‘You actually saw him writing it?’
‘Yes, as I came in,’ said Cate.
Slider smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s very useful.’ He stood up to take his leave. ‘I’ll take this with me, if I may. Put it to the handwriting expert, see if it’s the same as the suicide note. But I’m sure I’ll find that it is.’
Cate took up the dog’s lead again, and as Slider met his eyes there was something quizzical in them. He wondered if he had overplayed his hand. But all Cate said was, ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘Oh, you haven’t disturbed me,’ Cate said pleasantly.
As Slider came in from the yard he bumped into O’Flaherty on his way back from the front shop.
‘Barrington’s after you – bing-bonging the place down. There’s a bounty in gold offered for the first man t’ sight you.’ He grinned. ‘How about dat? Moby Dick spotted by a Dopey Mick.’
Slider made a disgusted face. ‘What’s he doing in, anyway?’
‘It’s his little way, so I’m told, when there’s overtime bein’ clocked up. He’s been in this hour, doin’ his Demon King impersonation, poppin’ up here and poppin’ up there. You never know where he’ll be next.’
‘Oh well, I suppose I’d better go and see what he wants.’
‘Put newspaper down your trousers,’ Fergus advised his retreating back.
Barrington’s room smelled of sulphur, and flickers of lightning were playing round his brow when Slider presented himself.
‘What the devil are you playing at?’ he demanded angrily, without preamble. ‘Sir?’
‘I’ve just had a telephone call from Colin Cate, saying you’ve been round there bothering him with inane questions. And after I specifically warned you that we had to tread carefully with him! We’ve already let ourselves down with him once, and you have to go plunging in, spoiling his weekend, annoying him, and making a complete fool of yourself, and me, and the Department! Now he thinks we’re a bunch of clodhopping bozos. What the hell did you go barging in there for? Why didn’t you clear it with me first?’
Slider was surprised. ‘I didn’t think I needed permission to follow up a line of enquiry, sir. We’ve always—’
‘I don’t care how you’ve done things in the past!’ Barrington said, his eyes as yellow and baleful as the Dobermann’s. ‘My predecessor may have run this place like a boarding house, but that’s not my way. I’m in charge of this investigation, and you do not go annoying respectable members of the public without checking with me first.’
‘Sir,’ Slider said woodenly. It was proving an invaluable monosyllable in his relationship with Mad Ivan.
Barrington stood up and went to look out of his window, a movement of restlessness by a man of action unwillingly confined. Probably at that moment he would have liked to have thumped somebody. ‘And what was this “line of enquiry” anyway, which was so important and urgent?’ he asked, his back intimidatingly to Slider.
Slider told him. Half way through Barrington turned back to look at him with wild incredulity.
‘Are you seriously telling me that you went badgering Colin Cate – the Colin Cate – for that? Are you trying to tell me that you think – I just don’t believe this!’ he interrupted himself with a hand gesture and a short pacing walk one way and then the other – ‘You think that he murdered Slaughter and faked the suicide note?’
‘He said he actually saw Slaughter write that note, sir. He must have been lying, and why would he do that if not—’
‘You take the word of a slut of a call-girl rather than him? A half-witted tom tells you that Slaughter was illiterate, and that’s enough to make you believe Colin Cate is a murderer?’ Barrington shook his asteroid head again in disbelief. ‘I really think you must be sick in the head, Slider. Perhaps you need a holiday. Perhaps I ought to take you off this case – it seems to be getting too much for you.’
Slider kept his hands down at his sides, and his eyes on his shoes.
‘Did Mr Cate say anything more about the note, sir?’
‘There wasn’t anything to say. I didn’t know any more than he did what you wanted it for. He was very polite about the whole thing, in fact – he just said he couldn’t understand why such routine enquiries were being carried out at overtime rates. Reminded me that we are accountable to the taxpayer. But I could tell he was angry, and with good cause – oh, and yes, it seems you didn’t tell him that we’ve discovered Peter Leman is alive after all.’
Slider was startled. ‘No sir.’
