One Under

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘1840s,’ Slider said. ‘The first Victorian westward expansion.’

  ‘But they don’t have much garden,’ Atherton said, as if to comfort Slider, who was like a cat watching the birds feeding on the other side of the window. ‘You can see if you look through the gap. About eight or ten feet and then that’s the next road.’

  The road ended in a high wall with tall iron gates, behind which was a glimpse of Holland Lodge, the object of Slider’s curiosity – or rather, the home of the object of his curiosity. Behind Holland Lodge were the green spaces of Holland Park, grass and trees and birds and all the rus in urbe you could want.

  ‘There’s desirable,’ said Atherton, ‘and then there’s desirable. How rich does this man’s wife have to be? I mean, the house in Rickmansworth’s probably one and a half, two mill, but this one … Where’s he getting the money from?’

  ‘Wouldn’t we like to know,’ said Slider. It was a bit of a shaker. He hadn’t imagined anything this grand.

  There was no sign of movement or occupation – not in any of the houses. It was the quietest London street he’d ever been in.

  ‘Let’s try the doorbell,’ Slider said.

  ‘I’ll say you made me do it,’ Atherton warned.

  There was an intercom box on the gates, which were solidly, electronically closed, with heavy mesh on the back side of them and razor wire wound round the spikes. It seemed a lot of security even for an MP, but perhaps, he added to himself with his innate desire to be fair, being chair of the Police Select Committee made him more of a target.

  Beyond the gates was a gravel area, which would provide parking for an impressive number of cars. Slider pressed the bell and waited. A camera was mounted on the gatepost looking down at them, and there was a second one on the other gatepost pointing down the road. In case of invasion or civil disorder? Slider wondered. He rang again, but there was no response.

  ‘Nobody in,’ Atherton said, with a hint of relief in his voice.

  ‘Don’t want to talk to us, more like,’ said Slider.

  ‘Or they think we’re selling encyclopaedias,’ Atherton said. ‘What now?’

  ‘Try the neighbours,’ said Slider.

  The two houses on the right had the internal shutters closed on the ground floor and basement, and Slider was not surprised, therefore, when they got no response. They crossed to the other side. The first house looked unoccupied, except for the basement which, to judge by the separate gate and doorbell, was probably a self-contained flat. But there was no reply from that, either.

  ‘What is this, Marie Celeste Row?’ Atherton complained. ‘Three down and one to go.’

  There were curtains drawn in the basement of the last house, and the gate to the steps leading down was padlocked. They mounted the steps over the basement to the front door, and rang the bell, noting the security camera mounted high under the porch. Slider was about to admit defeat when the grille above the bell crackled and a woman’s voice said, ‘Who are you?’

  Slider pulled out his warrant card and held it up to the camera. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Slider, from Shepherd’s Bush. This is Detective Sergeant Atherton.’

  ‘Shepherd’s Bush?’ said the voice. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Could we have a word with you?’ Slider said, but the intercom had clicked off.

  However, a few moments later the door swung open, to reveal a woman with a haughty, suspicious face. Slider guessed her to be in her late fifties, but she was so well-preserved and beautifully presented, she could have been quite a lot older. She was wearing a lavender tweed suit with a double row of pearls around her neck and pearl studs in her ears. Her hair was ash blonde and exquisitely coiffed, her make-up looked professional. She had once obviously been quite a looker. She was very slim, her figure almost girlish, and only the knobbliness of her knees peeking out from under her too-short skirt gave her age away.

  Two dogs had appeared with her, a miniature poodle and a Jack Russell-type crossbreed. The terrier was barking, but when Slider looked at him, he stopped, stuck his nose up and scented instead.

  ‘Shepherd’s Bush!’ the woman exclaimed, examining Slider with an interest equal to the dog’s. ‘After all the complaints I’ve made to Notting Hill!’ Her voice was clipped and her accent cut glass. Slider found himself automatically thinking colonial – an outdated classification, but useful shorthand. ‘I even tried the Parks Police,’ she went on. ‘Their headquarters is in Holland Park, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ said Slider.

