Body Line dibs-13

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Porson nodded, thinking. ‘Try and persuade her to go away somewhere for a few days – parents, old aunty, whatever – and not tell anyone where she’s going. I don’t think she’s in that much danger. If she’d seen chummy’s face it’d be different, but if he’s professional he won’t risk offing a witness who only saw his boots. So, what’s your strategy visa vee the investigation?’

  ‘As you say, we can’t follow up the man or the weapon, so we’ve got to find out who wanted Rogers dead. That divides into the usual categories—’

  ‘Sex and money. My bet’s on money. It smells of money to me, and this –’ he tapped his considerable beak – ‘doesn’t often let me down. And he was getting through it all right. Clubs, champagne, big house, fancy suits.’

  ‘All the usual suspects,’ said Slider. ‘It’s never hard to find out where it goes. It’s where it comes from we don’t know.’

  Porson actually paused in his astonishment. ‘He was a doctor,’ he said. ‘Blimey, even GPs trouser a hundred and fifty kay these days! Never mind specialists. There was an article in the Sunday paper about these society gynaechiatrists making two and three million a year.’

  ‘Well, no doubt we’ll find out when his papers come over,’ Slider said.

  ‘And who gets it now he’s snuffed it. Was he married?’

  ‘That seems to be a moot point.’

  ‘Well un-moot it then, quick as you like,’ Porson barked. ‘What are you hanging around here gossiping with me for?’

  Atherton sauntered into Slider’s office whistling ‘I’ve got plenty of nuthin’.

  ‘If that’s your shorthand way of making a report,’ Slider began.

  ‘So far, nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything, and Rogers seems to have been a sweet old-fashioned type who did not have CCTV to back up his burglar alarm.’ He sat down in his usual spot on the windowsill. ‘My internal gypsy seer predicts we won’t find the shooter, so what now?’

  ‘We have to go round the back way. Up Motive Alley. As Mr Porson neatly summed it up, it comes down to sex or money.’

  ‘Which are not necessarily mutually exclusive categories.’

  ‘Sex seems the least likely. There doesn’t seem to have been a wife on site, and a disgruntled lover doesn’t usually hire a hit man.’

  ‘Unless the hit man was the disgruntled lover.’

  ‘Don’t get clever.’

  ‘Too late. And what about revenge? Best eaten cold, as we’re told. That fits in with a hit man. Furious wife brooding over her wrongs, slowly coming to the conclusion that the man’s a wart and the world would be better off without him? Especially if there’s an inheritance involved.’

  ‘There was no attempt to make it look like an accident or suicide,’ Slider pointed out. ‘Killing him to inherit his money wouldn’t work if the killing was traced back to the legatee.’

  ‘Big if. I’m just saying don’t rule out sex, especially as the Dirty Doctor seemed to be having a lot of it.’

  ‘You know me,’ said Slider. ‘I never rule out anything. Well, let’s do some background checks on Catriona Aude to begin with, so we can get her out of the way. Then we’ll start on the doctor. We don’t even know yet who his next of kin was. Who’s in charge at the site?’

  ‘I left Mackay on it. Norma’s coming back – via the sandwich shop in Goldhawk Road.’

  ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘That’s why I get the big money,’ said Atherton.

  THREE

  Deliver Us from Ealing

  ‘Ade comes up clean, guv,’ Connolly said, leaning on his doorpost.

  Coming back from far away, Slider hadn’t made sense of her sentence at first, and his drifting mind latched on to detergent. Comes up clean? Had there been a spillage in the CID room?

  ‘Hmm?’ he said neutrally, marking time.

  ‘She’s no criminal record,’ Connolly elaborated, and he fetched up to reality with a bump. ‘No large chunks a jingle floating around. Owes a coupla hundred on her credit card. No big recent purchases. And she rents: shares with three others, in Putney. I know the street, guv – I looked out that way when I first came to London – and it’s a bit of a kip, so she’s not spending on property. She works for Tangent Publishing in Brompton Road. Editorial assistant, which means she’s the office dogsbody and paid a pittance for the hope o’ glory. Fifteen thousand. And that’s before tax. So she has to make ends meet by stripping two nights a week.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The woman’s twenty-seven! She’d want to cop on to herself before it’s too late.’

