Game Over dibs-11

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  It took time for this to filter through Borthwick’s mental rigidity. ‘The victim’s—?’ he said. ‘That watch was—?’ Slider nodded. ‘Bastards!’ Borthwick yelled suddenly. He heaved in his chair, and Atherton, standing behind Slider, took a step and said menacingly, ‘Sit down!’

  Borthwick subsided but he had found his tongue. ‘I never did it, I swear on my mum’s grave! I never knew the bloke! Never even been in his flat. Some of ’em – that old Koontz bitch next door – there’s always something wrong. Mend this, fix that. Like I’m a bloody ’eaven slave. Called me up there to change a light bulb last week. I mean, what am I? I don’t get paid to run up and down after the likes of ’er!’ He recollected the specific from the general complaint that was threatening to carry him away. ‘But that Stonax bloke, he’s never once asked for anything, so I’ve never been up there, never. Never set foot in there.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ Slider said. ‘About the foot. It’s the one thing in your favour.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Borthwick cried in desperate bewilderment.

  ‘You’ve been set up, Dave, is what I’m talking about.’ He watched this sink in. ‘They want you to take the rap for them. And it’s not just any old rap, it’s murder in the course of a robbery, which is life, automatic. Am I getting through to you, Dave old pal? Even with remission you’ll be an old, old man by the time you get out. If you get out at all. You might die in there. Not nice places, gaols, you know.’

  Borthwick was trying to think now, which was painful to watch, like a dog walking on its hind legs. ‘But – you can’t,’ he stumbled, ‘prove – I mean, I never done it so you can’t—’

  Slider counted on his fingers. ‘Eye witness, oil matching your bike, money, victim’s watch. Plus you’re the man in charge of the security door, which was so conveniently not working that day.’

  ‘But that’s the ’ole point, that’s the thing. He—’ Borthwick stopped himself, but the protest had begun eagerly, even passionately.

  Slider felt the thrill of knowing he had been right. He nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, it didn’t look like much, did it? But, come on, Dave, did you never think it was a lot of money for what they wanted you to do?’

  ‘It was business,’ he protested. ‘He said it was worth a lot to his business.’

  ‘It’s worth a lot for them to get you to do life for their murder. But is it enough for you?’ Borthwick stared, calculating. ‘Come on, Dave. Use your loaf. Tell me all about it. Why should you go down for them? They’ve set you up, and you’re not going to let them get away with it, are you?’

  ‘If I tell you,’ Borthwick said slowly, ‘and they find out . . . He looked like a right tasty bloke. I dunno . . .’

  ‘Twenty years inside,’ Slider said. ‘Minimum. And for what?’

  ‘All right,’ he said, and seemed to deflate, as if his sigh was letting more than air out of him. He didn’t seem to know where to begin, so Slider helped him along.

  ‘Where did you meet the man?’

  ‘In the pub,’ he answered easily. ‘I go down there most nights.’

  ‘Which one’s that?’

  ‘The Sally.’ This was what locals called the Salutation, an old-fashioned Fullers’ pub on King Street, practically opposite the end of Riverene Road.

  ‘That’s a bit posh for you, isn’t it?’

  Borthwick shrugged. ‘It’s nearest. Anyway, I like a proper pint, not that pissy lager,’ he added, and went up a tiny notch in Slider’s estimation.

  ‘So how did you know this bloke?’

  ‘I never. He come up to me when I was sitting at the bar, and he says wasn’t I the caretaker at Valancy House.’

  ‘How did he know that?’ Atherton put in.

  ‘I asked him that,’ Borthwick said as if answering an accusation of stupidity. ‘He said he’d seen me go in and out. Anyway, he bought me a pint, and asked if I was interested in a business proposition.’

  ‘And you said yes, because you’re in a bit of financial trouble, aren’t you?’ Atherton put in. ‘All the paperwork in your flat seems to consist of betting slips and unpaid bills.’

  Borthwick shrugged resentfully.

  ‘So what was this business, then?’ Slider asked.

  ‘This bloke said he worked for a security firm – Ring 4 – and he wanted to get the maintenance contracts for places like mine. He said it was worth a lot of money to his firm if he could get in, because there’s ’undreds of security doors around the area. And then there’s other stuff – CCTV an’ that – what people are putting in all the time. He said he just needed a foot ’old to get started.’

