In the modern climate of paranoia, getting access to any government building was a painstaking process. Atherton had to establish his identity and state his purpose to more than one Cerberus, and his bona fides were verified by a phone call back to the station. It all took an inordinate amount of time. Glaciers around the world had moved and stalactites and stalagmites inched closer to union before he breached the citadel and was escorted by a minion to the correct floor. On exiting the lift he was handed over to the charge of another minion who actually worked there.
This was a very thin girl with her hair drawn back into a bun, all except the obligatory one strand which fell annoyingly over one eye, making Atherton’s fingers itch to push it back for her. He wanted to shout at her, ‘Get a grip!’
‘The Minister’s not here,’ she said. ‘She’s at the House, and the PPS is with the Permanent Secretary over at the Cabinet Office, so there’s just me.’ She looked very young and seemed nervous about having so much responsibility. ‘I don’t know that I ought to let you into her office, when you’re not in the diary.’
‘It’s police business,’ Atherton said sternly, though he was trying not to laugh. ‘Very important. I must warn you not to obstruct a police officer in the performance of his duty.’
The girl lifted frightened eyes to him, but still chewed her lip with indecision. ‘Couldn’t you come back later, when the Minister’s here? I could make you an appointment, if you like.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’ He tried kindness. ‘I just want to look at the office, that’s all. It’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘You haven’t been here very long, have you?’ he hazarded.
‘Six months,’ she said. ‘I was at Work and Pensions before. I liked it much better there. It’s too quiet here. What d’you want to look at the office for?’
‘I can’t tell you that,’ Atherton said importantly, and being refused information seemed to reassure her, as though she was back on familiar ground.
They reached a tall, mahogany door, and she seized the door knob and opened it. ‘I hope I’m doing the right thing,’ she murmured to herself.
‘I won’t touch anything,’ he told her.
A moment later they were out again and she was closing the door behind them with an air of large relief. ‘Was that it?’ she said.
‘That’s it. I told you it was nothing to worry about.’
She walked him back to the lift. ‘I wish you could tell me what it’s about,’ she said wistfully. ‘It’s really quiet here, after Work and Pensions. There was always something going on there, a real buzz, and lots to do to keep you busy. This is like a morgue. I could do with a bit of excitement.’
Murder in the Rue Morgue, Atherton thought. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’d find it exciting, even if I could tell you,’ he said kindly.
Mackay reported first. ‘There was a meeting of the Deregulation Committee, whatever that is, on Thursday, starting at eleven a.m., and Masterson was there all right. I talked to the chairman, Doreen Freeling, MP. Masterson arrived with two other people from the Department of Energy and Climate Change about a quarter past eleven. They were giving depositions and answering questions. She said the notes show that Masterson was speaking from about twelve to twelve fifteen. But they finished that business around half past twelve and moved on to a different topic, and all the DECC people left.’
‘Masterson definitely among them?’
‘Yes, he went all right. It was a good alibi, though,’ Mackay went on. ‘Officially, the Committee met from eleven till two, and Masterson was definitely there. If we’d not enquired specifically, we’d have thought he was covered.’
‘It’s easy to get caught out. That’s why we’re paid to do the footwork. All right, you’d better get out there, find this Freeling person, get a statement. Ducks in a row, Mr Porson wants.’
Connolly was next. ‘Your man said he had lunch in Portcullis House. There’s a cafeteria sort of yoke downstairs in the atrium.’
‘We saw it when we were there. I think there’s more than one.’
‘That’s right, boss,’ said Connolly. ‘Woeful daft names they’ve given ’em. There’s a sit-down restaurant called the Adjournment, a caff called the Debate and a coffee shop called the Despatch Box. Can you imagine saying to someone, “Meet me in the Adjournment at one”?’ She rolled her eyes.
‘We’re not here to discuss nomenclature,’ Slider reproved her.
