Shadow Play

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  He looked carefully, but handed it back saying, ‘I don’t know the name, and I don’t recognise him. Sorry. What’s he got to do with Jacket’s Yard?’

  ‘We’re looking in to that,’ said Swilley.

  ‘I’d really like to know, when you find out,’ he said, his eyes suggesting it would be a way for them to see each other again.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.

  Always leave them wanting more, she thought, as she headed out to the car.

  The elation from Funky and Rang’s successful operation had cooled somewhat by the time Swilley arrived back at the factory. The euphoria of finding stuff out faded when that information proved not to help you get any further.

  ‘Did Kimmelman have a car?’ Swilley enquired.

  ‘Shanice didn’t know,’ said Hart. ‘She never saw him in one – he just turned up at her door. And he was only round the corner from her anyway, so he could well have walked. Don’t mean he didn’t have one, but how’d we know?’

  ‘There’s got to be security cameras somewhere along the embankment there,’ said LaSalle. ‘If we can spot Rudy and Stefan getting out of a car, get the index—’

  ‘Yes, but what then?’ Swilley asked. ‘Does that get us any further forward?’

  ‘With that, we may be able to trace Kimmelman’s other movements, find out who he met and where he went. Don’t forget it’s his murder we’re supposed to be working on,’ Slider said.

  ‘Oh yeah. I keep forgetting,’ said Fathom. ‘All this blackmail stuff …’

  ‘You can start looking for cameras along that bit of the embankment,’ Slider said. It was slow, tiring and largely boring work, and Fathom usually got stuck with it because he was slow, tiring and largely boring. ‘Once you’ve got the index, you might be able to fix him meeting with Rathkeale,’ he added as a slight incentive.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Fathom, slightly incented.

  ‘The problem, as I see it,’ said Atherton, ‘is timing. If the sting took place on Friday night, and Kimmelman was killed on Sunday night, that only gives two days for him to approach Rathkeale, for Rathkeale to sink to such despair that he believes the only way is to kill Kimmelman, for him to arrange the hit, and for the killers to get the job done. I’m finding it hard to see that timetable working.’

  ‘Maybe he’s got goons on standby all the time,’ said McLaren. ‘We don’t know what stuff he gets up to. If he’s getting drugs for his mates, he might need protection.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Slider. ‘That sounds a bit over the top. He’s not some Mr Big at the centre of a criminal network.’

  ‘He might be,’ McLaren insisted. ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Gascoyne cautiously. He’d not long transferred in from uniform and hadn’t got the habit of ‘guv’ yet. ‘Is it possible that Kimmelman had already been blackmailing Rathkeale for some time? He obviously knew about him being a regular at that club. He could have been putting the bite on him for weeks, and the tape was the icing on the cake, the last straw that Rathkeale couldn’t let go past.’

  Atherton nodded approval. ‘That’s good policeman thinking. The force is strong in this one.’

  ‘It still only gives him a day and a half at most to arrange the hit,’ Swilley objected. ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘Like I said, he’s got his own squad already lined up,’ said McLaren.

  ‘I know you said it, Maurice. I was trying to ignore it,’ said Swilley witheringly.

  ‘We need to see his bank account,’ said Hart. ‘See if there was any big biccies flying out.’

  ‘Most of all we need his phone and email records,’ said Slider, ‘but that’s not going to happen, either.’

  ‘Well, what about Kimmelman’s bank account?’ Swilley said. ‘If Rathkeale has been paying him, it’ll show up. And if he hasn’t – well, blackmailers don’t usually stop at one victim.’

  ‘Yeah, but there was no bank statement in the flat,’ LaSalle said, ‘and none of the banks have come back yet to say he was their customer.’

  ‘All right,’ Swilley acknowledged, ‘but he must have been paying his rent – or at least ground rent if he owned the flat – to Wiley’s. They ought to be able to give us the bank and account number the money comes from.’

  ‘Brilliant, Norm,’ said Hart. ‘And I been finking – if he owned that boat, he must have had money. They don’t come cheap.’