‘No sir? What does that mean? You don’t think he has the right to know that an employee of his we thought had been murdered was alive and well? He was pretty annoyed about that, too. He said he couldn’t understand why you didn’t tell him, unless you suspected him of something, and that if you suspected him, he wished you’d have said so openly. He could have told you then that he didn’t leave the house at all on the night Slaughter died, or on the night of the chip-shop murder, and that he could show his security guard’s records to prove it if you were really worried.’
‘Did Mr Cate volunteer that, sir?’ Slider asked, intrigued.
Barrington glowered. ‘Yes, and I’m ashamed that an officer under my command should have made him think it was necessary. He couldn’t be more willing to help in any way he can with this investigation, but you go and set his back up, behaving like an amateur gumshoe in a econd-rate movie!’
Try as he might, Slider couldn’t bring himself to slip a ‘sorry, sir’ into the space Barrington left for it. He stood silent and thoughtful, and after a moment, Barrington went on.
‘Let me make this clear, Slider: I don’t expect you to bother him again on any pretext. If anything comes up that he ought to know about, or if there’s anything you need to ask him, you come to me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. And for Christ’s sake get on and find out who the victim was, so that we can close this case. If we can’t cover ourselves with glory we can at least try to be cost-effective. There is such a thing as budget, you know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m not pleased with the way you’re handling this case, I don’t mind telling you. I shall have to consider whether or not to replace you. So bear in mind that you’re on probation now. Don’t screw up again.’
Slider was sitting at his desk when his phone rang, and simultaneously Atherton burst in, with Mackay close behind him.
‘It’s Leman, Guv,’ Atherton said urgently, gesturing towards the telephone. ‘Rang up asking for you.’
‘Get a trace on it,’ Slider said, reaching out his hand to the instrument.
‘We’re doing that.’
‘Good. Keep quiet, then. I’ll put it on Talk.’
He picked up the receiver and pressed the button at the same time. ‘Detective Inspector Slider,’ he said.
Leman’s voice emerged small but clear from the loudspeaker. ‘Is that Mr Slider? It’s Peter Leman here. Suzanne’s boyfriend. You know, Suzanne Edrich.’
‘Yes, I know who you are. I’m glad you’ve called me. We’ve got a lot to talk about. Do you want to give me your number in case we get cut off?’
‘I’m not that daft,’ he said. ‘I told Suzanne – and I suppose she told you – that I’m in hiding.’
‘Yes, so she said.’
‘Well I’m not about to tell you my number then, am I? Talk sense.’
‘So why did you call me?’
‘I saw it in the newspaper this morning that Ronnie had topped himself. Is that true?’
‘It’s true that he’s dead,’ Slider said.
‘What, you mean it wasn’t suicide?’ Leman’s comprehension was suspiciously quick. Slider didn’t immediately answer him, and the voice rose in manifest fear. ‘For Chrissake tell me! Was he murdered?’
‘It’s possible,’ Slider said. ‘His throat was cut. We don’t know if it was suicide or
murder.’
‘Oh Christ,’ Leman muttered. ‘Oh Jesus. Listen, I’ve got to tell you – I suppose you think I did it, but I didn’t. I’ve been here all the time, ever since Wednesday—’
‘Where’s here?’
‘Don’t make me laugh. Listen! I didn’t kill Ronnie. My orders were to pick him up at the chip shop, take him for a drink and go home with him, that’s all.’
‘Why did you have to do that?’
‘The bloke I work for doesn’t give you reasons, and you don’t ask. You just do what you’re told.’
Sounds like Barrington, Slider thought wryly. ‘And who is he?’
‘I’m not telling you his name. D’you think I’m daft? I shouldn’t even be phoning you, but I had to find out about Ronnie. I didn’t kill him, you know. I quite liked him in a way, old Ronnie, even if he was thick. He was all right. I never knew they were going to top him, poor old bastard. If I had—’
‘You wouldn’t have had anything to do with it?’ Slider hazarded.
Leman muttered something profane. ‘My boss – I’ve worked for him for a long time. There’s never been anything like this before.’
‘The night you went for a drink with Ronnie, there was a murder committed at the chip shop. What was your connection with that?’
‘Look, I didn’t phone you to answer your questions. I just did what I was told.’
‘But you knew about it, didn’t you? Why were you told to go into hiding?’
