One Under

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  It was a private waiting room, reserved for the bereaved or likely-to-be, and had a brown weave sofa and two armchairs, a green carpet, cream walls, and framed prints of botanical drawings of roses and peonies on the walls, which were probably supposed to be soothing. Or at least not irritating. Julienne, in pink jeans and a mauve T-shirt printed with a Disney princess, turned a pale, pinched face towards the door as Connolly came in. For a moment she looked blank. Then her face creased with distress and she cried, ‘You! You told the social on us! Now they’re gonna take me away!’

  ‘Take it easy, kid,’ Connolly said. ‘Someone’s got to look after you till your ma gets better.’

  ‘You told! You’re the filth. You said you were the good guys, but you’re not!’ Tears of anger squeezed from her eyes. ‘I hate you!’

  Connolly looked across at the social worker, an overweight young woman in bulging black trousers and a green wool jacket, with a leather haversack for a handbag. Beside her on a chair was a small overnight case – presumably packed with things for Julienne. ‘Detective Constable Connolly,’ she introduced herself. ‘I’d like a word with your wan, here.’ She jerked a head at Julienne.

  The social worker stood up. ‘I’m Karen. But I don’t think you can—’

  But it was to Connolly that Julienne ran, grinding her fists in her eye sockets. She flung herself at Connolly’s legs and tied her arms tightly round her waist. ‘I hate you,’ she wailed, burrowing into Connolly’s midriff. ‘I want my mum!’

  ‘Easy there, scout,’ Connolly murmured, stroking the tangled head. ‘Take it easy. Your mum’s being looked after. She’s gettin’ the best care. You have to let them help her.’

  Julienne pulled back and raised her face. It was white and red, but there weren’t many tears. ‘What’s gonna happen to me?’

  ‘This lady’ll take you somewhere, just till your mum gets better.’

  ‘Why can’t I go home?’

  ‘Cos there’s no one there to look after you.’

  ‘I can look after myself. I do anyway,’ she added with chilling realism.

  ‘I know, pet,’ Connolly said soothingly. ‘I bet you’re grand at it. But it’s the law. The law says you can’t be left on your own at home until you’re fourteen.’

  ‘I’ve told her that,’ Karen muttered.

  Julienne continued to study Connolly’s face. ‘Did you tell on us?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I told you, I’m not that class o’ police. We’re still trying to find out where your sister went on Saturday.’

  ‘I don’t think this is the right time to be talking about that,’ Karen said.

  Connolly looked at her. ‘I won’t upset her.’ And to Julienne: ‘You don’t mind talking to me, do you?’

  ‘No,’ she said promptly. ‘I like you. You dress smart. And I like your perfume.’ She lowered her voice, though not enough. ‘She smells funny. Like school dinners.’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Connolly said hastily, hoping to cover the comment.

  ‘What’s it called?’ Julienne asked, sitting beside her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your perfume.’

  ‘Paco Rabanne. Lady Million,’ said Connolly.

  ‘I like it. I wanna look like you when I grow up. Nice clothes and nice perfume and everything. I like your boots. I like your handbag. I wanna have money like Kaylee. I don’t wanna live on benefits like Mum.’

  ‘You’ll have to work hard at school, so,’ said Connolly.

  Julienne gave an eye-roll. ‘Everyone always says that. But Kaylee never went to school, and she was doing all right.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I wanted t’ask you. Where was Kaylee getting all that money?’

  ‘She had this boyfriend. He was a lot older, and he had loads of money.’

  ‘Was his name George?’ Connolly asked. ‘George Peloponnos?’

  Julienne wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s a stupid name. Ploppyloss! What sort of a name’s that? She never said what his name was, anyway. He had this nickname – Golden Eagle. It was really cool.’

  ‘Golden Eagle?’ Connolly said, baffled.

  ‘Yeah. They all had nicknames. Have you got anything to eat?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I might have a Polo mint.’

  ‘Have you got anything?’ Julienne asked Karen in a demanding tone. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘We can go along to the canteen and get something, if you like,’ Karen said. ‘I think this lady has finished talking to you.’

  ‘Just another minute,’ Connolly said.

  ‘It’s not appropriate—’

  ‘Ah, sure, you’re here to see fair play. And she doesn’t mind – do you, pet?’