  ‘True,’ said Atherton. ‘You’re talking £750,000 upwards, depending on the size.’

  ‘If he owned it, why wouldn’t he sell it to buy his dream house in the Isle of Wight?’ McLaren objected. ‘More likely he broke in.’

  ‘No, he had a key,’ Loessop said. ‘Rudy told us – they wouldn’t have wanted to get involved if there was breaking-and-entering. His mantra was, “I done nothing illegal”.’

  ‘Barring the coke,’ said Atherton.

  ‘Fighting a losing battle over that one, Jim,’ said Hart. ‘None o’ the buggers think there’s anything wrong with snorting white. Till their face caves in,’ she added as an afterthought.

  Hart came back later, after a long conversation with the moorings company, to say that the Anna Rosita was owned by a company called Farraday. ‘A lot of ’em are company-owned nowadays, apparently. It used to be a little arty-hippy enclave, down there on Cheyne Walk, blokes with beards and dirty feet and women in corduroys paintin’ the sunset and drinkin’ gin. Everybody knew everybody else, according to this girl I spoke to. But given all the ritzy property around – I mean, it is Chelsea – prices were bound to’ve gone up, and now only rich people and corporate can afford to own a boat there – bar one or two nobby old ducks who’ve been there fifty years and won’t budge. Bit like Wimbledon,’ she added reflectively. ‘The boxes used to be all serious fans, now only corporate hospitality can afford ’em, and they’re full o’ people eating smoked salmon and not watching the tennis.’

  ‘So the world progresses,’ said Atherton, who was sitting on Slider’s dead radiator. It had never worked since Slider had been using that office. In really cold weather, he had to leave the door to the CID room open to let in some warmth. But it made him look like an approachable boss.

  ‘What do you know about this Farraday?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Not much, guv,’ said Hart. ‘Directors are a Charles Holdsworth and a Mrs A. Holdsworth, and the address is Farraday House, Luxemburg Place.’ She grinned. ‘Sounds right posh, dun’t it?’

  ‘Positively multinational,’ Slider conceded. ‘That’s Brook Green, isn’t it?’

  ‘S’right. Off Luxemburg Gardens. But it looks like a small outfit to me – could be one o’ those mailbox companies. Maybe they just set it up for the houseboat – so’s they can offset the mooring expenses against the rental.’

  ‘Well, if they rented it out to Kimmelman, we may find out something about him from them. His bank details, at least. And his phone number.’

  ‘Shall I give ’em a ring?’

  Slider considered. ‘No, it could be important. Could be a way to get a handle on Kimmelman. If he rented from them, maybe they knew him. I think a visit is in order. Atherton, you can go. The weekend’s coming up, so we’re not going to get any more answers from banks and solicitors and that sort of cattle. It’d be nice if we could have something to put in the bag for Monday morning.’

  EIGHT

  Moor Often Knot Used

  Atherton missed Luxemburg Place at the first pass and had to go round again. Some householder or householders in Luxemburg Gardens had sold off part of their back gardens for in-fill development, and Luxemburg Place was the little bit of road that gave access to the new house erected there. The road led nowhere else, between the blind side-walls of the existing houses, ending in a turning space before what had evidently been an expensive build, but owing to having been designed in the 1980s could have won Best In Show in a not-blending-in contest. While the surrounding houses were all typical Victorian/Edwardian, it was basically a giant brick box, but to
justify his fee the architect had tacked on stuff – Hertfordshire-style hanging tiles, imitation Tudor beams across the gable, a cutesy cottage-style dormer, oversize windows from the 1970s, a gigantic integral double garage from the Florida collection. There was a large gravelled forecourt instead of a front garden, with tall iron gates, which were standing open and, to judge from the grass growing through them at the bottom, were never closed. At the end of what was effectively a private drive, perhaps there was no need.

  Parked on the gravel were a rather dusty black Range Rover and a silver Skoda Octavia – his and hers cars, he thought. The gravel needed raking – there were heavy tyre tracks after the recent rainy spell that spoiled the look. He followed one set, like railway lines, and slid himself in alongside the Skoda.