‘I know. But you’d crease yourself laughing, sure you would. Anyway, your woman was having her own lunch in the Despatch Box.’ She paused to snigger. ‘She was just leaving around half two when her boss comes in, saying he’s going to get a quick sandwich, then he’ll work in his office. She assumed he’d just come from the House, from the committee room. So he comes up to the office around three, asks if there’s any messages, then says he wants to be left alone, he’s not taking any calls, and he goes into his own office and shuts the door. She doesn’t see him again until she goes home half five, when she sticks her head round the door to say she’s off, and he’s in there reading. So,’ she concluded, ‘she doesn’t know if he was there all the time, because he can go out his own door without going through her office.’
‘It doesn’t really matter,’ Slider said. ‘We’re not interested in that part of the day. Did you ask her how he seemed?’
‘Yes, boss. She said he’s been in flitters since his wife died, so she didn’t notice any difference that day. He looked moody and depressed, but that’s the way he’s been. And saying he doesn’t want any calls is just par for the course. But if he had just been at Egerton’s and done the biz, he might be too shaken to talk to anyone.’
Hollis joined in. ‘I checked on the entrances, guv. The usual way in and out from the House for the MPs is the Carriage Gates, and o’ course they keep a log. Masterson left by the Carriage Gates at twelve thirty-nine that day.’
‘I suppose it would take him a few minutes to get from the committee room to the gates.’
Hollis nodded. ‘And, look, guv, if he leaves the House at twelve forty and doesn’t get to the caff until half two, that’s plenty o’ time for him to get to Shepherd’s Bush and back. If he were One Thirty-Five Man, it gives him fifteen minutes at Egerton’s house and forty to get back to Westminster. Long enough.’
‘Long enough,’ Slider agreed. ‘But we’ve got to be careful here. We’ll have to trace him. Both ways. I want everything dotted and crossed. I don’t have to tell you how important it is to be invulnerable on evidence when you’re going after a minister.’
‘Even a minister nobody likes,’ Hollis agreed. ‘You’re thinking he done it, then, guv?’
‘I’m just waiting for one more piece of the puzzle,’ Slider said.
Atherton returned at last. Slider heard his voice in the outer office, speaking quietly to Hollis, then he appeared in the doorway, clutching a cardboard container of coffee from some outside source like Costa or Starbucks. What Slider always thought of as exocoffee, as distinct from the endocoffee from the canteen.
‘You were a hell of a long time,’ he said.
‘Penetrating the sanctum takes time and skill, especially if you don’t want to leave a mess behind you. Carter and Carnarvon had it easy.’
‘And?’ Slider prompted.
‘I got in. The painting’s still there.’
‘And?’
Atherton met his eyes with the light of the hunt in his own. ‘Six tassels,’ he said.
SEVENTEEN
The Kindly Ones
Slider phoned home, to say that he would be working late. ‘The hunt’s afoot,’ he added, with an attempt at humour.
‘Not in this house,’ Joanna said. ‘Diarrhoea’s afoot. George has got the bellyache.’
‘What’s caused that, then?’
‘Alimentary, Watson,’ Joanna said. ‘Now that’s a joke. You know what he’s like for picking things up and putting them in his mouth. Don’
t worry, it’s not too serious. All helps to build up immunities. Are you on the verge of a result?’
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got to be sure before we move, and the last bits of evidence are the tedious ones to track down. Expect me when you see me.’
‘All right. Good luck. And,’ she added as he was ringing off, ‘eat something!’
‘Ditto to you,’ he said. He rang off and telephoned Peter de Wett.
‘You just caught me – I was going home. Working late tonight?’
‘Yes, we’ve got things breaking.’
‘Good for you. Anything I can do to help?’
‘I just want to pick your brains,’ said Slider. ‘Are you by your computer? Can you look at this image?’ He sent the URL to him.
‘Right, got it,’ said de Wett. ‘Yes, that’s very nice. I don’t know the picture personally, but of course I know of Joest van Wessen. Is this another one you’ve lost?’
Slider put aside the implication that he was always losing things. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I just want to ask you what you think it’s worth.’