  ‘I’d sooner talk to you,’ Julienne affirmed. ‘You’re cool.’

  ‘Nevertheless—’ Karen began firmly.

  ‘OK, OK. I’m outta here. Just tell me—’ she turned back to Julienne – ‘who was it had nicknames? You said they all had nicknames.’

  ‘His friends,’ said Julienne. ‘He had all these, like, rich friends, but Kaylee said they all had nicknames, like animals and stuff.’ Suddenly she flagged. Connolly could see her pale face whiten. ‘I’m hungry. I wanna see my mum. I’m tiyered.’

  Karen bustled forward. ‘You come with me, love, and I’ll get you something to eat. This lady’s going now.’

  ‘Can I have chocolate milk?’ Julienne asked, as if that was the clincher.

  ‘Course you can,’ said Karen, holding out her hand. ‘Come on.’

  Julienne declined to take it, but she walked with her to the door. ‘And chips?’ she asked. ‘And a Boost? And then can I see my mum?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Karen, as they turned into the corridor and disappeared.

  ‘Little chancer,’ Connolly said to herself, but with affection.

  ‘Golden Eagle?’ Atherton said. ‘Peloponnos? Anyone less like the king of birds …’

  ‘Ah, but isn’t that the whole point?’ said Connolly. ‘If you’re goin’ to give yourself a nickname, you’d make it a good one. Sure you’re not goin’ to call yourself Gerbil or Stick Insect, just because it’s more appropriate. The more pathetic you are, the more you’d want to be called Panther.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Atherton allowed. ‘But why—’

  ‘Why a nickname at all?’ Connolly anticipated. ‘God knows.’

  ‘And she said “they all” had nicknames?’ Slider puzzled.

  ‘All his friends.’

  ‘Which must mean she met them, at least on one occasion,’ said Slider.

  ‘Was he running some sort of creepy club?’ Swilley wondered.

  ‘Not at his own home,’ said Atherton. ‘His mother was quite specific that he never brought anyone home.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she say that?’ said Connolly. ‘Her blue-eyed boy?’

  ‘He could have done it while she was out. Sent her to the pictures, or something,’ said Swilley.

  ‘Let’s not get carried away with speculation,’ said Slider. He turned back to Connolly. ‘She said his friends were really wealthy?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Connolly, ‘but she’s just a little kid. Anyone with ten quid’d be rich to her. And she’s only repeating what Kaylee said.’

  ‘Georgie was pretty rich,’ said Hart. ‘If I had a hundred big ones a year, I’d feel pretty rich, I can tell ya.’

  ‘Well,’ said Slider, ‘I’m not sure this gets us any further forward. I think we’d better go home and start fresh tomorrow.’

  They drifted away to their desks. Slider called Atherton back. ‘Fancy going for a pint? Joanna’s going to be late tonight.’

  ‘OK, I’ll come for a quick one,’ he said. ‘I’m seeing Eva.’

  ‘Eva Tavistock?’

  ‘Of Arbuthnot, Yorke and Cornish,’ Atherton agreed. ‘Are you keeping a record?’

  ‘No, but I think you should.’

  ‘I have started keeping a diary,’ Atherton admitted. ‘It wouldn’t do to double-book myself.’

  ‘I do
n’t know how you have the stamina,’ Slider said.

  ‘It’s what gives me stamina,’ said Atherton. ‘Exercise makes muscles stronger. You have to keep pushing through the pain barrier.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s pain in it,’ Slider said. ‘I’m just not sure whose.’

  Joanna got home around eight thirty, and was sitting in the kitchen with him while he cooked her bacon and eggs – frequently their standby meal when their jobs left them eating at odd times – when Atherton rang the doorbell.

  ‘Not that you’re not always welcome,’ Slider said, as Joanna ushered him into the kitchen, ‘but I thought you were going out with Eva Tavistock.’

  ‘Did she stand you up?’ Joanna guessed.

  ‘She did not,’ Atherton said with dignity. ‘We … had a difference of opinion.’

  ‘And she gave you the elbow? Eva brick at you?’

  ‘Please feel free to make fun of my suffering.’

  ‘You’re not suffering,’ Joanna said, examining him. ‘Gin and tonic?’

  ‘I am, but that’ll cure it. Thanks.’