‘I don’t know! I never knew there were going to be bodies everywhere. That’s not my scene.’
‘So tell me who you were working for.’
‘I can’t. It’s not safe. I shouldn’t even be talking to you, only Suzanne told you about me, silly bitch. I told her not to tell anyone, but she had to go and open her big mouth.’
‘You can’t trust women,’ Slider said sympathetically.
‘You’re dead right. I wish I’d never – the thing is, you’ve got to keep away from Suzanne. My boss – he doesn’t know I’ve got a girlfriend. If he knew – well, he wouldn’t be too pleased. I wasn’t supposed to get mixed up with anyone while this was going on. So just keep away from her, all right?’
‘Do you think she’s in danger?’ Leman didn’t answer. ‘If you think she’s in danger you must tell us. We can protect her.’ There was an unidentifiable sound at the other end, and then the dialling tone.’
‘He’s rung off,’ Mackay said.
Atherton looked at Slider. ‘What was that last thing – that noise?’
Slider met his eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It was a sort of glugging noise,’ Atherton said. ‘Like someone gargling.’
They waited. A minute later Beevers appeared waving a piece of paper like a short, hairy Anthony Eden. ‘Got it, Guv!’ he said in triumphant tones. ‘It’s an address in Hanwell.’
‘Let’s go!’ snapped Slider, jumping to his feet, snatching the paper from Beevers and thrusting it at Atherton. To Beevers, ‘You and Mackay, organise some uniform backup, fast as you can. Then get to Suzanne Edrich and stay with her.’
CHAPTER 14
Morning Brings Fresh Counsel, as They Say at the Old Bailey
IT WAS A NARROW, DIRTY, crowded road of Victorian terraced cottages, built before the motor-car was invented, choked with parked cars. The house itself was shabby and neglected, with filthy lace curtains at the windows, paint peeling off the door, rotting window frames, rubbish sacks propped against the mangy remains of a privet hedge. It was two storeys high, but built to such a small budget that the upstairs windows were almost within reach. In such houses Victorian working men had raised families of thirteen, and thought themselves blessed.
The front door was pushed to, but not latched. Atherton prodded it open cautiously with the end of a pencil, and they went in to an uncarpeted hall with the staircase straight ahead; cheap patterned wallpaper and brown paint. The two downstairs rooms were empty and unfurnished, but in the scullery at the back was a stained porcelain sink, encrusted gas stove, and a small table bearing dirty crockery and the evidence of take-away meals. It smelled of damp and old fried food.
‘Upstairs,’ said Slider. Upstairs was a bathroom, cleaner than the rest and smelling of soap, the bath still dropleted from recent use, a damp towel hanging up and a frill of dried lather on the bar of pink Camay. The front bedroom was empty. The back bedroom contained a single bed, a cheap wardrobe, a small chest of drawers, an armchair, a stack of paperback books, a telephone, and Peter Leman. He was lying across the bed, his legs dangling over the far side, his hands flung back, his throat cut from ear to ear. Like Anne Boleyn, he had only had a little neck, and it had been cut right through to the bone. His eyes stared at the ceiling, wide and brown, dully shining like those of a stuffed deer in a country house trophy room.
‘Too late,’ said Slider expressionlessly.
In the small, stuffy room the halitus of fresh blood was sickening. It had soaked his white shirt and the bedclothes he lay on. There were even splashes on the wall where the last pumpings of his heart had flung it from the severed arteries. His flung-back left hand was minus all four fingers, which seemed to have been removed at the knuckle with a very sharp knife. In the centre of the palm of his right hand was a round, red mark like a small bruise.
On the floor beside the bed was a plastic mac, also bloody, and a pair of rubber gloves. The missing fingers they found just under the bed, where they had rolled, or been flung.
‘He had his back to the door. He was sitting looking out at the garden while he telephoned,’ said Atherton after a moment. ‘What a mug. And chummy crept in from behind, well protected against the splashing—’ Slider heard his dry throat click as he swallowed. ‘But why cut off the fingers? Unless he tried to grab the knife as it came round in front of him?’