  ‘But nothing ever happened. I thought as it backs onto a park, they might be interested. And now you come here, from completely the wrong place. Better late than never, I suppose. Well, you’d better come in. I hope you don’t mind dogs?’

  ‘I love them,’ said Slider. As she walked away and he followed across the threshold, the terrier came to smell his shoes thoroughly, and the poodle hopped backwards on its hind legs, seeking attention. Their hostess started up the stairs, and both dogs abandoned Slider and shot past her, zooming to the top and disappearing. The doors on the ground floor were all closed and gave the house a cramped and gloomy air, but as they mounted to the first floor they progressed into light and space. There was an enormous, high-ceilinged kitchen across the back, made from one of the original reception rooms. Through the open door Slider caught a glimpse of polished wood floors, panelled cupboards painted in that National Trust shade of grey-green, a brushed-steel range, a central island with a granite top and inset sink, copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack – a nice mixture of the antique and the high-tech modern. The dogs had shot in there, but shot out again, claws skidding, as the woman went past and towards the front of the house, where she led them into a sitting room. It had an elaborate marble fireplace, bookshelves with cupboards to either side filling the alcoves, a Persian carpet on the polished floor, antique chairs and tables elegantly placed, and long windows onto the street.

  The woman turned, waved them to a settle in the middle of the room, disposed herself on the edge of an eighteenth-century armchair, and said, ‘Now, then, inspector – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  Slider re-introduced them, and said, ‘May I ask your name, ma’am?’

  ‘I’m Mrs Havelock Symonds,’ she said. Then her eyes widened. ‘But if you’re here about my complaint, you must know my name.’ She rose to her feet, and Slider and Atherton rose too, automatically; the dogs, who had just settled on the carpet before the hearth, jumped up, and the terrier started barking. ‘Who are you?’

  Slider got out his warrant card again. ‘We are police officers, ma’am. But I’m afraid we don’t know anything about your complaint. We wanted to talk to you about the house at the end of the road – Holland Lodge.’

  Now she only looked puzzled. ‘But that’s what my complaint is about,’ she said. She looked from one to the other uncertainly.

  ‘If you’d like to ring Shepherd’s Bush police station, they will vouch for us,’ Slider said.

  She seemed to make up her mind. ‘Oh no – I’ve seen enough of those—’ she nodded at the warrant card – ‘to know a genuine one. Sit down. We’ve obviously been talking at cross purposes.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ said Slider, ‘if we’re both interested in the same house.’

  She didn’t need much prompting to start talking. Despite her obvious wealth, education and composure, she was obviously a lonely woman. It was explained quite early in her monologue by the revelation that her husband worked for an international finance company and travelled a great deal. ‘He could have retired, of course, years ago – he’s sixty-eight – but it’s what he loves. The world of finance, the affairs of men – even the travel. I couldn’t care if I never stepped on another aeroplane or slept in another hotel, but he seems to be fulfilled by it all.’ She sighed. ‘And this road is so quiet nowadays.’

  ‘Are the other houses empty?’ Slider asked.

  ‘The two across the road are. They were bought as an i
nvestment, I believe. Russians.’ She mouthed the word as though they might be listening. ‘I’ve never seen anyone going in or out, though I believe they are furnished. And next door is owned by a South African, a banker. His bank’s headquarters is in Switzerland and he’s there a lot, and he travels all over the world, so he’s hardly ever here. I don’t think he’s married. Or perhaps he’s divorced. I’ve never seen him with anyone, on the few occasions I have seen him.’ It sounded as though the South African banker was denying her the solace of a female neighbour quite deliberately. ‘There used to be someone in the basement flat – that’s separate – but he’s gone now. So you see, as it is, I feel like a castaway in my own street. It’s all so dreary – not like when we first moved here. Then there were proper families, people one could take pleasure in knowing – dinners and bridge evenings and so on. Comings and goings. There was a lovely family in the house opposite. He was a solicitor and she and I used to walk our dogs together. They had a place in Shropshire, too.’ She sighed. Dem were de days, Joxer.

