One Under

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  She looked at him sharply as she came in, faithful watchdog that she was. Under her eye, he went through the drawers of the filing cabinet, but saw nothing he wouldn’t have expected.

  ‘Well, have you found anything?’ she asked as he closed the bottom drawer. From the tone of her voice it was evidently a num question.

  He turned. ‘There’s a password-protected folder on the computer,’ he said. ‘Can you open it for me?’

  She looked annoyed. ‘I didn’t say you could look in his computer.’

  ‘I am a police officer,’ he said, going for a little authority, ‘and this is an important investigation.’

  She yielded, just a bit. ‘Well, I can’t help you with that. I don’t know the password.’ To his raised eyebrow, she said, ‘Really. He had one or two protected files that only he could access.’

  ‘Why? What was in them?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I knew that, there’d have been no point in protecting them, would there?’

  ‘Surely as his PA, you needed access to every part of his work.’

  ‘If I had needed what was in those files, he’d have given it to me. Really, I don’t know what you’re accusing him of.’

  She was getting irritable and he needed to redirect her. ‘Could you give me a list of your principal donors? If they’re using the donations for PR and tax purposes, I assume the information must be in the public domain.’

  ‘I can give you a printout,’ she said. She used Peloponnos’s computer to call up a document, and sent the information to the printer outside on her desk. ‘Anything else?’ she asked, as the whine and zip of the printer began.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Did he ever mention someone called Kaylee to you? Kaylee Adams?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. Who is she?’ He showed her a photograph and she shook her head at once, and convincingly.

  ‘What about Shannon Bailey? Tyler Vance? Did you ever, for instance, put through a call from any of them?’

  She shook her head again. ‘Who are all these people?’

  ‘I know George wasn’t married, but did he have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Girlfriend?’ she said scornfully. ‘You’re not thinking he’d have taken an interest in a girl like that?’

  ‘Any girl or woman. Lady friend. Significant other, however you like to put it. Was there a female acquaintance of more than usual importance to him?’

  She blushed again, and it seemed part embarrassment, part anger. ‘I never heard him speak of anyone. But really,’ she added with dignity, ‘I didn’t inquire into his personal life.’

  ‘I’m sure not, but sometimes things just come out in the course of conversation. And a good-looking chap like him, with such an important job – well, he’d be something of a catch, one would think.’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘I never heard him talk about anyone. If there was someone, he kept it to himself.’

  Pique, Atherton thought. She had been a little bit in love with Peloponnos – and Georgie hadn’t responded.

  ‘Why are you asking, anyway? What’s it got to do with anything?’

  ‘It probably hasn’t,’ he said soothingly. ‘I think the printer’s finished.’

  She stalked out before him, retrieved the printout and thrust it into his hand. ‘And now,’ she said loftily, ‘I must get on with my work.’

  Gideon Marler’s constituency office was in what had been an empty shop, and now resembled a doctor’s waiting room. Venetian blinds and cheap carpeting had introduced a less commercial, more domestic atmosphere. There were moulded chairs around the walls for supplicants to wait on, a table covered in battered magazines and rather more pristine Party material, and screens had been erected in one corner around the desk at which the MP exposed himself to the concerns of his constituents.

  The people waiting looked to Slider like the normal mixture of the obsessed, the indignant and the pathetic. It was perhaps a sign of the times that Marler’s assistant, who stood, arms folded, in the entrance to the cubicle, looked more like a bouncer than a Parliamentary researcher or intern – though there was one of those as well, in the waiting-room area, clutching a clipboard and being harangued by someone who couldn’t wait for the MP’s ear.

  Slider walked straight over to the bouncer-type, who ominously freed his arms at his approach, and gave him a swift and efficient G-man once over. He was tall, with thick dark hair and sharp grey eyes, and, unlike most bouncers, a suit expensive enough to fit properly over his muscles, which Slider judged to be adequate but not excessive. This was no steroid-pumped goon, but a quick thinker, who probably knew martial arts. He obviously made Slider as a policeman before he reached him, because he received the warrant card without surprise, gestured to Slider to wait, and went in to speak to his boss. The murmur of conversation ceased, and a moment later an elderly woman walked out, shrugging her coat on and fiddling with her handbag, and a cheerful voice said, ‘Right, David, send him in.’

