Necrocrip

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘The thing is, Peter,’ Slider said comfortably, ‘that this man is in big trouble, and the time has come when you have got to stop protecting him. Because believe me, he won’t protect you when we come to take him away. He’ll drop you in it good and hard, so unless you help me now, you’ll go down with him.’

  The pink had spread all over the cheeks now. Davey’s lips were set in a hard line, and he stared resolutely at the wall.

  ‘You don’t want to go to prison, do you?’ Slider said softly. ‘It isn’t very nice in prison for people like you.’

  He turned his head now, his eyes flashing. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Good-looking young men, particularly blue-eyed good-looking young men, have a rotten time in prison. They get waylaid in the showers by gangs of the meaty boys, and—’

  ‘You bugger off!’ he shouted suddenly and surprisingly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t threaten me! I haven’t done anything, and I’m not telling you anything, and you can’t make me!’

  Slider, marvelling at what a long sentence could be constructed impromptu entirely without the letter s, sighed inwardly and tried again.

  ‘Look, son, I’m trying to help you, that’s all. Just tell me who the real owner is, and I’ll go away. All right? And I won’t tell him you said anything, I promise.’

  ‘I haven’t thaid anything!’ Davey snapped.

  Slider drew forth one of the prints. Pray tell me, sweet prince, if this print’s of your prince. ‘Is this the man?’ he asked. He held it out towards Davey, who had turned his face away again and was staring in front of him. Slider could see his chest rise and fall with his rapid breaths, and a sort of anger stirred in him against whoever was using him. This boy was like a frightened rabbit. He thought of the slight Leman, another Peter, head dangling like something in the butcher’s shop and his brown hare’s eyes glassy with untimely death.

  ‘Just look at it, Peter,’ he said kindly. ‘There’s no harm in just looking, is there?’

  He held the print out steadily, and after a long moment the pale blue eyes swivelled irresistibly, and then the head followed a half turn.

  ‘I’ve never theen him before in my life,’ Davey said, turning his face away again.

  But it was too late. He had looked, and a look told everything. Slider put the picture away and quietly took his leave.

  CHAPTER 16

  Busy with the Fizzy

  MRS LAM TURNED OUT TO speak English, once she was away from the restaurant. Atherton was lucky, and managed to waylay her as she wheeled her baby out from the alley in a very smart new pram. She was nervous and reluctant to talk to him, but her anxiety for her husband was now great enough to make her risk it. She told him she was taking the baby for an airing in Wormholt Park, and consented to his accompanying her. So it was there, on a bench with the pram before them, looking like a very mismatched married couple, that they conducted their interview.

  She had first met Michael through some relatives of her father’s who ran a fish and chip shop. Atherton had already learnt from the late lamented Ronnie Slaughter that fish and chip shops, like pre-Norman England, suffered invaders in waves: first the Italians, then the Greeks, and lately the Chinese had all taken the national dish to their bosoms and made a go of the business. Micky had been employed by the relatives concerned to help in the shop, and had been brought along by them to a large family party. There Mrs Lam – her name was An-mei, which she had already Anglicised effortlessly to Amy – met him and fell in love.

  He was a lively young man with a great gift of the gab. Reading between the lines Atherton saw him as one of those slick, showy creatures, given to gold jewellery and unsubtle chat-up lines; but to Amy, strictly brought up by a tyrannical father, he seemed like a breath of fresh air. Her father must have seen some potential use in him, for he allowed the marriage, but Amy’s vision of freedom dislimned on the day of her betrothal when it was announced by the patriarah that she and Michael would live with the family and work in the restaurant.

  It had been all right at first. Micky played up to his father-in-law, worked hard and minded his tongue. It did not last, though, for Micky was not used to hierarchical living, and spoke his mind too freely, getting into arguments with the old man. He wanted too much time off, as well, for himself and for Amy; and when Amy showed herself incapable of defying her father, Micky had taken the time off himself and left her to endure the storms alone.

