‘Here, sir. I mean, Mr Dickson’s office.’
‘Already? I thought he wasn’t due until Monday.’
Jablowski wrinkled her nose. ‘Dead men’s shoes. Maybe he’s trying to catch us out. Maurice McLaren was saying—’
‘I think we ought to try to start without prejudices,’ Slider checked her. ‘Give the man a fair chance.’
‘Yes Guv. If you say so,’ Jablowski said with profound disagreement.
It was unnerving to tap on Dickson’s door and hear a strange voice answer.
‘Come!’
Slider’s heart sank. He felt that someone too busy to get to the end of a sentence as short as ‘Come in’ would not prove to be a restful companion. He entered, and true to his principles searched around for a friendly and cheerful expression as he presented himself for inspection.
‘Slider, sir. You wanted to see me?’
Barrington was standing beside the desk, his back turned to the door, staring out of the window. His hands were down at his side, and the fingers of his right hand were drumming on the desk top. His bulk, coming between the window and the door, darkened the room, for he was both tall and heavily built. It was a solid, hard bulk – muscle, not fat – but he dressed well, so that he gave an impression of being at ease with his size. Slider thought of Atherton’s lounging grace which always made him seem apologetic about his height. Still, Atherton would approve of the suit at least. Even Slider, who was a sartorial ignoramus, could see the quality of it. And a quick glance at the shoes – Slider believed shoes were a useful indicator of character – revealed them to be heavy and expensive black Oxfords, polished to that deeply glassy shine that only soldiers ever really master. So far so bad, he thought.
When Barrington turned, it was impossible to look anywhere but at his face. It was a big face, big enough for that huge body, and made bigger by the thick wiry black hair which Slider could see would defy any barber’s efforts to make it lie down quietly. It was a big face which might have been strikingly handsome if nature had left it alone, but which in its ruin was simply spectacular. Slider blenched at the thought of what the ravages must have looked like which could have left such scars: Barrington ‘s naturally swarthy skin was gouged and pocked and runnelled like the surface of a space-wandering meteor.
And set in the ruin, under thick black brows, were intelligent hazel eyes, black-fringed; almost feral in their beauty. With an unwilling access of pity, Slider imagined those eyes as they must have looked out in adolescence from amidst the fresh eruptions; imagined him as a boy carrying his pustular, volcanic face before him into a world which turned from him in helpless distaste. Christ, Barrington, Slider thought, reverting in the depth of his pity to police jargon, ain’t life a bitch! He was ready to forgive him even for saying ‘Come!’
‘Ah yes, Slider,’ Barrington said coldly, surveying him minutely. His voice was big, too, resonant and full. It would carry – had carried, perhaps – across a windy northern parade ground. ‘We haven’t met before, I think. Bill, isn’t it?’ he asked, having apparently filed Slider’s essential features in some mental system of his own. ‘Relax. I’m not officially here yet. I thought we might just have a friendly chat, get to know each other.’
‘Sir,’ said Slider neutrally. The offer to relax was as enticing as a barbed-wire hammock.
Barrington ‘s mouth smiled, but nothing else in the pitted moonscape moved. ‘Well. So this is Shepherd’s Bush. Bob Dickson’s ground – which he made peculiarly his own.’
The last bit did not sound complimentary. ‘Did you know him, sir?’
‘Oh yes.’ There was no telling whether it had been a pleasure or not. ‘We were at Notting Hill at the same time. Some years ago now.’
‘I didn’t know he’d been at Notting Hill,’ Slider said. He felt it was time to nail his colours to the mast. ‘His death was a great shock, sir. We’ll all miss him.’
‘He was a remarkable man,’ Barrington said enigmatically. The effort of being nice seemed to be proving a strain. The fingers drummed again. ‘Doesn’t anyone ever clean the windows here?’ he barked abruptly. ‘This one’s practically opaque.’
‘They haven’t been done since I’ve been here, sir,’ Slider said.
‘Then we’ll have them done. A lick of paint here and there wouldn’t come amiss, either; and a few pot-plants. I’m surprised the typists haven’t brought in pot-plants. The two usually go together.’
