‘Not in the way you mean,’ he said at last. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
Slider tried different words. ‘You loved him?’
Then he looked up, on the defensive, afraid of ridicule, hostility. ‘I love beautiful things. So do many people – it’s how I make my living, appreciating beautiful things, helping others to acquire them. Artefacts, wrought by the most skilled in society, in a futile quest to replicate the beauty that is in nature. But the beauty in nature is tragically short-lived. Perhaps that’s why Michelangelo made his statue – because he knew his boy would grow up. Grow old.’
It wasn’t an answer of course – except that it was, in a way. ‘Did he love you?’ Slider asked.
‘Yes.’ He said it vehemently, as if expecting challenge. Then a bleakness seeped in. ‘I believed he did. I believed him. Now … I don’t know. He must have. How could anybody act a part that convincingly? And yet – what he did …’
Time for provocation. ‘He betrayed you.’
Seagram didn’t answer, staring broodingly at his memories.
‘How did you know about the photographs?’ Slider asked.
He came back. ‘You’ve seen them?’
‘Of course,’ said Slider. ‘You left a trail all the way to Adam and Eve Mews and Leon Greyling. Why did you take the phone to him, by the way?’
‘I needed a safe place to leave it.’
‘But by telephoning him from your wife’s phone, you led us to him. Why did you do that?’
He rubbed a hand over his forehead. ‘It was a mistake. I thought it was my phone. I didn’t notice – didn’t realize—’
‘It’s not so surprising. You had a lot of phones to juggle with,’ Slider said kindly. ‘Yours, hers, Erik’s. And you had a lot on your mind. You had just killed a man.’
‘No!’ Seagram cried, and it sounded like genuine pain.
‘It’s too late to deny it. We have the evidence,’ Slider said, mostly for Friedman’s sake. ‘But I want to understand why. I want your side of the story.’ Those, like Seagram, who had never felt understood, would fall for that one every time. But with Slider it was always true. He really did want to know. ‘How did you know about the photos?’
Yes, now he was looking at Slider, urging his comprehension. ‘It was about a week before. I was going to see a client in Salisbury. I was supposed to be out all day. But when I got to the motorway, he rang and cancelled, so I turned round and went home. When I let myself in, I heard a murmur of voices, and I remembered that she was having one of her training sessions. I didn’t want to see Erik with her, so I was going to leave again. But then I heard Gilda laugh. It was the sort of laugh … A low chuckle … I hadn’t heard her laugh like that since when we were first married. It made the hair stand up on my scalp. So I had to see. I had to know how he could make her laugh like that. I tiptoed down the passage. The voices were coming from her bedroom, not the spare room she uses as a gym. The door was half open. I could see through without getting right up to it. I saw her, naked, striking a pose, kneeling on the bed, with her hands behind her head, making her breasts stand up.’ He shuddered. ‘And then – Erik must have been moving about, trying different angles. He passed across between her and the door, photographing with his phone. He was naked too. His back was to me, but there wasn’t an inch of his body I didn’t know.’ His face screwed up in pain. ‘For six months, I had loved him. And he was betraying me – with my own wife!’
Plainly he saw no irony in the statement.
‘Why didn’t you confront them?’ Slider asked.
‘Confront them? No! God, no.’ His voice was shaky. ‘I couldn’t, not then. It was all too much. I felt as if I’d got a javelin through the chest. I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t think. I had to get away from there. I had to get away.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I slipped out of the house again, got in my car and drove. I had no idea where. I just drove. I finally stopped in a layby somewhere out west of London. Somewhere near Marlborough. I must have been on the motorway at some point to have got so far but I don’t remember anything about it.’ There was a long pause, and when he resumed he was composed again, his face expressionless. ‘Then I went home. And that was that.’
‘And that’s when you started plotting your revenge?’ Slider said.
‘You don’t have to answer that,’ Friedman intervened.
Seagram looked at him blankly, as though he had forgotten who he was. He looked at Slider again. ‘Revenge? It wasn’t revenge. When I thought about it, when I realized what he’d done, how he’d betrayed – not just me, but us, and the beauty … There had been perfection, and now it was … trammelled. I knew he had to die. It wasn’t revenge, it was … euthanasia. I couldn’t leave him like that, a broken thing. I had to take responsibility. That’s what a man does – a real man.’