‘What it would fetch, you mean?’ de Wett corrected delicately. ‘You know there’s no definitive answer when it comes to auction value. It depends very much who’s there on the day. But if you want my personal opinion, for what it’s worth, I’d say between two and three million.’
‘And what if it was stolen?’
‘You mean, if it had to pass through a fence? Well, that would lessen its value enormously. You can’t sell stolen art with its provenance, if at all. It would have to go to a private collector, and they would only pay a fraction of the auction value.’
‘What sort of fraction?’
‘You might get eight hundred thousand for it. But then you’d have to pay the people handling it, and they don’t come cheap. You’d be lucky to clear half a million.’
‘Still, a goodly sum,’ Slider mused. ‘Especially if you need the money.’
‘Don’t try it, that’s my advice,’ de Wett said, sharply humorous. ‘Not worth it, to be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life.’
‘Thanks,’ said Slider. ‘I’ll stick to the day job.’
Swilley found a taxi driver. He worked out of one of the local black cab garages – not Monty’s, with which they had had fruitful previous encounters, but a new kid on the block, Central Line Cabs, which appropriately had a garage down Sterne Street, behind the Central Line Station. They hadn’t the same history of cooperating with the police, but once convinced of the urgency of the enquiry they put it out over the radio.
The driver in question was on evenings this week and came in to the station between fares. Swilley went down to him. He was a lean young Asian man with a shiningly-shaved head and a small gold earring in one ear. His accent was Shepherd’s Bush, his demeanour sharp and his eyes quick.
‘Yeah, I picked up a geezer in a coat and hat on Thursday afternoon. On the Green, corner of Rockley Road. He waved me down, asked for Parliament Square.’
‘What time would that be?’
‘I’ve looked at me log. Picked him up at ten to two. I drove to Parliament Square, and he tapped the glass and said to drop him at the corner of Parliament Street. So I did. He got out; I did the rest of the square and went back up Victoria Street, caught meself a fare at the station.’
‘Did you see where he went when he got out?’
‘No, sorry. I was looking at the traffic. You know how it is.’
Swilley nodded. ‘And what time did you drop him?’
‘Twenty past two.’
‘And now the big one,’ she said, producing a photograph of Masterson. She’d had it photoshopped to be wearing a brown trilby. ‘Is this the man?’
He studied it gravely and responsibly. ‘Yeah, I reckon that’s him, all right. Near as I can say.’
She took it back and looked at him curiously. ‘You didn’t recognize him, then?’
‘No. Should I? Is he someone famous?’ A light of eagerness came into his eyes.
‘He’s an MP.’
The light died.
‘A minister, in fact.’
‘I don’t know much about that lot,’ the cab driver said, disappointed. ‘Football, now, that’d be different. I had that Roberto Soldado in the back of my cab once. You a Spurs supporter?’
Swilley eased him away from footy and into making an official statement.
Looking through TfL security camera footage was painstaking and tiring work, even when you had a specific route to check on. Thousands of passengers exited and entered hundreds of trains, milled along platforms, through passageways and up and down escalators, all in grainy black-and-white and jerky Shaun of the Dead movements. McLaren and his team had their work eased when Swilley came up with her taxi driver, so they only had one journey to check out. It was very late when a bleary-eyed McLaren came through to Slider’s room.
‘Got him, guv,’ he said. ‘Going into Westminster Station, at the barrier. On the Jubilee Line platform, northbound. Bond Street interchange. Central Line platform westbound. Shepherd’s Bush getting off the train and at the barrier coming out of the station.’ He handed over a fistful of stills and rubbed his face wearily with both hands.
Slider looked through them. ‘You don’t get a decent sight of his face in any of these.’
‘No, guv,’ McLaren admitted. ‘It’s the hat. All them cameras are mounted high. Course, you could argue it’s not him. You could argue it’s not the same hat all the way. He’s not the only bloke in London with a trilby, especially around Westminster. But that’s the best we can do.’
