‘Of course you do. That would be so much easier. But it isn’t going to be easy. You have to make your mind up to that.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ he said, stung to resentment. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’
‘You think that’s easy?’ She shoved her hand backwards through her hair, a residual movement of anger, like the lashing of a cat’s tail. ‘How long has this been going on, now? And who’s been bearing the brunt of it? At the moment, you’re making me pay for your indecision.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Bill, for God’s sake don’t do that!’
‘Do what?’
‘Make me feel unkind. Make me feel I’m rubbing your nose in it. I hate this situation!’
‘I know.’
‘But do you? The whole point is that there’s nothing I can do about anything! It’s all in your hands, and I hate to be helpless, and if I keep nagging you about it, it makes me look like a shrew. I can’t win. I know it will be hard for you to leave Irene and the children, but if you want me, you have to do something about it, that’s all.’
‘Yes, I know that. I’m sorry to put you through it. It’s just—’
She rounded on him. ‘It’s got to be soon. It can’t go on like this, don’t you see? Because it will sour everything. It’s not fair on any of us.’
‘I know. But I can’t do anything while I’ve got this case on,’ he said – automatic defence, but true as well.
‘Yes, I know. But when this case is over, one way or the other it’s got to be resolved. Either you’ve to take the plunge, or—’
‘Or?’
‘Or we’ll have to split up,’ she said reluctantly. She looked up and met his eyes, and he saw without at all wanting to a whole range of her thoughts: how she disliked the very idea of an ultimatum, resented being forced into the position of giving one, hated to be made to sound like the ungenerous party. He also saw that at the bottom, she feared that when it actually came to it he might not choose her after all. Don’t, he wanted to cry. Don’t make me feel that it’s possible to hurt you that much. ‘I love you,’ he said helplessly, and it sounded horribly like an apology.
She put herself into his arms and rested her face against his neck. ‘This is the moment when I’d really like to be able to cry at will,’ she said. ‘It might convince you how weak and helpless I really am.’
He had never seen her cry. He didn’t believe he ever would see her cry. But he would have liked to be able to tell her so that she’d believe it, that he knew that that did not make her strong.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Fish by Any Other Name…
ATHERTON GATHERED HIS PAPERS TOGETHER. ‘That’s it then,’ he said. ‘Collins is a blow-out. He’s not going to put his hand up for it, and we can’t prove anything. So what do we do?’
‘Let him go,’ Slider said simply.
Atherton sighed, scratched the back of his head, drummed his fingers once on the edge of the desk in frustration. ‘It really burns my toast! It was him all right, but I just can’t pin it to him.’
‘Not so the Muppets’d give it houseroom. But don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere,’ Slider said. ‘We can always arrest him again. We’ve got time left on the clock.’
‘Yes, I know. I was just so fond of this file. And everything seems to peter out, doesn’t it? Maybe it was accidental death after all. Maybe Neal really was just an ordinary old pervert.’
‘What, with all the women in his life?’
‘Smokescreen. Methinks he doth protest too much.’
‘You know it doesn’t work that way. Pin your faith on the Webb connection. If we find that Collins knew Webb – which isn’t impossible, they were both reps – we can do a whole new number on him.’
‘I suppose so,’ Atherton said, without great enthusiasm. ‘What’s happening on that, anyway?’
‘I’m going over to see Mrs Webb myself this morning. When you’ve finished processing Collins, you’d better read the file, familiarise yourself with it.’
‘I hope there’s a map,’ Atherton complained. ‘Pinner was bad enough, but Harefield is real carrot – country. Next time I want a nice civilised murder in the Theatre District, with trails leading to the Loire Valley in time for the grape harvest.’
‘I’ll speak to the author,’ Slider promised.
‘Meanwhile, I hope you’re taking a track-laying vehicle, Guv?’
‘Hail or snow, the mail always gets through.’
Slider came away from Mrs Webb’s house more cheerful, though no less baffled.
‘I knew from the beginning it wasn’t suicide,’ she said, sitting on the sagging and hideous sofa in the tiny Victorian workman’s cottage she still inhabited with the three children. ‘Davie would never have done a thing like that. He was a cheerful man, a good man. He’d never have done that to me and the kids.’
‘I understand he was in financial trouble?’ Slider said.
She looked at him sharply. ‘You’re thinking of the insurance? Yes, it paid for the house and everything. Davie was a great believer in insurance. But that’s another reason he’d never have killed himself – suicide invalidates the policy. I’m surprised you don’t know that, being a policeman.’
He decided to tackle the hostility straight away. ‘Mrs Webb, I’ve read the file. There’s no question that it was suicide. That’s not what I meant. I’m simply trying to get the picture.’
‘I told them all this at the time, your friends,’ she said resentfully, looking away. Everything in the room was unrelentingly ugly, and there was the rank smell of too many children in too small a space, a smell Slider associated with poverty. The animal kingdom was full of violent death, but there was nothing like the human race for inflicting long, slow suffering on its members. ‘If you’ve read the file, what do you have to come stirring it all up again for?’