  ‘And that’s where you came in?’

  ‘I told him it was Wellings what put our doors in, and they still do the maintenance. So he said all I had to do was put the doors out of order, wait for someone to complain, and then call him to come in and fix ’em. Tell the tenants Wellings said they couldn’t come out for two days, but his firm guaranteed a one-hour call-out. Well,’ he added, ‘the residents couldn’t give a monkey’s who does the maintenance, it’s the company, JK Holdings, and they won’t care as long as it costs the same. So the bloke says he’d start off doing it cheaper than Wellings just to get ’em hooked, and there’d be something for me if he got the contract.’

  ‘And what exactly did he tell you to do?’

  ‘I was to pull the fuse so the doors didn’t work. When there’s a power cut or anything the locking system shuts off and they just open and close like ordinary doors – so people could still get in and out in an emergency.’

  ‘I understand. Then what?’

  ‘Well, I was to ring him on this number he give me, and he’d come round and fix it, sweet as you like. He’d give me a thou before, and the same after.’

  Atherton intervened. ‘Two thousand? But there was only five hundred under the mattress.’

  Borthwick looked sulky. ‘I put a bit on a horse. Bloke I know give me a tip. Pretty Polly, two thirty at Newmarket.’

  Evidently it hadn’t won. ‘Did he say when all this was to happen, or leave it up to you?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Nah, he said it had to be when he was in the area so he could get there quick. So he said I should do it Tuesday. Said he’d be waiting somewhere near for me call. Anyway, I done my bit, and he comes all right Tuesday and his bloke fixes the door—’

  ‘His bloke?’

  ‘Well, he was like the manager or sales rep or summink, wasn’t he? He don’t do the work himself. He had his technical bloke in the van, waiting. Anyway, he fixes it, but Tuesday night when I get back from the pub it’s out again, and when I ring ’is number – nothing.’

  ‘There was no answer?’

  ‘It was turned off. It was a mobile. I keep ringing it, but nothing. And the bloody door’s still not fixed.’

  ‘What about the lift?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘It’s on the same system. One goes out the other goes out. The wiring’s shit in these old places, anyway.’ Borthwick looked bitter. ‘I’ll have them old bitches nagging me blue about it. I dunno what the bloke did to it, but it was definitely working all right after he left. Could have been just an accident, I s’pose?’ he said hopefully, looking from one to the other.

  ‘I don’t think so, Dave,’ Slider said kindly. ‘I don’t think the nice man gave you two thousand quid to get the maintenance contract. I think he fixed the door on a timer so it would go out when he wanted it to go out, so he could slip in and murder Mr Stonax when he wanted. And, of course,’ he added, as Borthwick paled at the reminder of the shit he was in, ‘so as to make it look even more as if you did it.’

  ‘Overkill, really,’ Atherton said, ‘seeing you had the victim’s watch. When did you take that?’

  ‘I never!’ Borthwick protested fiercely. ‘It was the bloke, in the pub, just when he was going, he said was I interested in nice watches, he had a mate brought ’em in from Switzerland, proper Rolexes real cheap. I said I might be. I mean, s
tuff like that, you can usually knock ’em out to your mates if they’re cheap enough. Well, I didn’t reckon they’d be genuine ones, but if they was good fakes . . . Anyway, he said he’d let me have one as a sample, and if I didn’t want any more, I could still keep it for meself, part of the fee for the job. So when he gives me the other grand, I says what about the watch, and he says he’s forgotten it, he’ll bring it me another time, next time he calls. Well, I thought that was that, y’know? And I wasn’t that bothered, tell you the trufe, but this morning I found he’d pushed it under the door, in an omberlope. Well, it looked a bit nice, like it was genuine, so I stuck it in the drawer. I was going to take it to my mate Timmy, see what he thought about it. I mean, the bloke said he could do ’em for thirty quid each, and I bet I could knock a lot of ’em out at fifty, maybe more,’ he concluded excitedly.

  ‘Dave, it wasn’t a genuine offer,’ Slider reminded him. ‘This man doesn’t really have a friend who imports Rolexes. It was the victim’s watch and it was taken off his dead wrist to help incriminate you.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’ Borthwick slumped, looking sullen.