  ‘Did you speak to someone at Jiffies?’

  ‘The manager. Name a Williamson. A fine class of a man: pays the girls minimum wage and lets them keep their tips. He says no carry-on with the customers is allowed, but he doesn’t know what they get up to in their free time.’

  ‘A cautious citizen.’

  ‘It’s members only, so they get a big take at the door, and then there’s the price of the drinks – which you’d want to have seen,’ Connolly said. ‘So they must be raking it in. Wouldn’t want to get into trouble with the peelers for promoting prostitution.’ She checked her notes and went on, ‘Rogers was a newish member, joined last November. He gave another club – the Rochelle in Mayfair – as a reference. I checked with them. He’s been a member there three years.’

  ‘The Rochelle?’ Slider queried. It was new since his Central days.

  ‘High-end strip joint, with a casino attached. Members only. All crimson velvet and chandeliers – it’d appal you. Even the bouncers have double-barrelled names.’

  ‘So watching strippers is not a new hobby for Rogers,’ Slider mused. Could there have been something seedier in his background? Some little hobby or habit he could have been blackmailed for?

  Connolly shook her head sadly. ‘What is it about men and nipples?’

  Slider declined the bait. ‘So you think Aude’s out of it?’

  Connolly was flattered to be asked her opinion. ‘She’s not deep in debt, and she’s not living on the pig’s back. Her story checks out, and I can’t find any medical connection. And flat-sharing’d make it hard to get up to any carry-on without getting caught out.’

  ‘All right. I don’t want to waste any more time on her if she’s just an accidental bystander. But we’ll need to keep tabs on her, in case we have more questions. Has she got family?’

  ‘She has parents, according to HR at Tangent. They’re her next of kin. They live in Guildford.’

  ‘That’ll do. See if she can go and stay with them for a few days when she comes out of hospital tomorrow. I know Mike Polman at Guildford. He owes me a favour. I’ll ask him to keep an eye on the house. She ought to be safe enough there.’

  It was late when McLaren stuck his head round the door to say, ‘The first of the papers have come in from the house, guv.’

  ‘Right,’ said Slider, glancing at his watch. ‘Let’s have a quick look.’ So far, from the site they had culled a big zero. The street search had produced no gun or discarded clothing, and the canvass had drawn a blank. Nothing for which to pull an all-nighter. He might as well send them all home and save the overtime for another day.

  He didn’t expect great things of the first bag, but there was treasure of a sort: the doctor’s birth, marriage and divorce certificates, tidily together in one envelope, taken from the top desk drawer.

  ‘Born fourth of June 1962 in Greasley in Nottingham,’ Atherton read out over Connolly’s shoulder. ‘Father’s down as clerk, insurance office. Humble beginnings for the Dirty Doctor.’

  ‘He was married in June 1988 to Amanda Jane Knox-Sturgess of The Lodge, Quickmoor Lane, Sarratt,’ Connolly continued. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Hertfordshire,’ said Atherton. ‘Carrot country.’

  ‘Ah, she’s a culchie, so!’ Connolly said innocently.

  ‘It’s a very expensive village,’ said Slider corrected. ‘The local church is one they used in Four Weddings and a Funeral. Waiting list from here to materni
ty. Lots of money around. Old families. County types. Plus, these days, commuting masters of the universe.’

  ‘Her father’s down as a solicitor,’ Atherton said. ‘That plus “The Lodge” suggests money all right.’

  ‘Definite step up for the lad from Greaseborough,’ McLaren commented.

  ‘Greasely,’ Slider said. ‘Very different place.’

  ‘Come on, guv,’ McLaren objected. ‘It’s all “oop north” to us.’

  ‘Here, the doctor’s address book.’ Slider threw it to him. ‘See if you can find the ex-wife in it.’

  ‘Shame the marriage didn’t last,’ Connolly commented, opening the Decree Absolute. ‘They were divorced in September 1999.’

  ‘Eleven years isn’t bad in these debased times,’ Atherton said. ‘No other marriage certificates in the envelope. Can we assume he’s been fancy-free for the last ten years?’