Mr Porson hadn’t gone home. ‘I thought you were up to something,’ he said when Slider came to see him. ‘I’ve got a second sense for when something’s going down.’ He surveyed Slider’s face and the folder of evidence in his hand and said, ‘Looks like a long job. You’d better sit down.’ And, surprisingly, he sat himself, opposite Slider, resting his big, chalky hands on the desk and fixing attentive eyes on Slider’s face. For all his oddities, the old boy was a policeman through and through and had a mind you could fillet fish with.
Slider went through the whole case as he had assembled it, and then waited while Porson cogitated.
‘You’ve still not got any direct evidence he killed him.’ He put his finger unerringly on the weak spot.
‘No, sir. But I think if we rattle him sufficiently, he’ll break and put his hand up. He’s in a state anyway with his wife dying, and when we went to see him, he was pretty nervy. He must be strung out like wire, wondering when the other shoe will drop.’
Porson nodded. ‘All right. What do you want to do? Go out and interview him tomorrow?’
‘No, sir. I want to bring him in.’
Porson looked uneasy. ‘The powers that be won’t like that. He’s a government minister. Like the garbage man, he’s got friends in high places.’
‘It’s important to get him off balance. He’ll have more confidence in his own environment. And if we arrest him, we can search his house. We may find the malachite box hidden there.’
Porson stirred. He’d taken a dislike to the whole box issue.
‘And,’ Slider went on, ‘clothes with traces on them. There must have been some spatter when he stabbed Egerton, but if it was fine he may not have noticed it. Even if he did notice, and had the clothes cleaned, the date will be significant. It’ll add to the pressure on him.’
‘Right,’ said Porson. Blood spatter was evidence a straightforward man could get his teeth into. ‘All right. Get a warrant out and pick him up tomorrow.’
‘Tonight,’ Slider said stubbornly. ‘It’ll throw him much more than a polite, leisurely call in the morning when he’s had his eggs and b.’
‘They won’t like it,’ Porson said, with a jerk of his head to signify Hammersmith and all points east right up to the Yard. Slider kept an insistent silence, and finally Porson made an exasperated movement. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Do it your way.’ He hesitated, and
then confided. ‘Mr Wetherspoon as good as hinted he thought we did the stuff that annoys him to court publicity. I don’t like having my bony Fridays questioned, or my officers’. You do it, and I’ll back you up.’ He stood up, muttering to himself. ‘Mrs Assistant Commissioner Redbridge my arse. We’re not here to drink tea and dispense doilies.’ He caught Slider looking at him enquiringly, and bellowed, ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it! You’ve got to go and wake up a muppet to get the warrant. You know they sleep like the deaf.’
Slider hurried away.
Philip Masterson, sleep-bleared and rumpled, would have been a sorry sight anyway, hauled into the police station in the middle of the night. But underneath that there was another layer of degradation. He was pale, hollow-cheeked, bag-eyed. He had the look of a man who had heard the leathery creak of the Erinyes’ wings in the darkness, smelled the chthonic reek of their breath, felt the clammy touch of their lips on the back of his neck. Slider felt a little surge of triumph. It was always most productive to kick a man when he was down.
The young, smartly-suited solicitor, Martha Maitland, looked a degree less perky when she had heard the evidence summarized, but she did her best with poor material. ‘I’m not going to allow any fishing expeditions,’ she said. ‘If you’re hoping my client will incriminate himself—’
Slider gave her a kindly look. ‘The evidence against him is so solid, there’s no need for that.’
‘Then why don’t you charge him? Because you know you haven’t got enough, and you want a confession to beef up your case.’
‘Miss Maitland, we found traces of blood on Mr Masterson’s overcoat. The lab’s typing it now. Once that result comes back we won’t need a confession, and he will be charged. Now, if your client wants to plead provocation – and I do believe he was mightily provoked – this is his chance. There’s a window of opportunity for him to gain some Brownie points. Once that closes—’ He shrugged.
She had a long conversation with Masterson, before accompanying him to the tape room. He looked at Slider with victim’s eyes as he came into the interview room and sat down opposite him. Atherton took his place beside Slider, and Masterson logged him as well. His two previous persecutors.
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