  ‘And what about the house at the end – Holland Lodge?’

  ‘Ah, yes, that was Lord and Lady Daintree’s house. Lovely people. They set the tone for the whole street. But they had a terrible tragedy in the eighties, when their son was killed, piloting a light aircraft, and of course they didn’t entertain so much after that. But they were a proper, old family, not like the nouveau riche and the foreigners that buy up all our lovely houses nowadays. In fact, I think Lord Daintree was related in some way to the Holland family – you know, the owners of Holland House?’ She looked to see if they did, in fact, know. Slider nodded encouragingly, glad that Atherton knew how to hold his peace. People like Mrs Havelock Symonds had to get to things in their own time. ‘Holland Lodge used to be called Cope Castle Lodge when Desmond and I first came here in 1972. You know that Holland House was originally called Cope Castle, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, so I understand,’ Slider said smoothly.

  ‘The Daintrees changed it in 1986, when the local council took over Holland House. I can’t remember why. I think it was something to do with the lease. Desmond could tell you, if he were here. I believe the current owners want to change it back. But if Holland Lodge was good enough for the Daintrees, I’m sure it’s good enough for them.’

  ‘What are they like?’ Slider asked. ‘The current owners.’

  ‘He’s an MP!’ she said, with a nod, opening her eyes wide as if that answered everything. ‘I believe she’s from a moneyed family but one never sees her. One doesn’t see him, when it comes to it – just the car going past. And I wouldn’t have any objection to him, whatever his politics, if it weren’t for the parties.’

  ‘The parties,’ Slider repeated.

  ‘That’s what you’ve made complaints about, is it?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘Well, yes – as I thought you knew when you arrived here on my doorstep. Nearly every Saturday night. Occasionally on Friday, but most Saturday nights. Cars and taxis going down. You just don’t know who’s in them. And then the party starts. The lights. And the noise.’

  ‘Loud music?’ Atherton hazarded.

  ‘I can hear it if I open my bedroom window,’ she said severely. ‘Especially when they’re up on the roof terrace. I can’t see much from my bedroom, but I can see the lights, and those outdoor heaters glaring, and people moving around and dancing, and I can hear the voices, and the music.’ She fixed them with a stern eye. ‘It’s the rowdiness I hate most. The coarse voices and vulgar laughter. I don’t know who they are but you can tell they’re not nice people. I don’t have any proof, but I’m sure they’re taking drugs. I told the police they ought to come round unannounced and raid the house. I’m sure it would be worth their while – think of the fines they could impose! But they never come.’

  Slider and Atherton exchanged a look. ‘Noise nuisance is usually considered a matter for the local council,’ Atherton said.

  ‘Oh, and I’ve complained to them, too, umpteen times,’ she said. ‘First it was the construction work – the noise, the dirt, the disruption, day after day, hammering, machinery, lorries going back and forth. It was sheer hell for over a year! And no sooner was that over and done with, than the parties started. But nobody cares! You’re the first people who have come to speak to me about it.’ She looked at them, and realisation came back to her. ‘And you haven’t even come here about that, have you?’

  ‘Only indirectly,’ said Slider.

  ‘Well, what did you want?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you whether you had noticed any comings and goings last Saturday.’

  ‘Last Saturday? Oh yes, they had one of their parties,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Was it different in any way?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. In what way?’

  Slider didn’t want to lead her. ‘Do you remember what time it ended?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. It was going on when I went to bed at about eleven.’

  ‘So you didn’t notice any particular rumpus? Shouting or screams, for instance?’