  ‘Maybe the ex-wife will know,’ Slider said. ‘If there were children, she would probably have kept in touch. I’m hoping she’ll be able to tell us who the next of kin is, anyway.’

  McLaren said, ‘Guv, there’s an address and phone number in here under A for Amanda, no surname. Grange Road, Ealing.’

  ‘Look it up, get a surname,’ said Slider.

  ‘Where’s Grange Road?’ Atherton asked. He didn’t know Ealing as well as Slider did.

  ‘On the Common.’

  ‘Common? Bit of a comedown from a lodge in Sarratt.’

  McLaren, at his own desk, was not long in finding the property on the electoral register. ‘The name’s Sturgess, guv, no Knox and no hyphen.’

  ‘So she’s reverted, and simplified,’ Atherton said. ‘What does that tell us?’

  Slider gave him a look. ‘That she’s called Amanda Sturgess. Don’t strain yourself.’

  McLaren went on. ‘Also listed at the property is a Robin Frith.’ He looked up. ‘Either she’s letting a room, or she’s shacking up.’

  ‘Either way, definitely letting herself slip,’ said Atherton. ‘Not the conduct we expect from the best people.’

  ‘Ex wives can be bitter,’ Slider said, ignoring him. ‘Apart from the next-of-kin issue, she could be a suspect. We’ll have to visit her.’

  Connolly was eager. ‘Oh guv, can I go?’

  Slider looked at his watch again. ‘It’s after quitting time. I’ll go myself. Anyway, it’s out in my direction.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Atherton said. He caught Slider’s look. ‘What? It’s all right, I don’t expect overtime. Emily’s not back until tomorrow so I’ve got nothing to go home for.’

  ‘Play your cards right and you might get invited to supper,’ Slider said.

  The house was a two-storey Victorian semi-detached – which description did not come near to expressing the size of it. Red brick and white stone edgings, enormous sash windows, a bay window on the ground floor; a small window in the tall, pointed gable indicated there would be servants’ rooms in the attic. Counting them, it would be a five-or six-bedroom house. And from the state of the outsides Slider could tell that all the houses along here had been refurbished. Given the proximity to Ealing Common they would be very expensive. Not so much of a comedown after all.

  The woman who came to the door could only be Amanda Knox-Sturgess. Slider had subconsciously been expecting Penelope Keith from The Good Life, and she didn’t disappoint him. She was tall – too tall for a woman, probably five-eleven – with a long and prominent nose and not too much chin. Oddly, she still managed to look reasonably attractive despite these handicaps, and Slider put that down to her immaculate turnout. Her hair was brown and subtly highlighted, in a smooth short bob, held back by an Alice band; her make-up was perfect; and she wore a navy skirt, blue-and-white striped shirt, low-heeled court shoes, large false pearl earrings and a string of large pearl beads.

  That she was not glad to be disturbed was immediately apparent.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped, her face fixed in an expression of impenetrable hauteur.

  ‘Amanda Sturgess?’ Slider asked politely.

  Her expression changed to one of suspicion and dislike. Her eyes flicked to Atherton, rapidly assessing his suit; and, strangely, this seemed to deepen her aversion. ‘If you’re from the Bible College, you’re wasting your time. My religion is not open to discussion.’

  Slider winced. Oh, poor Atherton, he thought. The Hugo Boss wouldn’t be getting another outing any time soon. ‘We’re police officers, madam,’ he said, showing his brief, before she could slam the door. She inspected it without touching it; Atherton’s did not merit even a glance. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you but we’d like to speak with you. May we come in for a moment?’

  Atherton noticed that, as well as using his most deferential tone, he had allowed a very slight hint of a country accent to creep in. He had used this before, to disarm ‘county’ types, but Atherton was never sure if it was deliberate or instinctive.

  Perhaps Sarratt didn’t count as ‘county’. There was no thaw. ‘What about?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it on the doorstep, madam.’ Slider, gently persuasive.

  ‘Tell me what it’s about, or I shall close the door.’ Amanda Sturgess, magnificently unpersuaded.

  ‘It’s about your former husband, David Rogers.’

  For a moment something flickered through her eyes that might have been alarm, but then there followed overt and sighing exasperation. Overdone? ‘What’s he been up to now?’ Interesting, Slider thought. He’d been up to things before? ‘As you point out,’ she went on, ‘he is my ex-husband. I know nothing about his present exploits. I can’t help you.’

