Rathkeale lived in Regent’s Park Road, opposite the end of Albert Terrace. Hart looked the house up on Street View and marvelled at its size and opulence. He must be making a good bit of money somewhere. However, the tiny front garden had been sacrificed to make a concrete pad onto which it was just possible to cram a car, the only way to escape the anti-parking jihad of Camden Council – proving the adage that you couldn’t have everything. There were no ANPR cameras in the immediate vicinity, though there were plenty between there and Shepherd’s Bush. She put in a request for any pings on the Sunday, and while she was waiting, noted that Albert Terrace was a bus route, and that there was a TfL camera at the nearest bus stop which ought to be able to catch that section of Regent’s Park Road in its range. She padded over to where Fathom was patiently trawling through security camera footage.
‘Jezza mate, j’wanna do me a favour?’ she said wheedlingly.
‘Sorry to bother you, guv,’ Hart said, not sounding a bit sorry.
Slider, with the phone clutched between shoulder and chin, stopped trying to get the car lift on the plastic toy garage to unstick, got up off the floor and said, ‘What are you still doing there?’
‘Something came up.’ She explained about the bus-stop camera which, facing straight down Albert Terrace, had the front of Rathkeale’s house as its ultimate back-drop. ‘He said he didn’t go out anywhere on Sunday, but his car backs out of his parking space just after two o’clock in the afternoon and doesn’t come back until five Monday morning.’
Slider looked at the information from all sides. ‘Can you see who’s driving?’
‘No, guv, but he’s said his wife was away for the weekend – and he wouldn’t lie about that because she’d be his alibi if she was around – so it can’t be her, and there’s no one else living there. Looks like he’s been telling porkies. Can I go and spoil his day?’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Yeah, I had a goosey at his diary, didn’t I? He’s at a council meeting in Lambeth this afternoon and a benefit concert at the Festival Hall this evening. Either one, he won’t like the filth turning up and asking questions.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Slider said mildly. ‘It’s not part of our job to upset public figures for the sake of it.’
‘Yeah,’ she agreed, ‘but just look at him! And he lied to us.’
‘All right, you can go and talk to him. Someone has to.’
‘Thanks, boss. You having a nice day off?’
‘I was,’ Slider said, and rang off. George was watching him patiently, several toy cars at the ready. Two had not come from that particular garage kit and were incompatible in size with the lift – what had led to the problem in the first place – but try explaining that to a three year-old.
Hart had rather fancied upsetting Rathkeale at the Festival Hall in front of big donors in black tie and sequined evening dresses, but she couldn’t wait that long, and caught him instead at Lambeth Town Hall. The meeting was just finishing, and he greeted her with impatience, something of an eye-roll, and the information that he had to get changed for the evening and didn’t have time for all this nonsense.
Hart gave him a cheerful grin. ‘No trouble at all, sir. If you don’t want to talk to me here, I can escort you to the police station and we can do it officially in a nice, comfortable recording room.’
He paled a little, but managed to keep hold of his righteous indignation. ‘Are you arresting me, madam? Because if you’re not—’
‘I can arrest you if you like,’ she said with an air of trying to accommodate him. ‘Obstruction’s a nice open charge, covers a lot o’ sins.’
‘Obstruction?’ Two people passing along the corridor observed him with interest, their ears evidently on stalks. He grabbed Hart’s forearm and steered her aside. ‘Look,’ he hissed, ‘can we not do this right now, with all these people around?’
‘Here, or at the station. S’up to you.’
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ he said, with as much passion as his sotto voce allowed.
‘You lied to us,’ Hart said, suddenly stern.
Two more people were approaching. A man with an armful of files came out of the room Rathkeale had just vacated, and said, ‘Everything all right, Kevin?’
‘Oh – yes – yes, thanks, Bob. Um – can I use this room for a few minutes? Private business to discuss.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Bob, subjecting Hart to a good old-fashioned up-and-downer. She grinned back at him, and as Rathkeale turned away, dropped him a wink that made his eyebrows shoot into his hair.