  ‘But he was doing it for me, you understand,’ she explained anxiously to Atherton. ‘I did not realise at first, and was not kind to him, but he told me that he was doing jobs for another man and putting the money aside for me and the baby, so that we could leave my father’s house and set up in business of our own. But my father discover this, and he was very angry. He took away the money Micky had made, and make him work very hard. So after that Micky was more careful, and pretended to do everything my father wanted. But still he worked for this other man, and he put the money where he said my father could never find it.’

  ‘Who was the other man, do you know?’

  ‘Micky never told me his name. He said he was a very important man with many businesses, and that he would be a good friend to us and make us rich.’

  ‘What sort of jobs was your husband doing for him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Micky didn’t tell me and I would not ask. It meant being away, sometimes just one night, sometimes two or three, and Micky had to be very clever to get my father to agree. Usually he made some business for my father at the same time so that he would not suspect – buying things for the restaurant and so on.’

  ‘How often was Micky away, then?’

  ‘It was not very often. Only twice last year, but the man paid him very well. Micky put the money into a savings account and hid the book in a very safe place where my father would never find it.’ She glanced shyly at Atherton and smiled. ‘You will not tell? It is inside the baby’s nappy. No man would ever look in such a place. That is why Micky thought of it. He is very clever. We have twenty thousand pounds saved now. Soon it will be enough for us to leave my father’s house completely.’

  ‘The trip your husband was making to Hong Kong last week for your father – was that to be combined with a job for this other man?’

  Her cheeks went pink. ‘He told me not to speak of it.’

  ‘I understand. But now that Micky is missing, you must tell me everything, or I cannot help you. You want to find out what has happened to him, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But—’

  ‘I won’t let your father know anything about it, if it can be helped,’ Atherton assured her. ‘Please, tell me all you know.’

  She nodded gravely, and was quiet a moment, assembling her thoughts, or perhaps debating with herself over what was the right thing to do. Then she said, ‘Micky was very excited about the trip. He said that it would be the last he did for this man, because it was so important and would pay him so much money that he would never have to work again. He said that he and I and the baby would be able to go away on our own and be rich and happy far from my father.’

  ‘Did he say what the job was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it was to be done in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. It was Micky who suggested the trip to my father, not the other way around, so I think it must have been on this other man’s business that he was going.’

  Atherton thought a moment. It was frustrating to know so much and so little. He wasn’t even sure, though he had an idea, where his guv’nor’s suspicions were leading. ‘Are you sure he didn’t tell you the name of this other man?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Mrs Lam said. ‘He was an English man, that’s all I know. When he spoke about him to me, Micky used to call him something in Chinese which means White Tiger – I suppose because he was a powerful man. I think he didn’t want me to know the real name, so that I would not be able to betray him by accident.’

  ‘Very wi
se,’ Atherton said. Then, ‘Do you know how much Micky was to be paid for this last job?’

  Her cheeks grew pink again. ‘He said two million dollars,’ she said with quiet pride. ‘American dollars, not Hong Kong.’ Atherton whistled softly, and she looked gratified. ‘He would be an important man with so much money. My father would have to listen to him then.’ She stood up. ‘Now I have to go. They will be waiting for me, and I must not make my father angry.’

  ‘I’ll walk back with you,’ Atherton said, rising also.

  ‘Please not. It will be better if I go alone. You will find Micky for me, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Atherton said, a little absently, his mind revolving the sum of money. Was it genuine? Was it a lie? And if so, by whom to whom? ‘Anything else you can remember, anything at all, please let me know. Particularly if you remember any names your husband might have mentioned.’

  ‘I will try,’ she said sadly, ‘but I am sure he did not.’