  ‘I can stick another egg in for you?’ Slider offered.

  Atherton shuddered. ‘No, thanks. I had humble pie on the train.’

  Joanna came back in with the drink just as Slider was dishing up, and they all sat round the kitchen table. Atherton took an appreciative gulp, sighed, and said, ‘I miss Emily.’

  Slider glanced at Joanna. Women were better at knowing what to say in these circumstances.

  She said, briskly, ‘Write to her. Email. Or give her a ring.’ She gestured to the telephone, in its holster on the counter. ‘Be our guest. You can take it into the other room.’

  ‘She’s in New York,’ said Atherton.

  ‘I know that, Dumbo. Telephone lines reach all the way across the Atlantic these days.’

  ‘You can’t call me Dumbo. I have an IQ of 140,’ Atherton objected.

  ‘Elephants are very clever. Give her a ring. A trunk call.’

  ‘The wit in this house flows like molasses.’ He took another swig. ‘Actually, she’s coming back for a visit next week,’ he admitted. ‘But she wouldn’t want me back now. Things have gone too far.’

  ‘Not if she loves you. Not if you work at it. Win her back,’ Joanna instructed. ‘Make it your tusk for today.’

  ‘No more elephant jokes,’ Slider decreed.

  ‘Ring her,’ Joanna insisted.

  ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said Atherton, and turned the subject. ‘Was that another warning from Mr Porson this afternoon?’

  ‘Warning,’ Joanna asked, knife and fork pausing.

  ‘To leave Gideon Marler out of it,’ Slider said, and told her about the day’s developments.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against him,’ Atherton said. ‘Apart from the fact that he’s rich, successful, good-looking and charming.’

  ‘He lied about knowing Peloponnos,’ said Slider.

  ‘He could just as easily have forgotten. Think how many people he must meet in his daily life.’

  ‘And he’s used his influence to put a stop to our investigating him. Why would an innocent man object to being asked questions?’

  Atherton snorted with laughter. ‘He’s an MP! You haven’t taken into account the sense of entitlement that comes with the job and the fame and the influence. Anyone in his position would be indignant at the invasion of his privacy. It doesn’t necessarily indicate guilt.’

  ‘Sense of entitlement or not,’ Slider said, ‘he’s making a very large fuss about some very small questions. In his position, I wouldn’t behave that way.’

  ‘But you’re a policeman,’ Joanna said. ‘You’re organically predisposed to answer questions and try to find solutions to problems. You’re no template.’

  ‘Neither of you would do it either,’ Slider asserted.

  ‘Jim’s a policeman too,’ Joanna said. ‘And I’m married to one. I’d object to questions from a journalist, but I wouldn’t try to stop the police asking me things.’

  ‘Unless you were innocent and felt you were being victimized?’ Atherton suggested slyly.

  She grinned at him. ‘You think Gideon Marler feels victimized? Well, boo hoo! Now, to a topic of much greater interest, which I know you’re trying to avoid – are you going to ring Emily?’

  ‘Now I feel victimized,’ said Atherton.

  TWELVE

  Elephant’s Child

  On Friday the Tupperware sky was back, with a chilly breeze and the threat of showers. Connolly came into Slider’s office in a roll-neck cable jumper so chunky it looked as though it was consuming her. Feral knitwear alert!

  ‘I’ve asked around on Mr Marler,’ she said, ‘but there’s not much goss about him. O ’course, I don’t have the inside contacts.’ She cocked a curious eye. ‘Wouldn’t Jim Atherton be the better person to do it? He’s the head for politics – always knows who’s who. I’d have a job naming a single minister.’

  ‘Just give me what you’ve got,’ Slider said.

  ‘Well, boss, he seems to be pretty straight,’ she said. ‘There’s no suggestion of drugs, and he’s never been in a sex scandal – doing the nasty with the interns or any o’ that class o’ caper. His wife’s reckoned to be rolling in it, so he wouldn’t be robbin’ the till – what need? However, there might be some rupture in the happy home. It’s said he lives mostly in the London house, and his wife never leaves the country.’

  ‘Rickmansworth is hardly country,’ said Slider, who was born in a farm cottage.

  ‘Country to the likes o’ me,’ Connolly said. ‘I get narky if I can’t see a red bus. Anyway, what I read is they’re virtually separated, but keepin’ it together for the sake of his career, and the kid.’