  ‘We’re hoping you can help us with some background information,’ Slider said, and threw in another ‘madam’ for good measure. He had dropped the slight burr now, Atherton noted. Smart and workmanlike was the way to go with this dame. ‘We shan’t keep you long.’

  He could do as good an unyielding as her any day, and did it now. Unwillingly, she let them in. The house had been refurbished to a high standard of what passed these days for luxury – that is, all the floors had been stripped and polished and left bare, the walls were painted white, the furniture was modern and minimal, and an extravagant number of walls had been knocked out, so that the downstairs into which they were led formed a vast L shape with the sitting-room, the short leg, leading through to a kitchen-diner that stretched across the whole back of the house, and had glass doors across most of the width. Slider guessed they would be both sliding and folding, so that in summer almost the entire back of the house could be opened on to the patio. If ever the weather was hot enough. For the rest of the year, it seemed to him, the set-up would be pointedly un-cosy. It struck him that the current fashion for vast open spaces inside houses was an import from a country with a very different climate. But of course, the Amanda Knox-Sturgesses of this world had never set great store by comfort.

  Her heels clacked aggressively on the bare boards; Slider’s and Atherton’s police rubber soles were soundless behind her. No cat or dog came to greet them; the air smelled only of potpourri, not supper; there was no visible food preparation going on in the kitchen; and the sunless rooms were chilly. It was not Slider’s idea of a home; but he was a farm boy from the sticks, so what did he know?

  She turned to face them at the point where the sitting-room turned into the dining end of the kitchen and, menacingly tall under the RSJ, said, ‘Very well. Please be brief. What has David done now?’

  No please-sit-down, no cuppa. There was nothing for it: Slider said, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s dead.’

  He was watching her face, and it went stationary with shock; though again he felt there was a flicker of something – guilt or fear? – before she regained her icy mask. ‘I suppose he crashed his car. He always was a careless driver,’ she said as if indifferently, but she was not unaffected. Her eyes seemed blank, and her voice was by the tiniest degree not steady. She sat abruptly in the nearest armchair. Thus lice
nsed, Slider and Atherton sat too.

  ‘One of the things we hoped you might be able to tell us,’ Slider said, sidestepping the car crash thing, ‘was, who is his next of kin? He seems to have been living alone. Did he remarry after your divorce?’

  ‘Neither of us remarried,’ she said, a little absently, surveying some inner landscape.

  ‘So you did keep in touch with him,’ Slider said. She looked up sharply. ‘If you knew he hadn’t remarried, you must have had some contact with him.’

  ‘We sent birthday and Christmas cards. And occasionally we spoke on the phone – about once a year. He would have told me if he was getting married. But that’s all. I haven’t seen him in years, and I know nothing about his present life.’

  ‘Are his parents alive?’ Slider asked, pursuing the next-of-kin line.

  ‘No. His father died in nineteen-eighty-eight and his mother in ninety-four. They were quite elderly when they had him.’

  ‘Brothers and sisters?’

  ‘He was an only child. And his parents were only children as well. He had a quite remarkable lack of relatives. It made his side of the church look very empty at our wedding.’

  An extraneous comment! Slider was glad of this evidence of softening. ‘At Holy Cross?’ he suggested beguilingly.

  ‘You know Sarratt?’ she asked, but not warmly – almost suspiciously, as if she suspected he was sucking up to her.

  Which he was, of course, though she wasn’t supposed to know it. ‘I know that part of the world. It’s a lovely church. And you and David didn’t have any children?’ Somehow he knew that: there was nothing maternal about her shape or her manner.

  ‘No,’ she said shortly, and in such a voice that it was impossible to pursue the subject.

  ‘Then it looks as though you are the nearest thing he had to next of kin,’ Slider concluded.

  ‘I am his ex-wife,’ she reminded him again, sharply. ‘I am not responsible for anything to do with him.’

  ‘Not legally, of course,’ Slider said, as though there was another kind of responsibility. She eyed him and opened her mouth to retort but he got in first – soothingly. ‘I was just wondering whether there was anyone else who needed to be told about his death.’