Cruel as the Grave

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  She had said it was love between them, and as a cynical policeman who had seen everything his first instinct was to dismiss that as a sad fantasy. But there had been love, at least on her side. And on his side? Love of a sort, anyway.

  The photographs were dynamite. Enough to blackmail a celebrity, who would not want them falling into the wrong hands.

  But Seagram had not talked about blackmail as such, only that it was his ‘insurance’. If Seagram thought they would make a divorce case for him, he was out of touch. Adultery was no longer the be all and end all, and though it would work as his grounds for demanding it against her will, it would not necessarily secure him a large slice of her money. But then, if Greyling was remembering accurately, he had spoken of the insurance in terms of the police, if they were too stupid to follow a trail of breadcrumbs.

  Breadcrumbs – i.e. the evidence, which as McLaren had said, was all against Steenkamp.

  And still, why? Why would Seagram – why would either of them – want to kill Lingoss? Steenkamp loved him. Seagram wanted a divorce anyway.

  Porson, who had been watching Slider’s face, said, ‘Time to wheel him in.’

  There was no answer at the door for so long, he thought it would not be answered. But in the end it was Gilda Steenkamp who opened it. It was a very different woman from when he had last seen her. Then she had been as elegant and poised as any polished celebrity. Now she looked worn, in loose slacks and a baggy sweater, her un-made-up face was pale, her eyes puffy. Her mouth made a downward bow which he knew, all too well, from the faces of tragedy he had confronted over a long career. The mothers of dead children, the wives of dead husbands, the survivors of dead lovers – the mouth of one who had finally realized the absoluteness of loss.

  ‘I can’t talk to you without my solicitor,’ she said, but it sounded automatic, as if she didn’t really care any more.

  ‘It’s your husband we’ve come to speak to,’ Slider said.

  ‘He’s not here. He’s gone.’

  Damn! thought Slider. Skipped? He wouldn’t get far, but there was a world of weary work involved in tracking down a fugitive. ‘He’s left?’

  She took a moment to register the import of the question, and then said, ‘Not left me. He’s gone to Northampton, to see a lady with a pair of wine coolers.’

  Atherton, behind him, made a slight sound, and Slider knew quite clearly what he was thinking. Cor, look at the wine coolers on that!

  Gilda Steenkamp flicked a glance at him, then said to Slider, ‘Regency wine coolers, with their liners. One would be rare enough, but a pair – and in fine condition. It’s the sort of thing you could sell ten times over. Not to be missed.’

  ‘You know a lot about antiques.’

  ‘I’ve had to learn, over the years.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. Tonight some time. He left after lunch, so it could be any time, unless he has dinner somewhere.’

  ‘May we come in and wait?’ Slider said. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  She made an escaping movement of her head. ‘I’ll have to call Michael. I can’t talk to you without him present.’

  Slider lifted a hand slightly, the gesture you make to a nervous animal. ‘This isn’t that, I promise you. I just want some information. There’s no harm to you here.’

  She let them in, walked before them to the drawing room, sat, looked at them passively. She hadn’t asked him why he wanted to speak to her husband. She knows, he thought, and compassion tightened his chest.

  ‘What do you want to ask me?’ she said. ‘I can’t promise to answer.’

  Slider paused, working out the best route. ‘Have you and your husband ever talked about divorce?’

  She looked at him consideringly, as though trying to work out if answering the question was safe. ‘I suppose all couples do at some point.’

  ‘Have you?’ She didn’t answer. ‘I have evidence that he asked you for a divorce and that you refused.’

  She looked sour. ‘If you know, why ask me?’

  ‘Everything has to be confirmed. And I’d like your side of the story.’

  She pushed her hands down between her knees, clasped together. It was almost a girlish pose, except that it came from extreme stress – the knuckles, before they disappeared, were white. ‘Yes. He said he wanted a divorce. The first time, oh, about two years ago. I don’t remember exactly. Then again more recently – a few months ago, perhaps. I said no. I don’t want the publicity. And I couldn’t handle the disruption to my writing schedule. Anyway, what would be the point? I never ask him where he is. He’s free to come and go. The subject has not been mentioned again. I don’t think he was really serious about it. It was just a whim. He’s a very attentive husband. Affectionate, even – well, you’ve seen for yourself how he defends me. He’s very loyal.’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted it?’

  ‘He just talked about freedom. I think it was metaphysical rather than specific.’

  ‘Did you think he’d found someone else?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘What a quaint phrase. No.’

  ‘Has he ever been unfaithful to you?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Brian is not a very sexual being. That phase of our marriage only lasted a few months. Since then, we’ve pottered along quite happily as housemates. Despite what you read in the papers, sex is not at the bottom of everything, and not everyone is thinking about it all the time.’

  Slider begged to differ, but only internally. ‘Until recently. Until you met Erik Lingoss.’

  Her eyes immediately reddened, and she bit her lip to control it. ‘Must you be so brutal?’ she said in a half-voice.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be. Did your husband know about Erik?’

  ‘No. I’ve told you that already. He had no idea – and he wouldn’t have cared if he did know.’