Rathkeale had hurried into the empty room, and Hart strolled after him. There was a scuffed and battered table, surrounded by cheap moulded chairs, and bearing a scattering of carafes and used glasses. As soon as she was inside, he snapped the door shut behind her and said, red now instead of white, ‘What are you playing at? He probably thinks there’s something going on between us.’
‘What – you are the father of my baby, sort o’ style? Oh Kevin, does that sort o’ thing happen often? I heard you was the king of naughtiness, but—’
‘Look, stop that,’ Rathkeale said, a touch wearily. ‘Tell me what you want, and be done with it. I’m a busy man.’
‘What you been busy at, that’s what we want to know. Where were you on Sunday?’
‘Last Sunday? I told you, I was at home. Having a rare day off.’ He said it with superb nonchalance, but his eyes flitted. He knew he was busted.
‘Then why didn’t you report your car was stolen?’ she asked genially.
‘It wasn’t stolen.’
‘Yeah, I know. Because someone come out of your house after lunch, drove your car away, and that someone was you, wun’t it, mate? We got you on camera. There’s cameras everywhere these days, ain’t there? The most watched population on the planet, that’s what they say. So where’d you go?’
‘Go. Oh. Yes … er, I … er, I went out to get a newspaper. Just popped down to the shops. A newspaper and … er … a pint of milk,’ he added on a fine burst of inspiration.
She looked at him sadly. ‘Cameras, Kev, remember? The great invention of the dead hand of the state. Now, d’you want to limber up with a few more lies, or are you ready to get to the truth?’
‘I’ve told you – I went to get a newspaper.’
‘And then got lost? Because you didn’t come back until five in the morning. And in case you think I’m just a stalker and mad for your bod, let me remind you that two in the afternoon to five in the morning nicely covers the period during which Leon Kimmelman was murdered and his gaff turned over.’
Rathkeale was pale again, his dry lips moving.
Hart oozed false sympathy. ‘Come on, Kev, you know the game’s up. Why not get it off your chest, eh? Confess and you’ll feel better.’
He rallied. ‘I don’t have to tell you where I was. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a law-abiding citizen and I have a right to my privacy.’
‘Then I shall have to ask you to come with me to the police station.’
‘I can’t go anywhere with you. I have a concert to go to,’ he snapped.
‘Tell me where you were, then,’ Hart invited. He was silent. ‘The man who was blackmailing you was murdered, at a time when you’ve got no alibi, and you lied to us about your whereabouts. You in trouble, mate.’
‘He wasn’t blackmailing me!’ he wailed. ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’
‘Who’s going to believe that? You weren’t at home. Where were you?’
‘I don’t have to tell you!’
‘Then I shall have to arrest you for giving false information to the police during the course of an existing investigation, under section five brackets two of the Criminal Law Act 1967—’
‘Don’t arrest me!’ he cried desperately. ‘Look, I’ll come to the station, if that’s what it takes to get you off my back, but I want to talk to a senior officer – and I can tell you, I shall be making an official complaint abou
t your attitude.’
‘Oooh, I’m scared,’ said Hart. ‘Come on, then. You can complain and explain at the same time.’
Porson clapped a hand to his head, hard enough to make his teeth rattle. ‘You arrested him?’
‘Not actually arrested—’ Slider began.
‘Threatened with arrest then. What part of “I want him cleared and dropped” didn’t you understand?’
‘My officer saw no alternative, when he refused to say where he was at the critical time,’ Slider said sturdily.
Porson saw the point of that, and lowered the gas. ‘I’m trying to keep this thing low profile,’ he grumbled, ‘and you go and clap the bloody darbies on him and drag him kicking and screaming—’
‘He’s our best suspect. With no alibi,’ Slider said. He’d saved the best news until last. ‘He wants to talk to you. Before he sends for a solicitor.’
Porson’s eyebrows shot up in relief. ‘He’s not got a lawyer yet?’
‘I think he wants to avoid publicity as much as you do,’ Slider said. ‘I tried to talk to him but I’m not senior enough for him.’
‘I don’t want to go in there naked as the day I was bald. Do we have anything on where he went?’