  The door (glazed, of course) was opened by a small woman who seemed to be in her sixties, with carefully quoiffed and coloured hair. She was wearing an expensive skirt and jumper, polished court shoes and a preoccupied expression. She looked up at Atherton in a way that suggested she wasn’t really seeing him, but was concentrating on whatever internal trouble was making her look worn under her practised make-up. Beyond her was the sort of interior he would have expected, with wood block floors, minimal architraves, track lighting, open spaces – he caught a glimpse straight through the house of the back garden seen through big sliding French doors – and the obligatory off-white conference-chic paint job.

  ‘Mrs Holdsworth?’ he asked. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Atherton from Shepherd’s Bush police station.’

  She was only just beginning to register his words, with a look of concern replacing that of internal discomfort, when a man stepped out into the hall behind her and said quickly and firmly, ‘It’s all right, Avril. I’ll deal with this.’

  He moved her, not roughly but definitely, aside and stepped between her and Atherton. ‘I’m Charles Holdsworth, officer. What is it you want?’

  ‘I’d like a word, if you don’t mind, sir,’ Atherton replied. Behind him, the little woman was hovering, and he heard her mumble something that seemed to include the word ‘Charlie’. Without looking at her, the man said, ‘Go inside, Avril.’ Ditheringly, she moved away.

  The man didn’t look like a ‘Charlie’, which had a loose, bonhomous sound to it. Carefully styled grey hair, a firm-set face, conservative tie, an old but good charcoal suit, polished shoes – here was a Charles if ever Atherton saw one. He was tall, though not as tall as Atherton, probably in his sixties but well preserved, with a business-traveller’s tan and an air of being in charge – or at least of wanting to be in charge.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asked, and then instantly cancelled the question and said, ‘You’d better come into my office.’

  He led the way into the room directly to the left off the hall, whose window, onto the front gravel, was obscured by a venetian blind. Inside was the paraphernalia of an office – modern L-desk with screen and keyboard, executive swivel chair in black leather, filing cabinets, side table with printer, shelves stacked with ring and box files and one or two reference books. There were a couple of wire baskets filled with papers, and a smell of furniture polish. The light was slightly dim because of the blinds and it seemed very quiet. Of course, it was quiet down this cul-de-sac, and Mrs Holdsworth wasn’t one to be creating riot in the background, if Atherton was any judge. But he got the impression that nothing much had happened in this office for a while. The deep and thorough tracks of a professional cleaner’s hoovering had not yet been worn smooth.

  Holdsworth did not invite Atherton to sit, nor did he sit himself. He faced him in the middle of the room, seemed about to speak, then turned his head towards the door. Mrs H was hovering in the hall, looking anxious. ‘It’s all right, Avril,’ he said, with an underlay of impatience. ‘Go and watch your programme.’ She turned without speaking and walked away, like a dog hearing the command ‘basket!’ He waited until she had disappeared, then subjected Atherton to a good, long inspection, like an officer calculating what a rather unpromising-looking recruit might be good for. ‘Shepherd’s Bush, eh?’ he said. ‘How come?’

  ‘Sir?’ Atherton queried.

  ‘If it’s about Charlie, he doesn’t have any connections with Shepherd’s Bush.’

  ‘It’s not about Charlie,’ Atherton said. On top of one of the filing cabinets was a framed photograph of a very handsome youth who bore some resemblance to the man standing in front of him. A rapid course of deduction suggested that the handsome boy had been in trouble before, probably more than once. In the photograph he looked in his early twenties, but if the Holdsworths were in their sixties he was probably older than that now – at least in his thirties – so if he was still troubling them he must be a hardened case. And if Mrs H was wearing that look of internal trepidation, he had probably given them cause for grief fairly recently. Interesting.

  However, he was not here to give them more pain. ‘It’s about your boat, the Anna Rosita,’ he said.

  There was a moment’s silence, during which Holdsworth surveyed his face rather blankly while internal recalibration went on. ‘What about it?’ he asked at last.

