Game Over

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘And as I remember you thoroughly disapproved.’

  ‘And you said she wasn’t a material witness, which she wasn’t, only happened to know the deceased. Emily wasn’t even in the country. She’s just the victim’s daughter.’

  ‘All the same, at a moment when she’s in emotional turmoil—’

  ‘This is a moral objection, then, not a police procedural one?’ Atherton asked with his head up.

  ‘It’s not like you,’ Slider said.

  ‘No, it isn’t. And for the record, she came on to me. And I’ve no intention of letting her down. I’m extremely serious about her.’

  Slider surveyed his friend’s face and was baffled. Atherton was a serial womaniser and he was so attractive to the opposite sex he had to fight them off with a plank. But to be bedding a woman when she’d only found out that day that her father had been murdered . . . When Emily Stonax was back in her right mind, she might well bring a complaint, and though Atherton hadn’t broken any specific rule it could be viewed as misconduct. As to including her in the investigation – would it make her more or less likely to want to sue if she saw the way the department operated? On the other hand, she might have useful insights to share. Joanna had been extremely helpful during the Austin case.

  ‘She can’t sit in on our meetings,’ he said at last. ‘But you can pass things on to her unless I specifically say you can’t. You’ll have to use your judgement about how much you want to tell her.’

  ‘She wants to help. She wants to be useful.’

  ‘Well, I expect she will be,’ Slider said.

  ‘Can’t we give her something to do? She says she’s very good at research. She must be, given her job.’ Slider began shaking his head halfway through this, and Atherton added, ‘I brought in my own laptop, so she wouldn’t have to use one of ours.’

  ‘If anything comes up that’s suitable, we’ll talk about it then,’ Slider said, standing up. ‘For now, I have a meeting to conduct.’

  When everyone was assembled and more or less quiet, Slider began with the summary.

  ‘In the case of Edward Philip Stonax, BSc, PhD, DBA—’

  McLaren looked up from his fried egg sandwich. ‘It’s not spelt like it sounds, then?’

  Slider continued, but louder. ‘Ed Stonax was killed yesterday morning by a single blow to the head with something like a cosh. His pockets were emptied and his watch was removed – an expensive Rolex. We believe his wallet, credit cards and mobile phone were also taken.’

  ‘I’ve asked Mick Hutton to put a trace on the mobile,’ Swilley said.

  ‘Thanks. OK, so far it looks like simple robbery from the person. However, Bob Bailey found oily fingermarks – gloved – on a filing cabinet in Stonax’s office in the flat, and a file seems to have been removed from it – at least, there’s an empty hanging folder. So there may be another motive. One of the neighbours, Mrs Koontz, saw a motorbike courier leaving the flats at half past seven when she was walking her dog.’

  ‘Guv,’ said Hart, ‘how did she know he was a courier and not just any old bloke in leathers?’

  ‘Good question. Mackay?’

  Mackay looked at his notes of the interview with Mrs Koontz. ‘She didn’t say he was, she just said he was a man in leathers and a dark helmet. He was carrying a large envelope, and he got on to a motorbike which had a white box on the back, and put the envelope in it. The box had a logo on it. So I assumed from that he was a courier of some sort.’

  ‘Fair enough. Now, Freddie Cameron says there were traces of oil on the victim’s pockets and sleeve, and the security door to the building wasn’t working, so anyone could have come in off the street. Conclusions?’

  ‘It looks,’ said Hollis, ‘as though either someone posed as a courier to rob Stonax—’

  ‘Or someone wants to make us think that’s what happened,’ said Atherton.

  ‘The courier might have been legitimate. Did anyone in the building receive a visit from a courier that morning?’ Slider asked.

  ‘No-one said they did,’ Hart reported.

  ‘Better check that point.’

  ‘Guv, there was that biro found underneath the body,’ she went on. ‘Say the murderer was pretending to be a courier, he could’ve asked Stonax to sign something and given him the biro. That could’ve been where it came from.’

  ‘Good point. Now, further to this courier theory, as far as it is one, the caretaker, Dave Borthwick, has a bike in his basement, a Triumph. However the bike does not have a box on the back. Hollis, have you looked into Borthwick yet?’