‘We’ve put the index through the ANPR, but we’ve got no pings for that period. However, he could have got from Regent’s Park Road to Jacket’s Yard by the back streets. The problem would be, where did he meet Kimmelman and kill him?’
‘Hmm,’ said Porson, thinking hard. ‘If they met somewhere, and he transferred to Kimmelman’s car, all the back and forth could be done in that. But where would they meet?’ He thought a moment. ‘You could draw a straight line between Primrose Hill and Wormwood Scrubs, for instance. None of it using main roads. Well, no use speculating with no facts. I’d better go and see him. Meanwhile, you’d better start looking for that car.’
‘Yes, sir. But where?’
‘Bloody Nora, I’m not doing your job for you!’ Porson exploded again, though Slider knew the frustration was not directed at him. The words ‘needle’ and ‘haystack’ didn’t begin to describe the problem. ‘You know he drove down Albert Terrace. Work from there.’ He stalked to the door, and turned back to say, more quietly, ‘I shall have to bail him, you know. Once his lawyer gets here.’
‘I know,’ said Slider. ‘But if we can make him agree to let us see his bank and phone records …’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Porson said.
Rathkeale had started to unravel. His was not the figure easily to keep its cool. He was pudgy, pallid and moist, his hair needed careful gardening to keep it smooth, and his shirts had a tendency to lose contact with his waistband, for which his vanity in clinging to a size just too small in each was mostly to blame.
He still looked surprised at the sight of Porson. Porson took a bit of getting used to: the knobbly bald pate, the enormous bushy eyebrows, the considerable nose – and that was before you got to his habitual mangling of vocabulary. But though largely bony, Porson was tall and had been powerful, and when he drew himself up he still looked impressive; and he had a natural authority, nurtured over the years, that was more than equal to a slightly bent former MP.
‘Yes, I’m Detective Superintendent Porson,’ he said. ‘I understand you want to talk to me.’
‘Have I been arrested?’ Rathkeale demanded, attacking first.
‘Not yet,’ Porson said, with smooth menace.
‘Then you have to let me go,’ Rathkeale said triumphantly.
‘Nobody’s keeping you, sir,’ Porson said, making the ‘sir’ an insult, as only a policeman can. ‘You are helping us with our enquiries. Or, I hope you are. Because we don’t take kindly to being lied to.’
‘It’s none of your business where I was on Sunday,’ Rathkeale tried.
‘I’m afraid it is, now. Why don’t you get it over with? We’ll find out sooner or later – nobody can move around a city like this without being traced – and sooner is better than later, as far as you’re concerned. Less messy. Puts us in a better mood, too – makes us more sympathetic, like.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Rathkeale blustered. ‘Because I warn you—’
Porson made a show of turning away. ‘We’re just wasting time here. If you’re not prepared to co-operate, I shall have to call in my officer and arrest you, then we can see what your solicitor says when he arrives.’
‘No, wait!’
Porson turned back, and raised his eyebrows receptively.
Rathkeale bit his lip. ‘Look, I didn’t kill this man, whatever his name is. I didn’t know him. I couldn’t kill anyone, anyway – I’m not like that. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. I’m a nice bloke.’
‘Then where were you on Sunday?’ No answer. Porson turned away again with a large sigh that was meant to be heard.
‘Look,’ Rathkeale said. Porson paused, looked back indifferently. ‘If I tell you – I don’t want it to get out, you see. That’s why I didn’t say … Well, it’s complicated.’
‘It always is, sir,’ Porson said pityingly. But he turned round fully. ‘Well?’
‘I went to … On Sunday … Well, my wife was away, and …’
Porson had a feeling he knew where this was going. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry. ‘Your wife was away,’ he said patiently, ‘and …?’
‘Well, there’s this friend of mine. Lives in Acacia Avenue – not far from where I live.’
‘And what’s his name, sir?’ No answer. Rathkeale was still chewing the lip – in danger of going right through, as far as Porson could see. ‘It’s not an alibi without a name,’ he advised Rathkeale. ‘Your friend will have to corroborate.’
‘It’s not a him,’ Rathkeale admitted, avoiding his eyes.