  It, Atherton noticed, not her. Whatever the boat was, she was not the treasured companion of the Holdsworth leisure hours. ‘I believe you rent it out?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘It’s really more of a company asset – entertainment and so on. Visiting businessmen like a weekend on the water – very historical, merry old England and so forth. But I do let friends borrow it when it’s not needed, and I occasionally let it. I let it out for the whole of the Olympics to some very nice people from California. They loved travelling to the Olympic Park by water taxi. Very different. Quite a thrill for them.’

  Atherton had not expected him to be chatty. He put that together with the undisturbed carpet and made himself a retired businessman who missed the business.

  ‘Have you rented it recently?’

  ‘Not for a while. Some family members had it in the summer.’

  ‘When did you last go there?’

  ‘Not for a long time. I’m not really a houseboat person. I like my comfort.’

  ‘Would you be surprised to learn, then, that someone was using the boat last Friday?’

  He seemed to lean back a little, as though to get a better view of Atherton’s proposition. ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘You didn’t give anyone permission?’

  ‘Indeed I did not. If someone was there, they must have broken in.’ He sighed. ‘It’s not unusual, I’m afraid. You can’t secure a houseboat in the same way you can a house. There have been break-ins before.’

  ‘This person used a key,’ Atherton said.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s happened before, too. They keep duplicate keys at the office down there, and it’s not difficult for someone to lift one while the girl’s attention is distracted. Or when she pops out to – you know. Powder her nose.’ He made a tchk tchk noise. ‘What a nuisance! Now I shall have all the trouble of changing the locks. Did they do much damage?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Atherton said. He was taking it very calmly – obviously the Anna Rosita was just a business asset to him. ‘It seems they just used it to hold a party.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘That will mean getting a cleaning firm in, I suppose. What a dreadful nuisance! Well, thank you for letting me know, officer. I ought to sell it really. I don’t use it enough to justify keeping it. But you know how it is – one gets fond of a boat, somehow. A sentimental attachment.’

  The one thing Atherton knew about boat owners was that it was always the last thing they sold, even though most of them went on board about once a year, and then with sighs of reluctance and grumbles about the amount of time it took at either end to wake it up and put it back to bed. The total asset value locked up in all the boats in all the marinas in all the world that never left the dockside must run into trillions. Of course, he was thinking of motor cruisers, but it was probably the same thing.
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  ‘Just one more thing, sir,’ he said, and brought out the photograph. ‘Do you know this man?’

  He took the picture and looked at it for a long time, so long that Atherton was sure he was going to say, in the end, ‘he looks familiar’. But finally he handed it back and said, ‘No. No, I don’t know him.’

  ‘His name’s Leon Kimmelman.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Is that the man who broke in?’

  Atherton assented.

  ‘How odd,’ said Holdsworth. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you, officer. I know you chaps are very busy, keeping the world safe for the like of us. Ahaha.’

  Atherton allowed himself to be ushered out, thinking that if the Holdsworths were thirty years younger he would assume that he had called just as they were about to dash upstairs for some headboard-banging, lampshade-swinging hot sex. Mr H was eager to be rid of him, though trying not to show it. A lot of people felt that way about the police, as though a copper’s contact with crime might be catching. Atherton felt Holdsworth hadn’t asked nearly enough questions about the break-in; but apart from the not-liking-coppers thing, he was obviously not emotionally attached to the boat; and besides, was probably so relieved that the visit had not been connected with the errant son that nothing else mattered for the moment.

  He drove away, wondering why Kimmelman had chosen the houseboat for the sting. It was actually quite a clever choice – a hotel was more traditional, but much riskier, with other people around, staff to bribe, and the possibility of more hidden surveillance cameras than one’s own.

  Porson was using his office to change into a dinner suit, but called, ‘Come in,’ anyway, so that Slider was treated to a vision of his pale hairy legs as he pranced into his trousers. Very, very hairy, in contrast to his shiningly bald pate.

  He blinked at Slider in a way that dared him to comment on anything he might be seeing.