  ‘When did you find it?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘I dunno,’ Borthwick said sulkily. ‘This morning, when I went out to see what all the fuss was about. When you lot arrived.’

  ‘It wasn’t there last night when you got back from the pub?’

  ‘I dunno. I don’t go in and out that way unless I’m on me bike. I got a door into the yard I use, and I walked to the pub.’ He seemed suddenly to tire. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ he asked, almost indifferently. All the excitement had taken it out of him.

  ‘We’re going to keep you here for a while, while you help us with our inquiries. And if you are completely co-operative, there will probably be no charges against you. What they’ll think of you at Valancy House I can’t tell.’

  ‘Wasn’t my fault,’ he said. ‘I never done nothing.’

  Slider waved that aside. ‘Tell me what this man looked like.’

  Borthwick made an effort, rubbing his hand back and forth across his beard to aid memory. ‘He was tall – about six foot. Buff – like he worked out a lot. Wore a nice leather jacket – expensive. Nice clothes. He looked the business all right.’

  ‘Name? Age?’

  ‘He said his name was Patrick Steel. I dunno his age. Not old. Not young. Mid-thirties, maybe. I’m not good at ages. Dark hair, real poof’s-parlour cut like yours,’ he nodded at Atherton, ‘not a five quid back an’ sides job like yours.’ This to Slider. ‘You could see he was well-off. But he was a hard man, not some soft office job wanker. You wouldn’t want to cross him.’

  ‘What about the other man, the man who did the repair?’

  ‘I never seen him. This Steel, he comes to the door, gives me the money, says he’ll get his man in, what’s waiting in the van, and he kinda like waits for me to go. So I go in me flat and shut the door, because you don’t piss off a bloke like him, know’t I mean?’

  ‘All right, I’m going to ask you to look at some photographs later, see if you can spot Patrick Steel, and maybe ask you to help create a photofit. Meanwhile you can give me the telephone number.’

  ‘I got the number here.’ He handed over a dirty scrap of paper.

  ‘Is that his writing?’

  ‘No, he like told me it an’ I wrote it down.’

  A careful villain, Slider thought. He stood up. ‘That’s all for now. We’ll probably talk again later. Do you want anything? Cup of tea?’

  ‘Two sugars,’ Borthwick said eagerly. ‘And can I have summink to eat? I ain’t had nothing since last night.’

  Outside, Slider said to the constable, ‘Get him some tea, two sugars, and a couple of rounds of bacon sarnies. Make him feel loved.’

  ‘Be the first time in his life,’ Atherton said as they walked upstairs together. ‘Are you sure you want to bother? Subtlety’s wasted on him.’

  ‘Oxygen’s wasted on him,’ Slider said.

  ‘What a dipstick,’ Atherton said. ‘If they gave Air Miles for stupidity, he’d be the first man on Mars. Are you going to run that number?’

  ‘Have to go through the motions,’ Slider said, ‘but Fort Knox to a Frisbee it’ll be at the bottom of a sewer by now. And he won’t find a photograph. Whoever did the fronting, he won’t have a record, Patrick Steel won’t be his name, and he won’t have worked for Ring 4. I wonder how he fixed the doors to fail again.’

  ‘Something on a timer that blew the fuse,’ Atherton said. ‘Shouldn’t be hard to rig. Want to get someone in to look at it?’

  ‘Yes, we’d better do that. It might have a signature method about it, like a bomb-maker’s. But I’m not sure it’s going to be that easy. This is starting to look horribly professional. I think we’re going to have to trawl Stonax’s life to find out why someone wanted to go to so much trouble to kill him.’

  They climbed a few steps in silence and then Slider looked at Atherton, and Atherton anticipated his thought. ‘You’re glad now I took the trouble to befriend his daughter, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, is that what you call it nowadays – befriending?’

  ‘I’m not sure how much help she’ll be, given that she lives in New York, and it seems that he kept a lot of secrets from her,’ Atherton said, ‘but I know she’ll want to help, and she’ll do everything she can.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slider. ‘And we’ll need all the help we can get, going through his papers. Maybe I’d better ask Porson’s permission to bring her in on the case. Now we know it isn’t Borthwick, he’ll see the point.’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned bacon sandwiches,’ Atherton complained as they reached the corridor. ‘It’s made me hungry.’

