‘He’ll get the pity vote. Besides, he’s got a moustache.’
‘So has McLaren – almost.’
‘What did I just say about not frightening them?’
The afternoon was absorbed by the interview with Rathkeale. He gave an account of his recent movements without much fuss, though it was not much help. On the critical day, Sunday, he said he’d been at home alone all day, his wife having gone away for the weekend to see her parents in north Norfolk. On earlier days, he was vague about some timings and muddled, even contradictory about some activities. ‘For God’s sake, I can’t remember every little detail,’ he cried at one point, when Slider’s stoical patience pushed him over the top. ‘I mean, nobody can remember like that, at the drop of a hat.’
‘No, sir,’ Slider agreed in a provoking monotone.
‘Anyway,’ Rathkeale said, adding the fatal second justification, ‘I’m upset about this business – wouldn’t you be? You try thinking straight when someone’s just landed all this in your lap.’
‘Just take your time, sir. We’ve got all day.’
But by the time he went tottering off into the dusk, they had learned little more. He still insisted he had never seen or heard of Kimmelman, had not seen the film footage before, and had not been blackmailed.
‘I’d almost be ready to believe him, if he wasn’t such a repulsive little squit,’ Atherton said as they climbed the stairs.
‘I object to the word “little”. That’s sizeist,’ Slider said, looking down at him from the advantage of two stairs up, the only way he ever could overtop his tall lieutenant.
At the door to the office, he was met by Gascoyne. ‘Your wife rang,’ he said. ‘She wants you to call her back.’
Slider parted from Atherton and went to his desk. Joanna answered straight away, in a voice that assured him nothing was wrong.
‘I’ve got Emily here,’ she said. ‘We’ve had a nice domestic afternoon, and she’s staying for supper. She says can you bring Jim home with you, because there’s nothing at their house.’
‘Yes, if I can catch him.’ He looked through into the CID room, where Atherton was putting on his coat, and caught his attention. ‘OK, got him. Do you need us to bring anything?’
‘No, it’s all under control. I’m just doing a big pot of bolognese, and Emily’s making garlic bread. Your dad and Lydia are going to a dinner dance at the Red Lion, so it’ll just be the four of us. Oh,’ she said as he was about to ring off, ‘I don’t know whether you ought to warn him, but she’s getting very broody over George. She’s giving him his bath as we speak. Gales of merriment are pouring down the stairs. I think she may be wanting one of her own.’
‘On the whole,’ said Slider, ‘I don’t think I’ll tell him.’
‘Tell me what?’ Atherton asked, catching the glance.
‘No,’ said Slider, ‘you should have all the fun of discovering it for yourself.’
The house was warm and lit, glowing through a thin fog like the paradigm of a traveller’s rest. Joanna opened the door and a smell of garlic and herbs engulfed him. Home!
‘You just missed your dad,’ Joanna said, when coats had been shed and Atherton and Emily were catching up. ‘They came up to say goodbye.’ Slider’s father and his new wife Lydia lived in the sub-basement granny flat, a wonderful arrangement for childminding. Fortunately, they thought it was wonderful too. ‘He looked gorgeous in black tie. I practically fancied him.’
‘Hey!’ Slider protested.
‘Now I know what you’ll look like in black tie when you’re his age. Gorgeous, and slightly shame-faced. Why are men so reluctant to put on a dinner suit?’
‘We don’t like to be made monkeys of,’ said Slider.
‘Au contraire, it’s the far other end of evolution.’
Slider knew when to leave an argument. ‘I’ll just pop up and see my boy.’
‘Don’t wake him up,’ said Joanna, heading for the kitchen.
But George was awake when he went in, though heavy-eyed and fighting it. ‘I betted I could stay awake till you came,’ he said.
Slider went to kiss him and tuck him in. ‘Did you have a nice time with Aunty Emily?’ he said.
‘We played submarines in the barf,’ George said. ‘I like it when she plays with me. She makes funny noises. Daddy, can she come and live with us all the time?’
‘I don’t know if there’s room. Where would she sleep?’
‘In my bed.’
‘And where would you sleep?’
‘In my bed too,’ George said, as if it was a silly question.