‘There’s always the chance that you’ll remember something else – or even that I’ll ask a different question. I know it must be painful for you to think about it, but another man’s been killed, and the circumstances are similar to those surrounding your husband’s death. I really would appreciate your help.’
She sighed, and looked at him, and the lines of her face softened. She must have been very pretty once, he thought. And she was indeed a mere snip of a thing, too slight by far to have strangled a grown man and rigged up a hanging, even had there been anything to suggest she might have wanted to.
‘Well, go on then, ask,’ she said resignedly.
‘Your husband had been drinking a lot around that time. Was that unusual?’
‘He was always fond of his pint. He was a drinker, but he wasn’t a drunkard. He could handle it,’ she said defensively.
‘A social drinker?’
‘I suppose so. He liked a pint or two with the lads. He was always that way, even before I met him. I used to go with him to begin with, but I never really liked pubs. In any case, it was his mates he wanted to talk to. He was happier there without me. So I stopped going.’
‘So he wasn’t drinking more than usual?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe a bit. He was worried about his job. But it wasn’t a problem. The police tried to make out he was some kind of alcoholic, especially after the accident, when he lost his licence. It wasn’t like that. He was a good man, and he was worried about me and the kids, that’s all.’
‘It says in the file that you suspected him of seeing another woman. Is that true?’
She sighed. ‘They pick you up on things, and then you can’t ever convince them it isn’t important.’
‘So there was nothing in it?’
‘Look, any man will flirt a bit, if a pretty young woman makes up to him,’ she said, looking him straight in the eyes. ‘It doesn’t mean he’d take it any further than that.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Slider suggested.
‘There’s nothing to tell. I met a neighbour in the street, who happens to serve on the food bar at The Breakspear
lunchtimes – or she did then, anyway – and she asked me who the girl was Davie came in with. That’s all.’ Slider waited, and she went on reluctantly, ‘Apparently he took a girl in there one lunchtime, and because she was young and pretty, naturally everyone assumed he was having an affair. Which he wasn’t.’ She displayed a grim humour. ‘How could he afford to have an affair, when he was out of work?’
‘I don’t mean to sound as if I’m picking you up on this,’ Slider said carefully, ‘but you said at the time that he was “carrying on all over the place” with this young woman.’
‘I was angry, all right? I mean, he was dead, wasn’t he? The police come and catch you for a statement when you’re out of your head with shock, you don’t know what you’re saying and you don’t care either, and then afterwards they stick to it and go on and on at you like a broken record—’
‘Yes, I understand. So he only saw this girl once, to your knowledge?’
‘Once, twice, what’s the difference? A few times. They were seen together a few times. It didn’t mean there was anything going on. People can be friends, can’t they?’
‘And you didn’t know who she was?’
‘No. She was probably just someone from work.’ She digested for a moment, and then in a calmer voice said, ‘When I asked him about it, he denied it all. That’s what upset me. I mean, I know Connie, she wouldn’t have made it up about him coming in with the girl. If he’d said, oh yes, she’s so – and – so, a friend of a friend, or whatever, it would’ve been all right. But he didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. I suppose he thought I’d think the worst. That’s what really got to me.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Slider said.
She looked up sharply. ‘Do you? It’s a wonder if you do. All men are the same – think they can lie their way out of anything. If they’d only tell you the truth, it wouldn’t be half so bad. But you can never convince them of that.’
He was glad to change the uncomfortable subject. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to kill your husband?’ She shook her head. ‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘Davie? No,’ she said simply.
‘He was short of money, wasn’t he? Did he owe money anywhere? Had he borrowed from anyone?’
‘Not that I know of. No-one ever came and asked for it, anyway, except the hire purchase and the mortgage and stuff.’ The grim humour again: ‘You don’t think the Woolwich sent a hit man round after him, do you?’
‘Was your husband friendly with a David Collins? He’s a salesman too, with a firm called Newbury Desserts. This is a photograph of him.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen him before. Of course, he may have met all sorts of people on the road that I didn’t know about, but I never heard him mention that name.’
He showed her the photograph of Neal without much hope, and she shook her head at that, too.
‘No, I’ve never seen him before either.’
‘His name’s Richard Neal – Dick Neal. Did your husband ever mention him?’
‘I don’t think so. Not that I remember.’
And so he was back where he started. As the last stone not to be left unturned, he asked, ‘Does the word mouthwash mean anything to you?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Did your husband ever use it in an unusual context? Could it be a codeword for something else, for instance?’
‘I never heard him use it, but it sounds like one of those silly nicknames, doesn’t it?’
‘Nicknames?’
‘Firemen all give each other silly nicknames, don’t they? It’s traditional.’
‘Yes, so I understand,’ Slider said, still faintly puzzled. ‘Was your husband a fireman, then?’
‘Oh yes, years ago, before I met him. He was just a part-timer, on retained service, when we first got married, but he gave that up as well when the kids came along. Well, he’d taken the job with Clearview by then, anyway, and of course he couldn’t be on call when he was on the road selling windows. I think he missed his mates and everything, but I wasn’t sorry when he gave it up. I don’t think any woman likes her husband taking those sort of risks. And of course the money was nothing.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Slider.