  ‘We’ll send someone for tea and sticky buns,’ Slider said, turning into the office.

  McLaren was there, at his desk, and Atherton said, ‘Oy, Maurice, you know all about the ponies: heard of a horse called Pretty Polly?’

  McLaren looked up. ‘You don’t half pick ’em. It was in the two thirty at Newbury yesterday. Came in so late it had to tiptoe into the stables. How much d’you lose?’

  ‘Not me, another bloke. Put a monkey on it.’

  ‘Barmy,’ McLaren shook his head sadly.

  Slider was heading on to his office. Atherton said to McLaren, ‘You’re not hungry, are you?’

  ‘Kidding? I could eat a nun’s arse through a convent gate.’

  ‘Excellent. Then while you’re in the canteen, can you get something for the guv’nor and me? One tea, one coffee, and two sticky buns. Pay you when you get back.’

  McLaren grumbled, but he got up. Never let it be said he shirked a trip to the canteen, even for a friend.

  Eight

  Outrageous Fortune

  Swilley traced Candida Scott-Chatton to her home this time, and found a very different person from the poised, controlling woman of the previous day. It was as if the reality of Stonax’s death has suddenly sunk in. She didn’t quite look unkempt – probably she could have emerged from an earthquake with no hair out of place – but there was something ragged in her expression and demeanour, and when she moved it was both sluggish and curiously jerky, as though she had taken some drug and it hadn’t quite worked off.

  An elderly, uniformed maid had let Swilley in, and she was shown into a drawing-room which was like the office all over again, only more so – high ceilings, antiques, oil paintings, bronzes; that expensive silence only the houses of the very wealthy seem to have, the stillness of air that no unruly passions would ever stir; the absence of smell, except for a breath of clean carpets and the faintest ghost of potpourri.

  When Scott-Chatton entered she was preceded by two elegant whippets, one black with a white mark on its breast, the other brindle-grey. They looked at Swilley from a distance, twitching their tucked-down tails ingratiatingly but not venturing close. Swilley noted that they were both wearing diamond collars. It struck her as not what she would have expected from Scott-Chatton – too vul
garly ostentatious. It also looked, to her admittedly inexpert eye, as if they were real diamonds.

  ‘Eos and Aurora,’ Scott-Chatton said, as if Swilley had asked. ‘Do you like dogs?’

  ‘I can take ’em or leave ’em,’ Swilley said.

  Scott-Chatton did not ask her to sit, nor sat herself, but remained standing where she had halted, a little way into the room, looking at Swilley with eyes that were no longer chips of ice, rubbing her fingers very slowly as if they were cold, or aching. Swilley had seen old people do that, and it was not a gesture she would have associated with this woman. ‘I have a few questions I want to put to you, if that’s all right.’

  Scott-Chatton searched her face. ‘It wasn’t robbery, was it?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, but it may have had something to do with Mr Stonax’s life, so we need to find out as much about him as possible. I’m afraid we’re a bit confused about what your relationship was with him. His daughter seems to think you and he were still going out together, which is what you suggested to me, but someone else says you dropped him when he got the sack from the DTI.’

  ‘I can guess who that was,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t take everything Shawna says literally. She has a grudge against me.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Swilley receptively.

  ‘She came in to work one day quite unsuitably dressed and I asked her to go home and change. Naturally she took that as a mortal insult, and she’s been waging a war of attrition on me ever since.’

  ‘Why don’t you sack her, then?’

  Scott-Chatton only raised her eyebrows. ‘You can’t dismiss a person these days except for stealing. Surely you know that?’

  ‘She says Mr Stonax tried to persuade you to keep seeing him and you refused. She overheard him saying he wanted to talk to you and you saying it wouldn’t make any difference.’ A blush of anger coloured Scott-Chatton’s face and Swilley reckoned she might yet find a way of sacking young Shawna, employment laws or no employment laws. ‘Also the gossip papers say you’re going out with Mr Freddie Bell of the Three Bells gaming company.’