  Gideon Marler got to his feet as Slider stepped past the bouncer, and came round his desk with his hand out and a welcoming smile. ‘How are you? I don’t think we’ve met before, have we? This is David Easter, by the way, my assistant. Right-hand man, really – I couldn’t do without David.’

  Easter gave Slider a cool nod and resumed his position in the opening. With his back to his boss, it was like shutting a door and giving them privacy – except, of course, that it wasn’t. But if Marler didn’t want Easter to know his business, it was up to him to say so.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ Marler said, ‘and tell me how I can help you.’

  Marler was an attractive man, about five foot nine, lightly built, with brown hair so artfully highlighted it might have been natural sun-streaks. His eyes were extremely blue (tinted contacts?), and often crinkled in a smile, his features pleasant, his teeth excellent. He had that indefinable something that generations have called ‘charm’, hopeless of defining it any more closely. It was that thing that made you want to like him without knowing anything more about him. Invaluable, Slider thought, in a politician – and wasn’t it odd that more of them didn’t have it? Even odder that people were still willing to vote for candidates with repulsive personalities.

  ‘I don’t want to take up too much of your time,’ Slider began. ‘I can see you’ve got a full waiting room.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Marler said, and lowering his voice, added with a smile, ‘most of them are repeat offenders. They come in every week with the same complaint – and always something I can’t do anything about. Potholes, blocked drains – it’s usually something the local government’s responsible for. I make a note and pass it on to the councillors.’ He gestured to the laptop open on the desk. ‘But it doesn’t satisfy them. They’ll never be happy until I turn up in person and fix it while they watch.’ The smile widened. ‘Patience is something you need a lot of in this game. Probably the same for you, I wouldn’t wonder?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Slider said.

  ‘Sorry, I’m talking too much.’ The smile widened. ‘Must be the relief that you haven’t come to complain to me about the neighbour’s cat. What can I help you with?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about George Peloponnos,’ Slider said, to give him a chance to send Easter out of earshot.

  Marler’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyebrows looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, who? I don’t think I know that name.’

  ‘I think you must do, because he telephoned you on Saturday morning, a little after eight o’clock.’

  Marler shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘There must be a mistake. I don’t know anyone of that name.’

  ‘There’s no mistake. We have his mobile phone records. He rang a mobile on Saturday morning, and the number is registered to you.’ He observed Marler’s face closely, but saw no flinching or apprehension, only a genuine puzzlement.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I really have no idea – oh, wait a minute!’ He lifted a finger. ‘I think I know
what must have happened. There was a call on Saturday morning, I remember now, but it was a wrong number. Somebody – a man – rang and when I answered he said, “Is that you, John?” or something of the sort, and I said, “I think you’ve got the wrong number,” and that was that. He rang off, and I forgot all about it. But if it was this chap you’re talking about, I suppose it was on his record.’

  ‘I see,’ said Slider. ‘You say he asked for John?’

  Marler made a gesture with his hands. ‘I just made that up. I can’t really remember. It could have been John. Or Brian. Or anything, really. I was in the middle of getting dressed, I was in a hurry, so I didn’t really pay attention. What’s this chap done, anyway?’

  ‘He committed suicide,’ Slider said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Marler frowned. ‘I didn’t think the police investigated suicides.’

  ‘We think he was mixed up in something else that we’re looking into.’ Slider stood up. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  Marler stood too, and offered another handshake across the desk. ‘It’s no trouble at all. Always ready to help our friends in the Met. You know I’m on the Police Select Committee, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did know that,’ said Slider.

