think you might be on duty here a while longer, Constable,’ Atherton said.

  TWELVE

  What a Difference a Dray Makes

  Slider would have liked to round things off by talking to Oliver Paulson – whose flat was only a hop, skip and jump from Bravington Road – but of course Paulson would be at work in the City, and would have to be an evening call. Instead, he decided to look in on his obbo team.

  At present on duty outside Carmichael’s flat were Hart and McLaren, and as Slider came along he was pleased to see that they blended in with the background nicely. He only knew them because he knew them. McLaren was leaning against the wall between the two shops opposite, eating a drippy meatball sub, and given that everyone on London’s streets under the age of fifty seemed to be eating all the time these days, it made him inconspicuous. Hart had abandoned her smart work suits for a cropped top and a pair of hot pants, and if men walking past were looking at her it was not because they thought she might be a cop. She was wearing an iPod and earphones, an inspired piece of costume because it gave her an excuse to jiggle about a bit and disguised the fact that she was staying in the same place.

  Slider didn’t want to go up to her and blow her cover, but he saw her spot him, so he went into the tobacconist’s next to the tarot shop under Carmichael’s flat, and bought a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. When he came out, he found Hart there, having sloped inconspicuously across.

  She saw the cigarettes in his hand, as he had intended, and said, ‘Got a fag, mister? Go on, give us one. Be a sport.’

  ‘You’re too young to smoke,’ he said, and took his time unwrapping the pack to give her time to make her report to him.

  It didn’t take long, however. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing in and nothing out. I wonder if he’s on to us?’

  ‘Surely not. You blend in so well,’ Slider said.

  ‘Not us,’ Hart said with superb self-confidence. ‘That pillock Fathom we took over from. Just one look at his shoes’d tell you.’

  And then suddenly she wasn’t there.
There was a little whisk of air, and she was running like a hare down the KPR. Across the road McLaren had also sprung into action, hurling the remains of the sub into a waste bin as he passed – it was that serious, then. Slider went after them, only then seeing their quarry, who must have come out of the flat door while Slider was concentrating on the cigarette pack. Evidently he had seen Hart clock him and, with admirable perspicacity, put two and two together and taken off.

  Hart was fleet and nimble, but Carmichael was young and fit and a good runner, and she was only keeping up with him, until he started across the road towards Westbourne Grove, presumably hoping to cut through to the Portobello Road and lose them among the stalls. At that moment a flat-bed fruit and veg truck pulled out of the turning, heading him off and losing him most of his lead. He turned right instead, down Stanley Gardens. Slider, who was some way behind, turned down the parallel Ladbroke Gardens and then left into Stanley Crescent, hoping to cut off a corner. He saw Carmichael emerge from Stanley Gardens into the crescent. Carmichael spotted him and hesitated a fatal second, wondering which way to run, and by the time he turned left, away from Slider, Hart was on him.

  She brought him down to the pavement with a satisfying smack, using the whole weight of her body. Carmichael was no taller than her, but he had a man’s weight and muscles against a woman’s, and by the time Slider reached them, his breath dragging at his lungs, Carmichael was in danger of getting away again. Movies always made subduing a struggling man look easy, but in real life Slider had seen one drunken sixty-year-old woman require the services of four burly policemen to hold her down. But with Hart lying full length on top of him, Carmichael was hampered for breath after his run, enough for Slider, and McLaren when he arrived seconds later, to grab an arm each and pin him to the ground.

  ‘Get off me!’ he gasped. ‘I haven’t done nothing!’

  ‘Stop struggling,’ Slider panted, hanging on. McLaren had got the handcuffs out and was trying to get one end on the other wrist. ‘You’ll just hurt yourself. Give it up.’