‘We’ve always been short of civilian staff here, sir,’ Slider said neutrally.
‘I want the place brightened up,’ Barrington rode over the objection. ‘Can’t expect people to behave smartly if their surroundings are dingy.’
He paused to let Slider agree or disagree, but Slider let the trap yawn unstepped-in. The bright eyes grew harder.
‘I was ringing your office for quite a while, trying to reach you. You weren’t at your desk.’
‘No, sir,’ Slider agreed, looking back steadily. Now was definitely the moment to get a few ground rules clear.
After a moment it was Barrington who looked away. ‘Things are pretty quiet at the moment,’ he said, moving round the desk and pulling out the chair as if he meant to sit down.
‘We’re always busy, sir. But there’s nothing special on at the moment.’
‘Good. Then it’s the right time to do some reorganising.’ He changed his mind about sitting down, and leaned on the chair back instead. Slider thought he was like an actor during a long speech, finding bits of stage business to occupy his body. Organisation is the first essential – of people as well as the place. I want to find out what everybody’s good for.’
‘We’ve got a good team, sir,’ Slider said. ‘I’ve worked with them for some time now—’
Barrington made a small movement, like a cat in the grass spotting a bird landing nearby. ‘You refused your promotion to Chief Inspector I understand. Why was that?’
‘I wanted to stay operational, sir.’ Slider had been prepared for that question, at least. ‘I’ve never been fond of desk work and meetings.’
‘None of us are,’ Barrington said firmly. ‘But it has to be done. Someone has to do it.’ To which Slider’s inward answers were – Not true, So what? and As long as it’s not me. ‘I expect everyone in my team to pull his full weight. No freeloaders. No weak links.’ There seemed to be nothing to say to that, so Slider said it. ‘We’ve got the chance for a new start here. Bob Dickson had his own ways of doing things, and sometimes they paid off. But his ways are not my ways. He’s gone now, and you’ve got me to answer to. I expect absolute loyalty. And I think you can tell the men that in return they will get absolute loyalty from me.’
‘I’ll tell them that, sir.’
Barrington studied the answer for a moment and seemed to find it short on fervour. ‘Some things are going to have to change around here,’ he went on. ‘Things have been let go. I’m not blaming anyone. It happens. But not when I’m in charge. I like to run a smart outfit. People are happier when they know what’s expected of them.’
‘Sir,’ Slider said. He was puzzled. The man was talking like a complete arse, and yet he got the feeling of real menace. It was as if the worn cliches were a crude code used by a being from a superior species who thought they were good enough for poor old dumb homo sapiens, Barrington ‘s higher thought processes were deemed to be too subtle for Slider to understand. And why had he not liked Dickson? Was it merely a spit and polish man’s irritation with the effective slob, or was there something else behind it? It must have been a fairly steep sort of annoyance for him to let it show like this.
Slider had evidently had his allotted time. Barrington came back round the desk and held out his hand. ‘Glad we’ve had this little chat.’
Slider’s hand was gripped, wrung and let go all in one movement, and Barrington was opening the door for him and ushering him out with the sheer force of his physical size. Norma, approaching along the corridor, stopped on seeing Slider, and then somehow stopped
again from a stationary position on seeing Barrington. He smiled at her with his automatic, unmoving smile, his eyes photographing and filing her.
‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ he said. ‘Barrington.’
‘Swilley,’ she responded, mesmerised.
‘WDC Swilley—’ Slider began to explain, but Barrington cut him off.
‘Fine. I’ll get to know you all in due course,’ he said, and popped back through his trap door like the Demon King.
Norma turned open-mouthed to Slider, who shook his head and walked away along the corridor. He wouldn’t put it past Barrington to be standing just by the door to hear what they said about him.
When they had turned the corner and were safe she burst out in a low gasp, ‘Who is that extraordinary, sexy man?’
‘Sexy?’ Slider said, wounded. ‘With those acne scars?’
‘I can’t help it,’ she said in a baffled voice. ‘I know he oughtn’t to be, but, God! He made my knees go weak.’
‘He’s the new DS. Stepped into Dickson’s shoes. At Kensington they called him Mad Ivan.’