‘Ah,’ said Porson.
‘And I don’t want my wife finding out. Or anyone. If it got into the papers … I don’t want policemen in big boots going round there and shouting my business to the rooftops. And I don’t want my friend upset. She wouldn’t like … That’s why I wanted to talk to you before my solicitor gets here,’ he added pathetically. ‘She’s a friend of my wife, you see. I know they’re not supposed to … but I don’t see how … That’s why you’ve got to let me go. I can’t have any fuss – any publicity. I’ve got my reputation to think of. My job.’
‘I understand,’ Porson interrupted, before the man got too far onto his knees. ‘If you are telling the truth now, and you have an alibi for the time in question, I see no reason why anything should get out. But you must see that it has to be followed up.’
‘Can’t you just take my word?’ he asked desperately.
‘We did that once already,’ Porson said unkindly.
Rathkeale blushed. ‘There’s no need to talk like that. I swear I’m telling the truth now.’
‘Name and address, sir. If she confirms what you’re telling me, there’ll be no need to take it any further.’
‘But she might not be in,’ he wailed.
‘That’s all right, sir,’ said Porson. ‘We don’t need to keep you here while we check up. We know where you live. Name and address, and then you’re free to go.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Might catch the end of the show if you hurry.’
‘A mistress in St John’s Wood,’ Slider said. ‘How traditional.’
‘I just hope she’s willing to back him up,’ said Porson. ‘Get him out of the way. Although I half hoped it was him did it. Would have been an explosion of shit, all right, but at least it’d be case solved. And it’d be nice to put him away for something.’
‘There’s still the cocaine,’ Slider said.
Porson glared. ‘When I want you to be funny, I’ll send you a memo. Well, I suppose I can leave this to you now? Get off home?’
‘I’m sorry to have spoiled your evening, sir.’
‘I was only watching telly. Some crime film, Leonardo D. Capricorn, something about Boston. This trip to the pantomime’s better entertainment. By the way, Hart did the right thin
g. Tell her well done.’
TEN
Press for Service
Slider was in early on Monday, feeling refreshed, and put in an hour clearing up some non-Kimmelman-related matters that had been piling up. Through his open door he saw McLaren creep in looking very much the worse for wear.
‘You look hungover,’ Atherton said cheerily.
McLaren put his hands to his head. ‘Don’t shout! Party last night. Some of Nat’s friends. They can’t half drink. Anybody got an aspirin?’
‘You’ve been practising licence without a medicine again,’ Atherton said sternly.
‘Here,’ said Swilley, throwing a pack over. ‘Never mind, Maurice, your moustache is coming along nicely.’
‘I can’t believe how much it’s grown in a week,’ Hart said. ‘What’re you putting on it?’
‘Nothing,’ McLaren said, stroking it. ‘It just does it on its own.’
‘And Esau was an hairy man,’ Atherton quoted. ‘It suits you.’
McLaren took the praise cautiously. ‘You reckon? I was sort of going for Burt Reynolds, but I think maybe I’m just coming off annoying.’
‘Anything that covers up any part of your face is an improvement,’ Atherton told him sincerely.
‘Don’t be mean. It’s lovely, Maurice,’ said Hart. ‘Anyway, at least it proves you can grow one.’
‘Here’s something that’s always troubled me,’ said Atherton. ‘Why doesn’t Tarzan have a beard?’
Slider came out and broke it up. ‘Report,’ he said.
‘Rathkeale’s lady-love turns out to be a Labour MP,’ Hart said. ‘Married. Acacia Avenue’s her London pad for when she’s got to be in Parliament, and she’s got a family home in Birmingham – that’s where her seat is. And that’s where she was yesterday, worst luck. But I give her a bell – discreetly.’ She added hastily as Slider’s eyebrow went up. ‘When she knew what I wanted she got very antsy, said she’d have to call me back. I suppose hubby was around, listening. Anyway, she rung me later on her mobile and said she’d be in London today, so I said I’d go up to the House later and take her statement. But basically, she says old Gingernuts was with her all right. If you can call that an alibi.’
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