  ‘If that’s true, why did you take pains to keep it secret?’

  ‘Because … because … oh, it was mine! Can’t you understand? You don’t seem stupid. When something is as precious as that, you don’t want other people trampling all over it, making comments, belittling it. Brian wouldn’t have cared – but he might have laughed.’

  The last word was full of pain. ‘I understand,’ Slider said.

  ‘You should go,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be asking me questions.’

  ‘One more. I’m not trying to trap you or incriminate you. I’m just trying to understand.’

  ‘Just leave me alone.’

  ‘I will go, but please, one last question. Did you pay your husband an allowance?’

  She looked surprised. ‘What a strange thing to ask.’

  ‘Not so strange. You are, forgive me, very wealthy, and his business is only just breaking even. He has expensive tastes. You have an amicable marriage. It’s natural to infer that you must have been supporting him in some way.’

  ‘I give him money, yes,’ she said with a faint tautness of anger, ‘but not an allowance. That would be humiliating. I transfer a hundred thousand into his bank every January. If he wants more, he only has to ask.’

  ‘The house in Adam and Eve Mews – he couldn’t have bought that within that budget.’

  She didn’t immediately answer, and Atherton said, ‘You did know about the mews house?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ she snapped. ‘That was an investment. They don’t come up for sale very often, and when they do, they’re worth snapping up, because they keep going up in price. My accountant approved of it. One has to invest somewhere.’

  ‘I presume there’s a tenant installed?’ Atherton asked casually.

  ‘I suppose there is,’ she said indifferently. ‘Brian deals with all that. He has a portfolio. There’s a house in Radlett and a flat in Ramsgate as well. It’s an interest of his. I encourage it. He bought a racehorse once – that was just money thrown away. I don’t like waste. We weren’t poor when I was a child, but there wasn’t a lot to spar
e, and I was brought up to look carefully at what I spend.’

  A portfolio? Slider wondered if there were other little birds in those nests – beautiful boys to be gazed at. Or plump little mistresses to satisfy his carnal urges. Or, as they were known to a beleaguered policeman, More Complications.

  Atherton, picking up Slider’s preoccupation, asked the next question. ‘The Bentley – I suppose he would need extra money for that, as well?’

  ‘Large purchases like that, he has the bill sent to my accountant. I’ve never questioned anything he wanted – even the racehorse.’

  ‘Was it a good buy, the Bentley? Has it been reliable?’

  ‘What an odd question. I have no idea. I believe Bentleys are reliable. That’s why people buy them, isn’t it?’

  ‘But it went wrong recently?’

  ‘It didn’t break down, if that’s what you mean. There was some sort of electronic glitch. It didn’t affect it, as far as driving it was concerned. But Brian likes his cars to be perfect, so he had it taken in.’ She looked suddenly worn out. ‘I think you’re just asking anything that comes into your heads. Will you go now, please. I really have had enough of this.’

  Slider stood, and said, ‘You’ve been very patient. Thank you. And will you—’

  The sound of a key turning in a lock stopped him dead. He walked to the doorway, looking down the hall towards the front door. He turned quickly back to Gilda Steenkamp. ‘Your handbag,’ he said in a low, urgent voice. ‘Do you always leave it on the hallstand like that?’

  She looked puzzled, but said, ‘Yes, why?’

  There was no more time. The door had opened and Brian Seagram had come in, in a tailored charcoal wool overcoat and an old-fashioned trilby, both beaded with rain. He took the hat off and shook it before he looked up and saw Slider. His head snapped up, his scalp shifted backwards in shock, and for one sensational moment Slider thought he was going to bolt. But then, slowly, his shoulders came down, and he assumed a patient, inquiring look.

  ‘My goodness, you again,’ he said. ‘Is Michael here, Michael Friedman? I hope you haven’t been bothering my wife without her solicitor present?’

  ‘It’s you I’ve come to see, Mr Seagram,’ said Slider.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Witness of the Persecution

  Slider had got as far as, ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ before either spoke.

  Then it was Gilda Steenkamp. ‘You?’ she breathed, in horror. ‘It was you?’

  Seagram’s head snapped round to her. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he said, in a voice unlike any Slider had heard him use before. Then, to Slider, with a sad, headmastery smile: ‘You are making a very silly mistake, and I’m afraid you are going to regret it. I shan’t say a word to you until I’ve seen my solicitor, so don’t bother asking me any questions.’

  ‘That is your right, sir,’ Slider said stolidly. He was more interested in the shock and pain crossing Gilda Steenkamp’s face like fast-driven clouds. No, she hadn’t exactly known, but at some subconscious level she had suspected. And now the confirmation was like a second blow on an already wounded place. She put both hands over her mouth, but he could still see her eyes, and he wished he couldn’t.

  While they waited for Michael Friedman to arrive, Slider got in a quick cup of tea and phoned home.

  ‘We’ve made an arrest,’ he told her. ‘Brian Seagram. It’s going to be a late session. Maybe an all-nighter. Will you be all right?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘Your dad and Lydia are in; if I need company I can ask them to come up. But I thought I might do a bit of practice.’

  ‘The p-word? I thought you didn’t do the p-word.’