The noise they had heard over the telephone, Slider thought, was the gurgle of Leman having his throat cut. If only he had telephoned sooner. Well, they could take the bug off Suzanne’s telephone now. That would ease the budget and please Mr Barrington. Except that they got further from a solution every day – further into the soup.
‘And then there were three,’ he said aloud. ‘You’d better go down and radio in from the car.’
Later, very late, in a dim corner of the moodily-lit Anglabangla Indian Restaurant – which had lately tried to shove its image upmarket by adding karahi to the menu and landed its less sophisticated customers in the burns unit of Charing Cross hospital – Slider ordered Chicken Bhuna and Atherton the suspiciously-named Meat Vindaloo. They were both so hungry by then that they were quite likely to eat it when it came.
‘There’s something going on,’ Slider said, turning his lager glass round and round on the spot.
Atherton ate another papadum, much as a starving horse eats its bedding. ‘That much is obvious. But what?’
‘Everything seems to operate in a vacuum. Nothing leads to anything else – and yet it must all be connected, or why has any of it happened?’
‘Cheryl Makepeace found a finger in her chips. Ronnie Slaughter called us in. We found the rest of the body,’ Atherton mused. ‘Was he carried along by inevitability, or was he so thick he thought he could get away with it? Or was he, conversely, completely innocent?’
‘Or only comparatively completely innocent,’ Slider added. ‘He accepted the suggestion that the body was Peter Leman without too much strain on the credulity.’
‘Even while protesting that he didn’t kill him. Yes. And he was certainly with Leman that night. In this whole messy case, that’s the one thing we know for certain. But why?’
‘You heard Leman say he was told to make friends with Slaughter that night and go home with him. And he said he’d been in hiding ever since. I think we were meant to think that Slaughter had killed Leman. I think Slaughter was set up to take the fall.’
‘Someone would have been taking a lot of chances,’ Atherton said doubtfully.
‘Why? It convinced us, after all
. It was only Suzanne blowing the gaff that spoiled it. And there again, it can’t be coincidence that someone has shut both of their mouths – Slaughter’s and Leman’s. Someone has something serious to hide.’
Atherton looked restless. ‘Ronnie could still have committed suicide, you know. Out of remorse or fear over the original murder – we don’t know he didn’t commit that. Or simply because everything was getting on top of him. He wasn’t the brightest person in the world, but he was sensitive. Maybe he really couldn’t take any more. Maybe the suicide note was quite genuine.’
‘But then how do you explain the second note?’ Slider frowned. ‘The one Cate gave me, which looks like the same handwriting as the suicide note, subject to confirmation from the experts. Cate said he saw Ronnie write it, which is impossible.’
Atherton shrugged. ‘Reluctant though I am to credit anyone above the rank of inspector with any sense, Mr Barrington could be right about that. We’ve only got Mandy’s word that Ronnie was illiterate, and she could be lying, or mistaken. Or Ronnie could have lied to her, just pretended to be illiterate, for some reason—’
‘What reason?’ Slider said incredulously.
‘Cry for attention, maybe. An excuse to go to her room and sit with her, thigh to thigh, heads bent together over the same piece of paper. A poor, lonely guy – an ugly poor lonely guy – who has no friends and can’t afford a tart and simply wants a little human warmth and sympathy. So he pretends he can’t fill in his Community Charge form and takes it to the tarts to do for him.’
‘Except that they seemed quite willing to talk to him without excuses,’ Slider said. ‘And there was the fact that we found no reading or writing materials in his room at all. And do you really think that Ronnie was bright enough to act a part like that?’
‘He was acting a part all his life, wasn’t he, pretending not to be a ginger.’ Atherton dipped a fragment of papadum into the raita. ‘And look at the alternative. Did Colin Cate – an ex-copper, rich, smart, influential, sitter on committees and adviser to Parliamentary review bodies – did this man really troll up to Ronnie’s bedsit, slaughter him with his own hands, and fake that suicide note? And then when you came asking for a corroborative piece of handwriting, pop upstairs and write you another? Honestly, Bill, it just doesn’t seem likely to me. A man like that, assuming he wanted a bit of dirty biz done – and I don’t rule out the possibility of almost any human bean being crooked, with the exception of you and me – but a man like that would surely have paid someone else to do it.’
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