  ‘Well, anything you want, any time,’ he said, ‘just let me know.’ He pointed at his head with a comical smile. ‘You see – two ears, no waiting!’

  ‘Um,’ said Slider, hesitating. Perhaps it was worth the question, anyway, on the no-stone-unturned principle. Marler raised a receptive eyebrow. ‘Do you know a girl called Kaylee Adams?’

  He thought. ‘No, I don’t believe so.’ Slider showed him the picture, and he shook his head. ‘Is she one of my constituents?’

  ‘No,’ said Slider. ‘It doesn’t matter. Thank you for your time.’

  Several people were gathered round Connolly’s computer when he got back. There was a smell of coffee in the air, and someone had gone out for doughnuts.

  ‘I’m glad you’re all usefully employed,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll get you some coffee, guv,’ Hart said quickly. ‘It’s fresh brewed.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I don’t want to spoil my dinner. What’s going on?’

  Atherton answered. ‘We’ve accessed the accounts on the charity’s website,’ he said. ‘Georgie’s trust. He was earning a hundred and thirteen thousand a year.’

  ‘And the CEO was on a hundred and twenty,’ Swilley added over his shoulder.

  ‘What was he on before, at the local council?’

  ‘Sixty-five,’ Atherton said.

  ‘We’re in the wrong business,’ Connolly mourned. ‘What’d it be like to have that sort o’ jingle?’

  ‘I’m sure none of us will ever know,’ Atherton said.

  ‘A hundred large is a lot o’ dosh,’ Hart said. ‘I wonder what he spent it on.’

  ‘If he’d nice suits and a coke habit,’ Connolly said, ‘he’d’ve seen the tail lights of it in no time.’

  ‘How did you get on with Gideon Marler?’ Atherton asked Slider.

  ‘He says he’s never heard of Peloponnos. There was a wrong number called his phone that morning.’

  ‘Well, it was a very short call,’ Atherton said. ‘Fifteen seconds. That’s just enough time to establish it was a wrong number and ring off.’

  ‘And according to the log, George didn’t ring that number any other time,’ Swilley said. ‘Or not in the three months we’ve got records of, anyway.’

  ‘I don’t get this geezer,’ Connolly complained. ‘Did he spend his life ringing up people he didn’t know? He only rang Kaylee the once, so maybe that was a wrong number too.’

  ‘Ah, but Kaylee rang him back,’ said Atherton.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Slider asked him.

  ‘Well, I’ve got something that’s a bit interesting,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’

  On his desk he had the printout that Virginia Lamy had given him, and the handwritten list, which he had printed from the photograph.

  ‘Now, look, these are the official donors for the current financial year so far. All the usual suspects: businessmen, bankers, property developers, a Russian oligarch, Arab oilmen, a football club owner, and so on. Now, the handwritten list – which I remind you was from a file labelled “Donors”, and it’s not the same. There are one or two of the same names on it, but the bulk are people of wealth and prominence, but probably not the sort who would have millions to give to charity. There’s a high court judge, a newspaper editor, a society photographer, a top solicitor, a DJ, a couple of lords, a TV personality, a surgeon, the borough CEO, several politicians—’

  ‘Including,’ Swilley said, leaning closer, ‘Gideon Marler. And he just said he’d never heard of George!’

  ‘Peloponnos can write his name on a list without actually knowing him,’ Slider reminded them. ‘What are the dates?’

  ‘I thought it might be the date they gave donations,’ Atherton said, ‘but if you look at this name, a property developer who appears on both lists, the handwritten date doesn’t match the date on the printout.’

  ‘And why have some of the names got question marks after them?’ Swilley asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Atherton said. ‘Maybe these were all people he was intending to stick for a donation, and the dates were when he asked them and the question marks meaning they were going to get back to him. But that’s pure speculation. And as I said, you wouldn’t think they were fabulously wealthy, like those on the printout.’

  ‘Maybe he’d gone through the A list,’ Connolly said, ‘and now he was down to the B list.’