  ‘Got to keep the fingers flexible. You never know when they might be needed.’

  ‘You’re missing it already. I’m sorry,’ he said, feeling the familiar guilt creeping up.

  ‘Pregnancy was a joint enterprise,’ she said, banishing it. ‘I was there when the dastardly deed was done. Speaking of which – it was the husband? Well, you’ll be glad it wasn’t her, anyway,’ she said from long experience of his sensibilities.

  ‘I can’t really talk about it,’ he said distractedly. ‘I’ll tell you everything when I see you.’

  But from those same sensibilities, he was almost wishing it had been Steenkamp, because now she would have to live not only with the pain of losing her lover, but of knowing the man closest to her, whom she had trusted, had deliberately caused her that pain.

  A solicitor in a five-thousand-pound Jermyn Street suit could never look less than polished, but when it came to lawyers, a lowly copper had to take comfort where he could, and Slider believed that Michael Friedman was the tiniest fraction less impenetrable than before. OK, so a barnacle would have skidded straight off him with a cry of despair, but there were many scathing things he could have said and didn’t. Slider took that as encouragement. And when they all faced each other across the table in the interview room, Friedman was the one who looked as though he wished he wasn’t there.

  Seagram looked – not quite amused, but close to smug. ‘Michael’s assured me I don’t have to answer any of your questions,’ he said, ‘so you can say what you like. It’s your own time you’ll be wasting. I shan’t say a thing.’

  Slider nodded. ‘If that’s the way you want it. I’ll tell you what happened on the evening of the fourth of November, and you can correct me if I go wrong, all right?’

  Seagram shrugged, folded his arms, and said nothing.

  ‘It was a good plan,’ Slider went on in approving tones. ‘If slightly over-engineered in some parts. To begin with, your wife, as both you and she confirmed, was accustomed to working in her study from nine p.m. until at least midnight, and during that time was never to be disturbed. She never came out and you never went in. But you made a point of showing me your “snug”, where you watched television that evening, to demonstrate to me that you could not have seen or heard if she had decided to slip out of the house during that time.’

  Seagram’s face tightened slightly. ‘I told you—’

  Friedman coughed, and Seagram shut his mouth.

  ‘Yes, you told me you were sure she was there. You were playing the part of the loyal husband, while subtly warning me that she really had no alibi at all. I get it now. It was very clever. But it means, alas, that you have no alibi either.’

  ‘I don’t need an alibi.’ It seemed he’d forgotten the bit about not saying a thing. That was all to the good from Slider’s point of view.

  ‘To continue: when you were sure she was settled, you slipped out, taking her keys, mobile and debit card from her handbag, which she always left on the hall table. You took her car, the red Mazda you despised so much, and drove over to Erik Lingoss’s flat.’

  Seagram stirred, and Slider could tell he wanted to say, ‘Preposterous!’ It was a word tailor-made for him. But Friedman was looking at him hard, and he said nothing.

  ‘On the way you stopped at a cashpoint in Kensington High Street and used her debit card to withdraw seven hundred pounds. An odd amount. One that sticks in the mind – not two-fifty, not five, but seven. The reason for that we will come to. You also made a telephone call from your wife’s phone to Erik Lingoss, presumably saying that you were on your way. I think you must have made the appointment with him at some earlier stage, or you couldn’t have been sure he would be at home. Am I right?’

  Seagram made a little huffing noise, shook his head slightly, in a pitying way, and folded his arms tighter.

  ‘At Erik’s house, you went into the bedroom with him – where his training equipment was laid out. You picked up one of his weights, and hit him with it, knocking him unconscious. I think you thought you had killed him outright. You put the seven hundred pounds under his pillow, where it would be found, the unusual amount noted and a certain inference would be bound to be drawn. Then you went into the other room. There you put your wife’s initials in his appointments diary for that day – G.S. nine thi
rty p.m. I suppose that on a previous visit you had seen the way he recorded his professional appointments – perhaps he’d answered the phone while you were present. I think you probably also examined his client address book to make sure your name didn’t appear in it.’

  ‘Why should it? I wasn’t one of his clients.’

  ‘Brian, it would be better if you didn’t say anything,’ Friedman warned him. Then, to Slider: ‘This is all pure supposition. You haven’t produced the slightest shred of evidence.’

  Slider ignored him and continued with the narrative. ‘Probably at this point you heard a sound from the other room, and went back to discover that Lingoss was not dead after all. He was stirring, perhaps moaning. How hard could it be to kill the man? You grabbed the barbell again in a fury and beat his head to a pulp.’ Seagram’s face was pale, but hard; Friedman was maintaining a professional blank, but Slider liked to think his eyes were worried. ‘Then you picked up his phone and left, drove away in the Mazda, knowing that once the police had worked out that G.S. in the appointments book was Gilda Steenkamp, they would be able to trace the movement of her car between your home and Erik’s flat. They would check her phone and find she had rung him just before the appointment. And they would check her bank statement and find that she had drawn out seven hundred pounds – the same amount as was stashed under his pillow. It’s what you called “a trail of breadcrumbs”.’