‘I bet they did! He’s breathtaking!’
‘You’re dribbling,’ Slider told her coldly. ‘What did you want, anyway?’
‘I was looking for you, Guv. A call’s just come in from Dave’s Fish Bar in Uxbridge Road – chip shop, corner of Adelaide Grove—’
‘Yes, I know it’
‘A customer just bought a thirty pee portion of chips and found a finger in it’
‘A finger of what?’ Slider asked absently.
‘A human finger.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Someone else can deal with it, surely? I’m not a public health inspector.’
Norma looked offended. ‘I thought you’d find it amusing, that’s all. There’s so little to do around here. Atherton’s gone,’ she added cunningly.
‘You’re quite right, of course. Anything’s better than going back and reading circulation files.’
‘You never know,’ she said encouragingly, following him down the corridor. You might find die rest of the body attached to it.’
‘I’m never that lucky,’ he said.
CHAPTER 2
A Finger in Every Pie
CHERYL MAKEPEACE, AGED FIFTEEN, HAD been on her way to school – Hammersmith County, at the far end of Bloemfontein Road. She’d been to the doctor that morning, to consult about what her mother referred to with breathless Jamaican delicacy as Ladies’ Problems, and since her appointment had been for ten forty-five she’d decided happily it wasn’t worth going into school beforehand. Coming out of the surgery in Becklow Road and seeing the sunshine, she thought she might as well make the whole thing last out until lunchtime.
She crossed the Uxbridge Road and mooched along in the sunshine looking idly at the shops. The chippy had just opened, and the smell of frying wafted delightfully down to her, spiced with a whiff of solvents from the dry-cleaners next door. It reminded her she was hungry. Thirty pee’s worth of chips would just last her nicely down Bloemfontein Road, she thought.
The chip shop was in a short row of five shops on the main road between two side turnings. There was the photographic shop (portraits in the back and a fast printing service in the front) which had just opened, called Developing World. Cheryl, who hadn’t got the joke, thought the name was poncey and that the shop wouldn’t last long in that neighbourhood, in which she showed a business judgement beyond her years. Next to it stood the Golden Kebab Take Away, which was run by two devoted Lebanese brothers who shared everything, including profits and a wife and three children, and allowed themselves to be called Ali quite indiscriminately by the local customers, who all looked alike to them.
Next to the Golden Kebab was the Chinese restaurant which had used to be called the Joy Luck Wonderful Garden, but had recently been redecorated, and rechristened, for inscrutable oriental reasons, Hung Fat. Next door to that was Mr and Mrs Patel’s dry-cleaning emporium, and then Dave’s Fish and Chip Bar – Eat Here or Take Away. On the other side of Dave’s was the alley which gave access to the backs of the shops down the next side-street and, incidentally, to Dave’s own back yard.
These details did not impinge much upon Cheryl’s consciousness as she entered the Fish and Chip Bar, and were even less to the forefront of her mind five minutes later when she shook vinegar over her bag of chips and saw that one of them was a finger – pallid, greasy, but well-fried.
Afterwards when she told the story to her friends – and she was to tell it often – she always said ‘I just stood there and screamed’. But in fact she didn’t scream, or make any sound at all. Instead she demonstrated an extraordinary, atavistic reaction arising from a deeply-hidden race memory of poisonous snakes and spiders: she flung the chip-bag instantly and violently away from her with a two-handed upward and outward jerk, which sent its contents flying across the front shop. They hit the reproduction Coca-Cola mirror and scattered over and under the small metal table-and-seats composite screwed to the wall, which constituted the restaurant and fulfilled the Eat Here part of Dave’s advertised promise.
Dave himself, in the person of one Ronnie Slaughter, made a sound expressive of indignation and annoyance, but one glance at his customer’s dilated eyes and flared nostrils convinced him she was not simply messing about. Naturally enough he didn’t believe her when she said there’d been a finger in her chips, not until a hands-and-knees clear-up of the mess under the table had discovered the offending object nestling along the skirting board. He expressed the opinion that it was just a pencil or a felt-tip pen or something like that and picked it up boldly, only to demonstrate the same animal instinct of rejection, which because of the confined space in which he was kneeling resulted in his banging his head quite sharply and painfully on the metal underside of the table.