‘I think she might want to go home to her own house,’ Slider said, seeing his son’s eyelids drooping. The effort of staying awake was taking its toll.
‘But will you ask her?’ George murmured, eyes closed now. ‘Pease. I like it when we do fings …’ He was gone.
On the way downstairs, Slider planned to say to Emily, ‘You’ve made a hit,’ but thought better of it. He knew Atherton had always had difficulty with committing himself to one woman, and he and Emily had already had some ups and downs. If she had started thinking about marriage and reproduction – and she was in the right age-bracket for it to become a priority – it wasn’t for him to stir things up. Let Atherton find his own way through that particular minefield, and at his own pace.
‘Kevin Rathkeale,’ said Emily in tones of surprise and interest.
‘This goes no further,’ Atherton warned her.
‘Of course,’ she said impatiently. ‘You know you can trust me.’
Atherton had told, with some relish, what happened on the secret film. Slider drifted a little, thinking about mankind’s propensity to turn any invention to harmful purposes. It started off with someone making shadows with their hands on the wall, as he’d done for his children – the rabbit, the goose, the old man chewing. Innocent shadow-play; then bigger and better shadows from a magic lantern; then the fuzzy, jerking moving pictures in black and white – Queen Victoria on the terrace at Osborne, King George V on horseback inspecting troops; and on, all the way up to fabulous modern movies with CGI and special effects that baffled the brain and dazzled the senses. And then back again, to grainy images of a chubby public servant, two rent boys and a packet of white. Oh Mankind! Would you ever get your act together?
‘Rathkeale, though!’ Emily was saying. ‘I didn’t know he liked boys. I know a bit about him, because a friend of mine from the Mail, Jenna Cargill, was one of the team that investigated KidZone, and we talked about it quite a lot. He must have been very discreet to keep that to himself.’
‘What’s your impression of him?’ Slider asked.
‘I don’t do impressions. Journalism’s my field,’ she said, straight-faced.
‘You’ve been a rotten influence on that girl,’ Joanna told Atherton with a sad shake of the head.
Emily grinned, chomped some bread, and said, ‘I always thought he was really more of a klutz than a crook. He was like one of those big, clumsy dogs, always dashing about barking and knocking things over. He’d latch on to something with big dumb enthusiasm without realising the implications or looking into the background. The dog that tries to bite a hedgehog. In my view, Myra Silverman was the one to watch over KidZone. Now, she’s one smart cookie. She paid herself a huge salary, you know, and she had directorships with some of the companies that were getting money from the charity. She’s a big one for directorships.’
‘So how come she got away with it?’ Joanna asked, filling glasses.
‘No one ever established that there was any actual wrongdoing, though of course we all suspected it like mad. We journos, that is. But anyway, she’s the kind that always will get away with stuff. She’s the Queen of Schmooze – contacts all over the place, hence all the celebrity endorsements. Hence Kevin Rathkeale going to bat for her in front of the select committee.’
‘So you think he was innocent?’ Slider asked.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Emily said thoughtfully. S
he pondered a moment. ‘I think when it comes to wrongdoing, he’s like a man with no sense of smell. He knows what wrong is, but can’t detect it on himself. The man that chucks on so much aftershave it makes your eyes burn, and can’t smell the dead rat under the sink.’
‘Interesting. Do you think him capable of having someone bumped off?’ Slider asked.
‘My personal opinion – I could see him doing it, if he had reason enough. But I tell you what,’ she added with a smile. ‘He’d probably leave a big old obvious clue just lying around for you to trip over. Mister Smooth he ain’t.’
‘You don’t think it was Rathkeale himself that killed this man and turned over his flat, then? With his own hands, I mean,’ Joanna asked.
Slider shook his head. ‘It was a professional search. Maybe Rathkeale has those skills. It seems unlikely, but I don’t know.’
‘Well, I suppose he’ll have an alibi,’ Joanna said.
‘Probably Sunday evening, and in the early hours of Monday for the search,’ Slider said. ‘He says he was at home and in bed.’
‘His wife …?’