  Pauline Smithers had known Slider since his first posting, was five years his senior, and had been one rank above him for the whole of their acquaintance; and that she was only a DCI proved how slow promotion had been for both of them. She had always had a soft spot for Slider, a fact he had known without knowing what to make of it. His own diffidence had led him to be careful of being too friendly with her, and it had been left to her to make all the running. Their present easy terms were a monument to both her perseverance and her tact. Whenever their paths had crossed, they had gone for a drink or a meal together. She had never met Irene, though she knew more about her than Slider would have realised he had told; Slider had no idea even whether Pauline was married or not.

  She received his telephone call with cheerful caution. ‘Hullo, Bill! So what’s all this cloak-and-dagger stuff? Are you moonlighting or something? Some old pal looking for a divorce?’

  ‘Nothing like that. It’s just a line I’m following up, but there’s someone who doesn’t see eye-to-eye with me about it.’

  ‘In other words, you’ve fallen foul of Mad Ivan,’ she said wryly.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh come on, Bill, this is me! It’s all right, no-one’s listening. Actually, as soon as I heard he’d gone to your nick in Dickson’s place I thought there’d be trouble. He’s not your kind of guy.’

  ‘There isn’t any trouble,’ Slider said doggedly, and then, with a sigh, ‘Does everyone in the Met know about this bloke except me?’

  ‘Probably,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’ve always had your nose to the grindstone. Makes it difficult to keep your eyes on the horizon at the same time. But Bill, really, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ he said. The concern in her voice was both flattering and alarming. He didn’t want himself seen as a case for pity. He didn’t want other people discussing his problems, real or imagined. ‘All I wanted was a bit of information without letting the world know about it. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the information,’ she said lightly, going along with him. ‘I just love the way you threw that one at me. Ask old Pauline to find a man in Fulham who opened a shop two years ago. Don’t give her anything else to go on. No sense in making it too easy.’

  ‘You found him,’ Slider said, smiling. ‘I can tell by your voice. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  ‘It was only your dumb luck,’ she said, and he could hear that she was smiling too. ‘There are two or three lads in our Department who are computer crazy, and when I threw the name at them casually, they threw it right back with an address and telephone number. Seems your Peter Ling has a weakness for coppers – gives us very generous discounts. It’s well known round our shop that if you want anything in the computer line you go to Ling’s. He’s apparently very knowledgeable and has all the contacts. Can get you anything you want practically at cost.’

  ‘So it won’t have roused any suspicions, your asking?’

  ‘Not at all. It’ll just give me a reputation for liking to play with pc’s.’

  ‘I always knew that about you anyway. Give me the address, will you?’ He wrote it down. ‘Thanks, Pauline. You’re a prince.’

  ‘Dumb luck, as I said.’

  ‘Well thanks, anyway. We must get together one of these days – I owe you a drink at least.’

  ‘Any time. Just give me a ring.’ A faint pause. ‘Bill, is everything all right? I mean, with you generally? You can tell Aunty Pauline, you know.’

  A pause of his own. ‘I wish I could. Maybe I will one day. When I’ve got this case out of the way. I could do with a friendly ear and a bit of female advice.’

  ‘Ah, I thought there was something! Well, the ear’s here and switched on, whenever you want it.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring,’ he promised.

  ‘Bye then,’ she said, reserving belief. ‘And Bill – be careful.’

  It was too late for Ling’s shop now – he wouldn’t get there before it shut. That would have to wait until tomorrow. The American end, though – given the time difference, it would be a suitable moment to make some telephone calls. What he needed was a phone in a quiet place where he could not be disturbed. He thought automatically, and then wistfully, of Joanna. In a brief spasm of self-indulgent imagination he saw himself knocking at her door, being taken in, furnished with a drink, a sofa and the telephone, and afterwards offered supper and the luxury of Joanna to discuss it all with. He thought so much better when he thought aloud to her.

  But her door was closed, and that was that. He turned his mind away from her as one determinedly pulling the tip of his tongue away from a mouth ulcer. The pain of thinking about her was more pleasant than not thinking about her, but every touch delayed healing. He didn’t want to go home. He was getting almost superstitious about going home. In his own office he would be bound to be disturbed. That left Atherton.