He couldn’t see where it was leading, but there seemed to be a definite fire motif in all this. Fire, and the mystery tart, and jack – the – lad reps in money – trouble. Was it a lead? Was it a clue? Something was fishy, at any rate, and a fish by any other name would still never come up smelling of roses.
Norma came rushing in, looking excited and triumphant.
‘Got it, Guv!’ she said. ‘This is it, the connection we’ve been looking for!’
‘All right, sit down – and don’t disappoint me now. You wouldn’t like to see a strong man weep, would you?’
‘No, no, you’ll love this,’ Norma promised. She sat down and crossed her long, long legs, well above the knee. Slider fixed his eyes on her clipboard and concentrated on breathing evenly. ‘I’ve been checking up on what Mrs Webb gave us about her husband. He was a full – time fireman at the Shaftesbury Avenue fire station, but that was closed down in 1974 during one of their economy drives. Then Webb became a part – time fireman at Harefield, which of course was his local station. Retained personnel have to live and work near the station, so they can be bleeped when they’re needed. In fact, all firemen are expected to live near their station, except for those serving in Central London, where it wouldn’t be possible, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Slider said.
‘Oh, well, you know that, obviously,’ Norma said, catching herself up. ‘And obviously you know that firemen usually have some other trade under their belts, because they have so much time off – four days on and four days off on full – time working.’
‘What was Webb’s trade?’
‘Carpenter. I suppose that’s why he went into double – glazing – the window connection. Anyway, Webb combined carpentry with part – time fire service for four years. He married in 1976, and took the full – time job with Clearview in 1978, and gave up the fire service at the same time, as we know. The children were born in 1978, 1981 and 1983. In 1986 Clearview went bust, and Webb took a commission – only job with Zodiac. And in 1987 he was murdered.’
Anatomy of a life, Slider thought. How little it all boils down to.
‘Right, so what’s the connection with Neal?’
‘I’ve just got the list through of the personnel at Shaftesbury Avenue station immediately before it closed down. Richard Neal was a fireman, on the same watch as David Webb!’
Oh joy!
‘So they knew each other,’ Slider said happily.
‘Yes, and intimately at that, I should think. From what I hear, there’s a very strong bond within a watch. They live and work together for intense periods. The wonder of it was that Webb never mentioned Neal’s name to his wife. I’d have thought he’d have forever been telling stories of the good old days. You know what men are like, sir!’
‘Well, a bit,’ Slider said modestly. ‘But since it was all over two years before he married her, perhaps it just never happened to come up. And she may not have liked to hear about it.’
‘Jealousy, you mean? Yes, I can understand that. There’s another thing I was thinking: this business about nicknames. There was a man on the same watch as Neal and Webb whose name was Barry Lister. I know it’s a bit of a long shot, but supposing he’s “Mouthwash”? You know, Lister – Listerine?’
‘It’s possible,’ Slider conceded. ‘All those names will have to be checked, but you can start with Lister, by all means. Get everyone working on it right away. We want to know where they all are, what they’ve been doing, who kept in touch with whom – especially Webb and Neal – who’s had recent contact with Neal, and any other possible connections there may be between them. Not forgetting whether any of them knew our old friend Collins.’
‘It’s not going to be easy to track them all down, aft
er sixteen years. People move around such a lot, inconsiderate bastards.’
‘Try the short cuts. Check the names against the subscribers to the telephone numbers on Neal’s itemised bills, to start with. Polish has them all indexed. And have someone run the names past Mrs Neal, see if she’s heard of any of them, and Mrs Webb ditto.’
‘Right.’
‘And try the London telephone directory. It’s an obvious source, but it’s funny how often people forget it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you can tell Mackay to put all those names into the computer, see if we’ve got records on any of them.’
‘Right.’ She stood up, smiling at him. ‘Overtime all round, Guv?’
‘It’s going to be a busy night,’ he said. Dickson was going to love explaining this to the keeper of the privy purse. ‘Is the Super still in, d’you know?’
‘I just saw him come out of the lav.’
‘Right. I’d better catch him before he goes home.’
He decided to clear the decks while he was at it by phoning Irene. ‘I’m going to be very late tonight. In fact it may be an all – nighter. We’ve got a new lead to follow up, and Head’s about to pull the pin on us, so we have to move fast.’
Irene hardly listened. She had news of her own, which she was breathlessly eager to tell him. ‘I’ve had a phone call from Marilyn Cripps!’ she said with unconcealed triumph.
Slider tried very hard to be interested. ‘Oh? What did she want?’
‘Well, you know her boy’s at Eton? Well, they’re doing a special gala variety show for charity at Easter – singing and dancing and little sketches and so on, but all in good taste, not like the Palladium or anything. They’re getting one or two other local schools to join in, and one of the royals is going to be there – I think it’s the Duchess of Kent. Or did she say Princess Alexandra? Well, anyway, one of them is definitely going to be there, and there’ll be a supper afterwards, and all the organisers will be presented to her, whichever one it is.’
‘Yes, but what’s this got to do with you?’ Slider asked when she paused for breath. ‘I suppose she wants to put us down for tickets—’
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