  ‘Yes, guv, and he’s got some previous. No burglary or robbery, but he’s done some thieving. Started with nicking cars for joyriding when he was fourteen. Nicking hubcaps and wire wheels to order when he was fifteen. Then as an adult, got done for stealing tools from B and Q – cautioned. Stealing a motorbike – got community service for that. Couple of drunk and disorderlies. And he was involved in that car-ringing gang four years ago, but there wasn’t enough evidence against him and there were no charges brought. Nothing against him since then, and he got the caretaker’s job at Valancy House just over two years ago.’

  ‘How come they took him on with a record like that?’ Fathom asked.

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone asked,’ Hollis said. ‘The landlord’s a property company, JK Holdings, owns all three of those identical blocks in Riverene Road. Previous caretaker left suddenly, and they’d be in a hurry to get someone in, not wanting to leave the place empty. Caretaker gets the flat plus a small salary to do general maintenance and a bit of light cleaning of the public areas – hall and stairs. I gave ’em a ring and they said there’d been no complaints against him, so we have to reckon he was discharging his duties all right.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hart. ‘The average age in that building must be about ninety-five, and them old trouts really love complaining.’

  ‘But if it was Borthwick who did it,’ Fathom said, ‘why would he dress himself up as a courier to do the robbery? I mean, he must have had plenty of opportunities to do the place over while people were out.’

  ‘Yeah, that would look good, him being the caretaker!’ Hart said derisively. ‘Of course he had to cover himself up, because any of the old biddies would’ve recognised him. And he had to make it look like an outsider, didn’t he, to take the heat off himself? That’s why he broke the security door.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Slider. ‘But he’d not done anything like that before. Why Stonax, why robbery from the person, and why now?’

  ‘Maybe he’d seen the F283,’ Hart said. ‘People’d kill for that Cyber-box. He wouldn’t have any trouble shifting it afterwards. Say he’d seen Stonax come in using it? He might not’ve meant to kill him – just hit him a bit too hard.’

  ‘But what about the oil smears on the filing cabinet?’ Slider said. ‘If the Cyber-box was his object, what was he doing in the office?’

  Hart shrugged. ‘Maybe once he’d slugged Stonax he reckoned he might as well look round. Hoping to find some cash or something portable.’

  ‘He didn’t take anything,’ Atherton said.

  ‘Maybe he was disturbed,’ Mackay said. ‘Thought he heard something. If it wasn’t his usual style, he would have been well nervous.’

  ‘All right,’ said Slider, ‘we’d better turn him over. Bring him in for questioning, and search his flat while he’s here. Get some samples of oil from various parts of the motorbike and send them off to Les Patterson. If we can get a match on that we’ll know something, at least. What else?’

  Swilley spoke up. ‘Boss, there’s something about Candida Scott-Chatton that doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Her name for a start,’ McLaren muttered.

  ‘She seemed as if she was hiding something. And she didn’t seem upset enough. Then, Stonax’s daughter says she stuck by her father after his bit of trouble last year, but Candida’s secretary says she dropped him like a hot potato and started to go out with Freddie Bell.’

  Slider f
rowned. ‘But the daughter says she gave Stonax an expensive watch for Christmas.’

  ‘A really expensive watch,’ Atherton said. ‘Depending on the model, a Rolex Oyster Perpetual knocks out at five thousand upwards. Not the sort of thing you give to someone you aren’t seeing any more.’

  ‘Maybe it was Freddie Bell give it her,’ Hart said. ‘He blows his nose on fifty-pound notes.’

  ‘Worth another go,’ Slider nodded to Swilley. ‘Especially with the Freddie Bell connection. I can’t see the head of the Countryside Protection Trust lamming Stonax on the head, but Freddie Bell’s a different matter.’

  ‘He’s got no form, guv,’ Hollis reminded him. ‘Clean as a whistle.’

  ‘A whistle might be shiny on the outside, but on the inside it’s full of germs and old spit. Have another word with Scott-Chatton, Norma, and see where it leads. And Hollis, see if there’s anything unofficial against Bell. I’ve got an idea in the back of my head there was some sort of story about him a while back.’