  ‘Not while I was awake. But I’d taken a sleeping tablet, to make sure I got my rest. I read for a while, about half an hour, I suppose, and then dropped off.’ She looked hopefully at Slider, but he was deep in thought, so she turned to Atherton. ‘So are you going to do something about it this time?’ She seemed to have lost sight again of the fact that they hadn’t come to sort out her noise pollution.

  ‘We will certainly pass it along to the proper authority,’ Atherton temporized.

  ‘That’s what they always say. But nothing happens.’

  Slider came back with a jerk. He stood up. ‘I’m very sorry you’ve been troubled with this, ma’am,’ he said, ‘and I shall certainly do everything in my power to see you aren’t bothered again. I promise you I’m not just going to shelve it. Thank you for your time. We’ll be going now.’

  She talked all the way down the stairs to let them out, but it was the same things over again. She stopped at the door, and stood watching them down the steps and out of sight. The dogs watched too, from just behind her. Slider imagined they saw him go with regret. Their lives could not contain much variety.

  Virginia Lamy did not seem to mind another visit from the police. The office looked too tidy to Swilley’s sweeping glance. Perhaps the work had dried up in the wake of George’s suicide.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘of course I know Mr Marler. He’s our local MP.’

  ‘And does he take any interest in the trust?’ Swilley asked.

  ‘He’s a great supporter,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘He helps at our fundraisers, advocates for us in Westminster, writes a piece for our newsletter now and then. Brings in donors, too. It’s very helpful for us to have an active, connected person like him to turn to.’

  ‘Is he himself a donor?’

  ‘Oh, in a small way,’ she said.

  ‘How much?’

  She seemed to find that indelicate. Her smile stiffened. ‘A hundred pounds here and there. I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘But I thought he was very wealthy,’ Swilley persisted.

  ‘Wealth is comparative, isn’t it? And it’s not for me to judge how people spend their money. His time and dedication are much more valuable to us.’

  Swilley let that pass. ‘So he’s here quite a lot? He pops in and out of the office?’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s much too busy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him here.’

  ‘You have met him?’

  ‘I’ve seen him at fundraisers and openings and so on. I’ve only ever spoken to him face-to-face once, at a sponsorship dinner-dance. Very charming man. Quite delightful. An excellent dancer, too.’

  ‘Did you dance with him?’

  ‘Sadly, not.’ She smiled. ‘There was a lot of competition.’

  ‘But he telephones here often,’ Swilley said, not making it a question.

  ‘Oh, I’ve spoken to him once or twice on the phone.’

  ‘More than that, surel
y? He has telephoned Mr Peloponnos several times a week.’

  Her cheeks coloured. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. George’s line can be dialled direct. I would only know about calls that came in on the central line and I put through.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know what Mr Marler and Mr Peloponnos talked about?’

  ‘The trust, of course.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You don’t imagine I listened in to his telephone conversations?’

  Which meant, Swilley thought, that she had, once or twice, and felt guilty. ‘It would be such a help,’ she said, looking away casually, ‘if you knew anything about a call Mr Marler made to your boss on Friday evening. About half past five.’

  Mrs Lamy hesitated. ‘We close at half past five,’ she said. Swilley waited, receptively. ‘As a matter of fact …’

  Yesss! Thought Swilley.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Mrs Lamy, trying to sound lofty, ‘I did happen to take some papers into George’s office at the end of the day, just before going home. There were some things that needed his signature, and while I was there, his telephone did ring.’

  ‘How do you know it was Mr Marler?’ Swilley asked.

  ‘George had his hands full. He answered it on speaker, and I heard Mr Marler’s voice say, “It’s me.” Then George picked up the receiver, so I didn’t hear anything more, but I recognized his voice.’

  ‘But you stayed in the room?’

  ‘I was waiting for the papers.’

  ‘So you heard what George said.’

  ‘I didn’t really pay any attention,’ she said.

  ‘I understand that. But please tell me anything you can remember, however small. It could be important.’ She gave a woman-to-woman smile. ‘I know you were fond of him – as a boss and a human being. You must want to know what really happened to make him kill himself on Monday.’