‘They have separate rooms. And she was away, anyway. So no alibi there. But sadly, at that time of night most of the nation is likewise in bed, so it’s a universal alibi which is difficult to prove one way or the other.’
‘Oh dear. So what can you do?’
‘Keep looking.’ Slider shrugged. ‘Somebody somewhere knows something.’
‘Rathkeale will crack,’ Emily predicted comfortingly. ‘He’s no Moriarty. And there must have been a big movement of money – either what he was assembling to pay the blackmail, or what he used to pay the assassins – probably the same money.’
‘Unfortunately, we haven’t enough reasonable grounds for suspicion to look into his bank account.’
Joanna got up to clear the plates, and Emily rose too, to help. When she came back from the kitchen carrying the plates for the cheese and fruit that was to follow, she said casually, not looking at Slider, ‘I could have a bit of a dig around, if you like. It’s amazing what you can find out if you know where to look.’
‘You know I can’t possibly authorise that,’ Slider said sternly.
‘Oh, I know,’ she said. ‘Actually, of course, you can’t stop me. I’m an investigative journalist, it’s my job.’
‘You could compromise the case if—’ Slider began.
‘Relax, I’ll be discreet. I know the rules. And anything I do find out must be in the public domain, so your own people could find it equally well. I’m only going to look into Rathkeale’s background – and see if I can find out anything about this chap King, or Kimmelman.’
‘Well, just don’t tell me you’re doing it,’ Slider said.
‘Or me,’ Atherton added. ‘And we never had this conversation.’
‘Of course we didn’t. What conversation?’ said Emily.
Atherton took up his glass and leaned back with an air of relaxation. ‘I wonder how Funky and Rang are doing. Sooner them than me.’
Loessop had tied a bandeau round his head and smudged a bit of eyeliner on his lower lids to enhance his resemblance to Captain Jack Sparrow. LaSalle did his best with a pair of tight, low-slung trousers and some gold neck chains borrowed from Hart. He was never going to be love’s young dream, but then, how many true Adonises looked for love in a Soho cellar?
In the entrance foyer was a very large bald bouncer. His shoulders and chest were big enough to warrant their own postcode, and made the rest of his body appear unnaturally tapered. He looked like what you’d get if you shaved a buffalo. He blocked their way politely, while managing to convey that impoliteness was being retained as an option, and told them it was members only. But membership only involved handing over a sum of money at a booth at the back of the foyer and receiving a card, and they had drawn a fair sum of contingency expenses.
Once certificated members of Ivanka’s Gentlemen’s Club, they decided to go in separately, not only to double the search power, but so that Rang could come to Funky’s rescue if he attracted too many suitors. The place was as such places are, moodily-lit, loud, crowded, and over-represented in the leather and facial hair departments. LaSalle found a table where he could watch the door, and fiddled with his mobile to avoid catching anyone’s eye, while Loessop went and sat at the bar. There was no sign of either of the young men from the tape.
Loessop ordered a vodka tonic, and since the barman, a young Australian, seemed friendly, he asked if Rudy had been in. He’d decided to ask about Rudy as he thought he’d stand out more than Stefan, be more likely to be remembered.
The barman looked blank, and Loessop added, ‘Tall guy, blonde on top, snake tatts up his arms? Looks a bit like Rudolf Nureyev?’
‘Oh, I know who you mean,’ said the barman. ‘He was here, but he went off with someone. If it’s Russians you’re after, Ivan’s in the back room. He’s very butch,’ he added cautiously, eyeing Loessop as if wondering whether butch was what he was after. It was hard to tell these days.
‘No, I really wanted to see Rudy,’ Loessop said, managing a bit of a pout. ‘Thanks all the same.’
The barman moved away, and the man on the next stool swung round and said, ‘Rudy know you’re coming?’
‘D’you know him?’ Loessop countered.
The man shrugged. ‘Seen him around.’ He eyed Loessop with interest. ‘He’s probably coming back later. Guy he left with, I don’t think he’ll be long.’
‘I might as well wait, then,’ said Loessop.
After a pause, the man said, ‘I’m Peter. Petey.’ He was pale and goggle-eyed, like something that lived deep under the sea where sunlight never penetrated. He had sparse, fuzzy hair – his head looked like a moulting coconut. He held out his hand.