  ‘Is there another woman?’

  ‘No report of one,’ Connolly said. ‘And the wife still goes to functions with him. Amicable separation. No heavin’ the china about.’

  ‘I see,’ said Slider.

  ‘Sorry it’s not much.’

  ‘Well, keep your eyes and ears open.’

  ‘I will,’ said Connolly. ‘But it does look as if he’s the real deal,’ she added apologetically.

  She passed Swilley in the doorway. ‘Boss,’ said Swilley, her face heralding something of interest, ‘I’ve got George’s office phone record, and guess what? Quite a few phone calls to and from Mr Marler.’

  If Slider had been the hand-rubbing sort, he’d have rubbed his hands.

  Connolly swung back at the sound of the name. ‘And him saying he’d never heard of the feller,’ she said indignantly. ‘The big lyin’ liar!’

  ‘At a quick glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary,’ Swilley said, spreading the sheets out on Slider’s desk. ‘They pretty well all seem to be pukka business, apart from a surprising number of calls to his home landline.’

  ‘Keeping his mammy happy,’ said Connolly. ‘As a good boy should.’

  ‘A lot of calls to Shand Account Cabs – well, that makes sense if he didn’t have a motor. And there are several calls from a pay-as-you-go mobile with an unregistered holder,’ Swilley went on, ‘which might or might not be suspicious.’

  ‘But is certainly no help, if it’s unregistered,’ said Slider.

  ‘Right. But Mr Marler rings him just about every week, sometimes several times. And listen to this, boss – he rang George on Friday just before half past five. A five-minute call. Finished at five thirty-three. And we know that at five forty-five he bought the opera ticket.’

  ‘Alibi,’ said Connolly, excited.

  ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ said Slider. ‘There could just as easily be no connection. Or maybe he was booking the ticket for Marler.’

  ‘I’ll get on to the Opera House this morning, get the names of the people in the adjacent seats,’ said Swilley.

  ‘No, let Connolly do that,’ said Slider. ‘I’d like you to go and have another word with Virginia Lamy, find out what she knows about Mr Marler and his connect
ion to Peloponnos and the trust.’

  ‘Why didn’t Jim ask her when he interviewed her?’

  ‘We didn’t know then that there was anything to ask,’ said Slider.

  ‘I could do it, boss,’ Connolly offered.

  ‘No, I want Swilley to go,’ said Slider. ‘She’s taller.’

  ‘You’ll get me into trouble,’ Atherton grumbled, as Slider drove towards the West Cross roundabout.

  ‘You don’t usually mind getting out of the office for a bit,’ said Slider. ‘Don’t you want to see some nice houses?’

  ‘You’re the one who’s mad about architecture. I’m more interested in keeping my job.’

  ‘You’re no fun any more,’ Slider complained. ‘Don’t you have any curiosity at all?’

  ‘Not about putting my nose between a crocodile’s teeth. So Marler rang Georgie’s office. So what? Maybe he was having a fling with the PA. She wasn’t bad-looking. I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating toast. Actually, I would, but I have super-sensitive skin. And you can eat caviar with a spoon straight from the pot.’

  ‘You’re drivelling. Even if he was ringing Mrs Lamy, he’d have known whose secretary she was.’

  ‘But you’re not supposed to go asking him questions.’

  ‘Provoking people’s the best way to get the inadvertent truth out of them.’

  ‘It’s also the way to get inadvertently disciplined.’

  ‘Pooh! He doesn’t scare me,’ Slider said loftily.

  ‘That’s what this is about, isn’t it?’ Atherton said glumly. ‘A pissing contest.’

  ‘No, it’s on a “need to know” basis. I need to know what’s going on.’

  Abbotsbury Walk was a short cul-de-sac with only two houses on either side – but what houses! Atherton blew a soundless whistle as they parked and got out. ‘You’re into the super league here,’ he said.

  The houses were detached, though not by much – you couldn’t have built a garage between them. They were smooth-stuccoed to look like Portland stone, each with a porch over the front door supported by grand pillars, and a parapet partly hiding the pitch of the roof. There were three storeys plus the semi-basement, the top floor having originally been the servants’ rooms, as revealed by the smallness of the windows.