  He drove back to the station, parked down Stanlake Road, and went in cautiously through the yard. Atherton’s car was still there. He paused at the charge room door and saw Fergus perched on the edge of the desk eating a bacon sandwich and reading the Standard. He looked up as Slider appeared, and his face creased itself with concern.

  ‘Where in th’hell have you been, Billy me darlin’? Haven’t they been draggin’ the lakes and rivers of Shepherd’s Bush for you all day?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been busy,’ Slider said vaguely. ‘Fergus, can you get Atherton on the phone for me? I don’t want to go up there in case somebody sees me.’

  Fergus sighed gustily. ‘You’re cookin’ trouble for yourself. Yerman Barrington’s been havin’ a conniption – wants to wind his case up and can’t lay his hands on half his team.’

  ‘He wasn’t meant to. I need a couple more days. I’m getting somewhere at last.’

  ‘Maybe you’d be better off not gettin’ there,’ Fergus warned. ‘As the Chinese philosopher says, it is better to travel hopefully than to book yourself into the Deep Shit Hilton for a mid-week mini-break.’ But he balanced the remaining half of his sandwich delicately on top of his tea-mug and reached for his telephone all the same. ‘I’ll give Boy Blue a bell for you, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Slider, deep in thought. He had to come back from some distance a moment later to register that Atherton was being pressed to his ear by O’Flaherty’s meaty paw.

  ‘Is something going on, Guv? Aren’t you going to make an appearance?’

  ‘I’ve still got some lines to follow up. What’s been happening your end?’

  Atherton told him about Amy Lam’s story. ‘It accords with what Leman said to Suzanne about being involved in a really big job, and being rich enough never to work again. I think you’re right and it must all be connected after all, though for the life of me I can’t see how.’

  ‘Nor can I, yet, but now we see the direction we’ve got to keep going.’

  ‘Yes,’ Atherton said. ‘More so than ever now. We’ve had a response from Hong Kong.’

  �
��The dental profile?’

  ‘Yes. The chip-shop corpse was definitely Michael Lam.’

  ‘Ah!’said Slider.

  Atherton was puzzled at the response. ‘Is that what you expected?’

  ‘I don’t know. No, on the whole I think I thought that Lam really had gone to Hong Kong. I don’t understand it yet – but I will. It’s coming slowly.’

  ‘What do you want us to do, then, Guv?’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Mr Barrington’s been in and out all day,’ Atherton said delicately.

  ‘Just – just don’t say I’ve been in touch. I need a bit more time.’

  ‘What about the Lam identification? Mr Barrington wants us to find a connection between him and Slaughter, so we can write it off as Slaughter murdering Lam and then committing suicide.’

  ‘It’s all right. Go along with it for now. I’m nearly there, I tell you. I’ll sort it out with Barrington tomorrow.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I need to make some phone calls. Can I use your house?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Yes, of course. You’ve got your key with you?’

  ‘Yes, I have. Thanks. I’ll see you later.’ Slider put the phone down, and turned to face O’Flaherty’s Atlantic-wind-roughened facade. ‘You haven’t seen me,’ he said.

  ‘I know there’s no point in tellin’ you,’ Fergus said, ‘but mountin’ a crusade in his memory never did any dead man a tither o’ good.’

  Slider didn’t even hear him. ‘Didn’t you say Seedy Barry ran a garden centre in Brunei Road?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Right next door. One o’ them converted council houses. You can’t miss it – all over trellises and climbin’ plants.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Slider.

  O’Flaherty watched him go thoughtfully, and then reached for his telephone.

  There was nothing overtly seedy about Barry, and Slider concluded that his nickname referred to his present calling rather than any physical shortcomings. In fact he was really rather dapper, and apart from a few missing teeth he did have quite a strong resemblance to Leslie ‘Oh Ashley’ Howard in his heyday.