  ‘So you don’t think it was robbery from the person, then?’ Fathom said.

  ‘I’m not at the stage of thinking anything yet,’ Slider said, his old formula. ‘I’m just looking for anomalies and asking questions. Mackay, go back to Mrs Koontz and find out more about this courier she saw. What kind and size of envelope? What did the logo look like? Where did he go? McLaren, did anyone in the building have a courier call that morning. Everyone else, start going through the papers. Questions?’ No-one spoke. He looked at Hart. ‘Regarding Bates’s house being watched?’

  She started blankly, then jerked. ‘Oh! Yeah – I forgot for a minute. Phil Warzynski says the house was sealed off when the forensic mob had done their number. They keep a man on all the time, who keeps a note of who goes in and out.’

  ‘So there have been people going in and out?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Various SO people, but they all have to have proper ID. And everything they take out is logged. Phil says they took out a load of electronics gear a couple of weeks ago, but it was all signed for.’

  ‘So he couldn’t be living there,’ Mackay said.

  ‘But he must have a place to hang out,’ Hart went on, ‘and if he was following you, guv, it must be fairly local.’

  ‘We need to look into his local contacts,’ Slider said. ‘Anyone he might bunk up with, any other properties he’s got an interest in.’

  ‘And what about his sidekicks?’ Atherton said. ‘His driver, Thomas Mark, and that bodyguard of his, what was his name? Norman something?’

  ‘Norman Grant. But he’s still inside,’ Slider said. ‘He was nicked for carrying a firearm at the same time that we took his boss. But there was that butler-type he employed – what was his name?’

  ‘Archie Gordon,’ Hollis supplied. ‘He and Mark disappeared when Bates was taken, and we don’t know where they are. They might be helping him.’

  Atherton looked significantly at Slider. ‘It seems we could do with someone to do some research, but who have we got to spare?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Slider said. ‘Give her the biographical bits of the file and the names, and see what she can come up with.’

  ‘Her who?’ Hart demanded.

  Atherton wasn’t going to answer so Slider did. ‘Emily Stonax. She wants to help, and she needs something to do to keep her mind off things.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Norma said. ‘We’re not officially on Bates, and she’s not officially here.’

  Seven

  Into the Valley of Debt Flowed the 500

  Slider let Borthwick sweat, once they’d booked him in, while Atherton and Fathom searched the flat. Atherton phoned straight away with the most urgent piece of information Slider had requested, and once he had that, Slider went up to see Porson.

  He found the old man pacing about his office while he watched the news on television.

  ‘They’ve got your arrest on already,’ he said as Slider entered. They stood in silence watching on the rolling newscast as Borthwick came out between two uniformed policemen and was helped into the marked car with the usual hand-on-the-head, while the news ribbon underneath read ‘Arrest made in Stonax case’.

  ‘I thought they’d jump on it, but that’s even quicker than I expected,’ Slider said.

  Porson looked at him, oddly still for a moment. ‘I’ve had a call from Mr Wetherspoon, congratulating us on our quick work,’ he said neutrally. ‘D’you want to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘There was a footmark, just an impression in the carpet pile, by the filing cabinet where we think a file was taken. Bob Bailey says it was no more than a size nine. Victim’s feet are an eleven, and Atherton’s just rung through to say Borthwick’s various bits of footwear in the flat – ’ disgusting trainers, was what Atherton had said – ‘are size twelve.’

  ‘Easy enough to fake a footprint larger than your own,’ Porson said, ‘but you can’t make your feet smaller.’

  ‘Exactly. I think Borthwick’s being set up to take the fall. That’s why I told them to take Borthwick out of the front door, make sure the press got a good look at him.’

  ‘Stupid old Mr Plod’s taken the bait, eh?’ Porson was on the move again.

  ‘I don’t like being led by the nose,’ Slider said grimly. ‘So now I need to know if Borthwick was a willing accomplice, and who he’ll roll over for if I lean on him.’

  ‘So if it’s not robbery from the person, what is it?’

  Slider shrugged unhappily. ‘It’s got to be something to do with Stonax’s past life.’

  ‘The missing file?’

  ‘Possibly. But that could be another red herring. His ex-lady friend was going out with Freddie Bell—’

  That caught his attention. ‘Tasty!’