  ‘Look at this,’ Slider said, pointing to one handwritten name. ‘Derek Millichip. Otherwise known as Assistant Commissioner Millichip.’

  ‘The top dog for our area,’ said Atherton. ‘Our ultimate boss, under God and the commissioner.’

  Swilley said, ‘Now, excuse me for talking about our betters, but I wouldn’t have thought AC pay was high enough to be giving big money to charity.’

  ‘A hundred and eighty k, give or take,’ Atherton said.

  ‘He has got a question mark after him,’ Connolly said.

  ‘North Kensington is in his bailiwick,’ Atherton said. ‘Maybe he’s just a caring person.’

  ‘Well, whatever, George cared enough about this list to lock it away in his bottom drawer,’ Swilley said, ‘so it must be important.’

  ‘Not unless we can find out what it’s for,’ said Slider. ‘And you say the password-protected file on his PC was labelled “Cope”.’

  ‘Yes. Cope with what, I wonder?’ said Atherton.

  ‘Could be someone’s name,’ said Hart.

  ‘Maybe he had a thing for bishops,’ Connolly suggested.

  ‘If only Mr Porson would get us a proper search warrant so we could bring the PC in,’ Atherton said discontentedly. ‘How can we work this with one hand tied behind our backs?’

  ‘I’ll run the word “cope” through Google,’ Connolly offered, ‘and see if anything comes up. Sure it sounds like one o’ those wanky renames of fine old institutions.’

  ‘Like calling the Marriage Guidance Council “Relate”,’ Atherton agreed. “Cope” could be giving help to single mothers.’

  ‘Or something to do with mental health,’ Swilley suggested.

  ‘Yeah, given that George was a terminal looper,’ Connolly said, fingers busy. ‘Or it might be an acronym.’

  ‘Like ACPO,’ Slider said, mostly to himself.

  Porson moved restlessly back and forth, winding and unwinding a treasury tag round one finger. ‘I can’t see where all this is taking you,’ he said. ‘You seem to be getting further away from Adams all the time. That’s what you were supposed to be looking into. You’re getting your nipples in a twist over this Ploppy-whosis suicide and its ramplifications. He was only interesting if he killed Adams and did himself out of remorse. I don’t see what this list of donors has got to do with that.’

  �
��I don’t either, sir,’ Slider admitted unhappily.

  ‘Time’s running out,’ Porson reminded him. ‘We’ve got the crime figures to get out next week, and the Borough Leaders Conference to prepare for. I need you to be concentrating on those, not chasing your trail over what was probably an RTA anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a link between Adams and Peloponnos. If we could just have a look at the two computers—’

  ‘I can’t get you a warrant for them unless you get me something,’ Porson snapped. ‘Look, I’m as frustrated as you are about this, but sometimes there’s nothing you can do. Sometimes you just have to let it go.’

  He stopped abruptly, and their eyes met. Not letting things go had always been what got Slider into trouble, and Porson had always supported him. The death of a no-count girl from the estate versus the Borough Leaders conference and an attaboy from upstairs for improved crime figures? It was no contest.

  Was it?

  ‘You’ve got till Monday,’ Porson said. ‘Make it count.’

  TEN

  Reading Between the Lies

  He left his minions toiling over getting backgrounds on the people on both donor lists, plus the phone records, plus the check and elimination of the Mercedes GL550s. Connolly was trying to find out if COPE meant anything, and Atherton was trawling the internet to try and find a house that resembled the one in the drawing.

  ‘I can’t help feeling it’s important,’ he said. ‘Why else would he hide it like that?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t,’ Slider said. ‘Maybe he stuck it there at random one day – when he was answering the phone, for instance – and then forgot about it.’

  ‘Well, there weren’t any other architectural drawings in his office, so unless he was using this one as a bookmark …’ Atherton objected.

  Slider went off to the borough planning office to interview one Mrs Avril Parling, who had been Peloponnos’s PA when he was chief planning officer.