‘I told you so,’ Cheryl moaned, clutching her school blouse tight at the neck as though she feared the finger might scuttle across the floor, spring for her throat and wriggle down inside her clothing. ‘Whose is it?’
‘Well it’s not fucking mine,’ Slaughter shouted, perhaps forgivably in the circumstances, and telephoned for the police.
By the time Slider got there the uniformed constable, Elkins, who had been despatched by the section sergeant, was holding the door of the shop against a knot of idlers who had gathered to see what was going on. On the other side of the plate-glass window, like a depressed goldfish in a bowl, Slaughter was sitting at the table hiding his head in his hands.
Atherton came to meet Slider as he went in.
‘You didn’t waste much time,’ Slider said sternly.
‘I like to keep my hand in,’ Atherton smirked.
‘Oh God, don’t start that. Where’s exhibit A?’
‘On the counter, wrapped in paper.’
‘And the customer who found it?’
‘She seemed to think it was time she had hysterics, so I sent her next door for a cup of tea. Mrs Patel’s making her one in the back room of the dry-cleaner’s. It’s all right,’ he forestalled Slider’s question, ‘Polish is with her, trying to get some sense out of her.’
‘What’s Jablowski doing here?’
‘Well, seeing she didn’t have anything particular to do, and as it’s so near lunchtime—’ Atherton said beguilingly. ‘We weren’t expecting you to come as well, Guv.’
‘So it seems. Well, now you’re here, you’d better make yourself useful. Go and have a look round out the back, and see if there’s anything—’
‘Fishy?’
‘Out of the ordinary,’ Slider corrected firmly. ‘I’ll have a word with this bloke. What’s his name?’
Atherton told him. ‘He’s a bit nervous, Guv – afraid we’re going to finger him for the crime.’
‘Just go, will you?’ Slider said patiently.
‘Even police work’s gone digital these days,’ Atherton said, going.
Ronnie Slaughter was an overweight, pudgy-faced man in his late twenties who had already gone shiningl
y bald on the front and top of his head. Perhaps to compensate, he had grown his hair long at the back, and it straggled weakly over his collar, making him look as though his whole scalp was slipping off backwards like an eiderdown in the night. He was dressed, unsurprisingly for the 1990s, in jeans, tee-shirt and the regulation filthy trainers. A bump was rising raffishly on the right side of his forehead, which combined with the single earring – a plain gold sleeper – in his left ear and the rose tattooed on his left forearm made him look like a pudgy pirate.
He was obviously upset by his experience. His meaty face was damp and pale, and he lifted strained and reproachful eyes as Slider addressed him pleasantly.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Slider. Are you the owner, sir? I’d like to have a little chat with you.’
‘I don’t know nothing about it,’ Slaughter said plaintively. ‘I’ve never had nothing like this happen before. I keep a clean shop, everybody knows that. You ask anyone. I don’t know how that bloody thing got in there, and that’s the truth. I never—’
‘That’s all right,’ Slider said soothingly. ‘Just let’s take it from the beginning. What time did you get in this morning?’
‘Arpast ten, same as usual.’
‘You open at half-past eleven?’
‘That’s right. Tuesday to Sat’day, arpast eleven till two, arpast four till eleven. Closed Sunday and Monday.’ He seemed to find the familiar recital soothing.
‘You come in early to prepare things, I suppose?’
‘S’right.’
‘And where did the chips come from? I suppose you buy them in from a wholesaler?’
Slaughter looked almost scornful. ‘Nah, only Wimpy Bars and them sort of places buy their chips in. They’re never any good. Fish an’ chip shops always make their own.’
‘You peel the potatoes and cut the chips yourself?’ Slider was mildly surprised.
‘Yeah. O’ course, in the old days there used to be a potato boy come in to do it. That’s how I got started in the trade, as a spud boy, every morning before school. Better than a paper round. Learn the ropes an’ that. But nowadays what with the recession and every think I ‘ave to do’ em myself.’
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