Loessop didn’t touch it. ‘Dick,’ he said after a measurable pause, to let Petey know he wasn’t interested in anything more than civility.
Petey didn’t take the hint. ‘My favourite name,’ he said. ‘I love Dicks.’ He cocked an eye to see if Loessop would rise to it, then said, ‘If you’re waiting for Rudy, you could buy me a drink while you’re waiting. I could tell you lots of things about him.’
‘I’m cool, thanks,’ Loessop said.
‘Oh, come on, don’t be so tight,’ Petey whined. ‘Just a drink. Be a bit friendly.’
Loessop caught LaSalle’s eye across the room, and he got up and came gangling across.
‘Hi!’ said Loessop eagerly. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here.’
‘I saw you, but I thought you were busy,’ LaSalle said, and inserted himself into the space between Loessop and his tormentor.
‘Very funny,’ said Loessop, sotto voce.
‘Oh, excuse me!’ said Petey, offended. ‘I’m just part of the furniture. Who d’you think you are, then?’
Loessop craned his head round LaSalle to say curtly, ‘Sorry. Old friend.’
‘Old friend, is it? Does he know you’re waiting for Rudy?’ Petey said, arch and spiteful.
‘I can leave you two alone if you like,’ LaSalle murmured so only Loessop could hear him. ‘You make such a pretty couple.’
‘Shut up, you dork. He says Rudy’s probably coming back, so it might be worth waiting – for a bit, anyway.’
LaSalle glanced around the room. ‘We’ve got to keep it authentic. You might have to dance with me.’
‘But then I might have to kill you,’ said Loessop. ‘Let’s go back to your table. More private.’ Petey was muttering a litany of complaint. ‘And I’ve got to get away from Horace here.’
At the table they kept their heads together, pretending to talk, taking turns to watch the door. LaSalle went to get more drinks and was propositioned both on the way to the bar and on the way back. He didn’t know whether to be surprised or gratified.
‘So you better not say anything about me and Petey,’ Loessop warned.
‘You’re supposed to fit in – that’s what plain clothes are for,’ LaSalle reasoned. ‘But I draw the line a
t kissing.’ The other couples sitting at the tables were getting a lot more friendly with each other.
‘You could toy with my hair,’ Loessop suggested, dicing with death.
Fortunately, at that moment LaSalle, who was watching the door, nudged him hard and said, ‘There’s one of our boys. Rudy.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let’s go get him.’
Rudy was perfectly agreeable to going somewhere quiet with the two of them. There were booths in the back room, where the lighting was even lower, and LaSalle bought a bottle of vodka which they took in with them. The three of them squeezed in together, with Rudy in the middle, and having filled his glass, Loessop asked where his friend Stefan was.
‘Stefan? Which one is he?’
‘Long dark hair. Butterfly on his shoulder,’ Loessop suggested.
‘Oh, his name Stefan? I thought he Karel. Not seen him around. People come, people go. Maybe gone home to Czecho. Why you want him, anyway? Lots of nice guys here.’
‘You and him went off with a bloke to a houseboat last week,’ said LaSalle.
Rudy made a face. ‘You cops?’ he asked. He seemed remarkably relaxed about the idea.
‘Yeah, but not vice cops. Detectives. We just want some information. We’re not making trouble for you.’
‘I know good well you not make trouble for Rudy,’ he laughed. ‘Rudy got lot of bi-i-g friends. You bust my chops, they break your legs, OK?’
Loessop couldn’t help liking him. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘No trouble, just tell us about that night.’
‘Five hundred euro,’ he said calmly. ‘Pounds, I mean.’
‘Dream on,’ said Loessop.
‘This working night. No talk for nothing. What you think?’
LaSalle laid a hand on his arm. ‘See, we have to think of how it would look. If we give you money, people might say we’d paid for the information, so the information is tainted, won’t stand up in court.’
‘Two hundred,’ Rudy said. He folded his arms. ‘Rudy’s memory not so good these days.’
‘Two hundred,’ LaSalle agreed after a nod from his colleague. ‘And you come with us to the station and make a proper statement.’
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