  ‘But we think she was still seeing Stonax.’

  Porson got the point at once. ‘Oh, Freddie Bell would love that.’

  ‘Question is, would he be devoted to her enough to hit his rival?’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to find out. We’ll let them think we’ve bought the story, anyway, hold on to Borthwick as long as we can. I want to give you time to look into every asset of Stonax’s life.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Slider was at the door when Porson said quietly, ‘What about the other business?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You had a little outing yesterday.’ Slider turned back reluctantly. The old man always knew everything. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Porson seemed to sigh. ‘I can’t expect you to take it lying down, like a sitting duck. You’re a tethered goat, and Headquarters’ve got no right to make you a sacrificial lamb, in my book. But bigger things are at stake here than either you or I know about. We’ve been pacifically told not to investigate, and if you pee on some SO’s carpet, they’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks. I won’t be flavour of the month either,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. Like a good general, he thought about his troops first.

  ‘Whatever I did, it was without your permission, sir, and behind your back. You didn’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Didn’t know anything about what?’ Porson barked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He paused to see if anything else was coming, and headed for the door again.

  This time, Porson said very quietly, but with feeling, ‘For God’s sake be careful. This bastard’s dangerous. You’re not in the Job to get your head blown off.’

  To which no reply was needed.

  Dave Borthwick looked as though he hadn’t slept. His face was both puffy and drawn. His hair, too long, thinning on the top, hung down in limp and greasy strands, and he smelled of sweat both old and new, as though he hadn’t changed his clothes in a couple of days. He had a full beard and a gold earring in the right earlobe, but neither feature managed to give him a buccaneer air. He was a big man, heavily built, both in the manner of muscles gone to seed and too much indulgence in fast food, pub snacks and beer. His sheer size and weight would give him the edge in
a fight, but he didn’t look like a man who had much to do with edges in any aspect of his life. There was about him, to the experienced copper’s eye, the look of a whiner, the kind of small-time crook who thought the world owed him a living, and that it wasn’t coming up to scratch.

  Slider felt that whoever had chosen Borthwick as accomplice had got the wrong man. This was not a hero ready to throw himself on the grenade. Atherton described him as thixotropic: turns to jelly when agitated. But Slider supposed they hadn’t had any choice.

  He went in to the interview almost with relish. ‘Well, Dave – d’you mind if I call you Dave?’ He didn’t give Borthwick a chance to answer. ‘This is a bit of a turn up, isn’t it? You’re in a lot of trouble, you know. A lot of trouble.’

  Borthwick’s eyes flitted about like moths round a table lamp. ‘I never done nothing. You got nothing on me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Slider said dismissively. ‘We’ve got everything on you. In case you hadn’t noticed, one of your tenants got murdered yesterday.’

  Panic and self-righteousness competed for control of Borthwick’s features. ‘Bloody ’ell, what’s goin’ on?’ he cried in what sounded like genuine pain. ‘Just because some geezer gets offed! Whajjer come down on me for? I never even knew the bloke. All the people ’at live in that house, and just because I got a bit o’ form . . . You lot are all the same. I been clean for four soddin’ years, but you lot can’t ever give a bloke a fuckin’ break. I never done nothing! What . . . what . . .?’

  Slider intervened before he exploded. ‘Shut up, Dave,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘To save you wasting your breath, I feel I should tell you that a man in motorbike leathers and a helmet with a dark visor was seen leaving the house just about the time of the murder, and we’ve found leathers and helmet in your place that match the description. Also there were marks and smears of oil on the victim’s clothing where his pockets were searched. Now, in case you don’t know it, the oil in a motor quickly picks up impurities – dirt, soot, tiny specks of swarf – and the pattern of those impurities is unique to that machine. It’s like DNA for motorbikes, if you like. You know what DNA is, don’t you? It stands for Do Not Argue, because there’s no getting away from it. It’s the ultimate proof. And would it surprise you very much to learn that the oil from the victim’s clothing matches the oil from your bike?’ He hadn’t had the report back yet, of course, so he couldn’t say that it did match, but linguistic subtlety would be lost on Borthwick anyway.