Slider said, ‘I can see that – but your wife? Didn’t she deserve to die too?’
‘You don’t have to answer that,’ said Friedman again, but Seagram didn’t seem even to hear him. His eyes were fixed on Slider, willing him to understand.
‘I thought of it,’ he said. ‘If I’d gone in right away, when I saw them, perhaps. But afterwards, when I thought about it, I realized she was the real guilty party. I didn’t want him to suffer, I wanted him to die cleanly, but that was too good for her. She should suffer for what she did. Then I saw a way that she could be made to pay. She’d killed him, the best bit of him, his beauty and his innocence, so why shouldn’t she be blamed for his murder? There’s no death sentence now, but perhaps twenty years in a prison cell thinking about it was better. She’d suffer more that way. And it might bring her to a proper frame of mind.’
‘And you,’ Slider said approvingly, ‘would get the divorce you’d been asking for, and which she was blocking. What better grounds could there be than her being found guilty of murder? And there’s not a divorce judge in the land that wouldn’t give the husband of a convicted murderess a generous settlement.’
‘This is quite improper,’ said Friedman. ‘You are badgering my client, provoking him. This must stop at once.’
Slider lifted a hand in acknowledgement. He had done enough, anyway. Seagram would speak unprompted now. He had gone beyond reason. He panted with anger.
‘Why shouldn’t I have the money? I’ve supported her emotionally all these years, for little reward. She couldn’t have written her best-selling novels without me to take care of her, keep everyone away, make a stable home for her, wait on her hand and foot, cherish her. And what thanks have I ever had? Nothing but disparagement and indifference – “Oh, not now, Brian, I’m writing.” Writing! Yes, that was the only important thing in the world!’ He glared at Slider as though he might be one of those wretches who sided with his wife. ‘But what about my wants, my needs? She never cared a jot about them. And when I finally asked her for a divorce, she waved it away, dismissed it, because it might adversely affect her career. Her precious career! Her sacred bloody talent!’ He was grinding his teeth now, his fists clenched on the table. ‘She had everything, and I got nothing out of it, and when I found one thing for myself, one little piece of beauty that was mine, she took that away too. I wish I had killed her now. I should have run in there and smashed them both right there and then, smashed them and smashed them and killed them! They both deserved to die!’
‘That man,’ said Atherton as they walked away, ‘is not playing with a full keyboard. If Friedman’s thinking of entering an insanity plea, he’s got plenty to choose from. Mummy issues, father issues, dead sister issues. Sexual inadequacy, sado-masochism, paranoia, megalomania, schizophrenia. He’s a walking text book of neuroses.’
‘That’s probably why he allowed him to talk,’ said Slider.
‘Emasculation by his father. Emasculation by his more successful wife. Trying to replace his idealized sister with a pure love of boys. Steenkamp reminded him of her, he said – but she had gross sexual requirements. Not pure enough. Greyli
ng was pure, but not very bright. And then there was Lingoss. Hmm.’
‘And so much anger,’ Slider said. ‘Repressed, of course. Hit by his father, can’t hit back, squash it all down until one day it just erupts. How many times have we seen that?’
‘Well, it keeps us in a job,’ said Atherton.
‘We’ve got one of the soundest cases we’ve ever had, with the car trace, the mobile trace, the ATM camera, Greyling’s testimony, fingermarks on the books and the phone – even if they’re only partials – and the DNA from the handkerchief. And now a top-notch motive.’
‘“Jealousy is cruel as the grave”,’ Atherton quoted. ‘But, you were going to say, it takes the shine off it when the perpetrator is as nutty as a fruitcake?’
‘I don’t think,’ said Slider slowly, ‘I have ever come across a more lonely man.’ It made him shiver to think about it.
They took the stairs. ‘All these people,’ Atherton marvelled, ‘in love with Lingoss and thinking he was in love with them. He must have had something. But what? We thought at first he was a shallow narcissist.’
‘Perhaps he was just hollow enough for people to fill him with their own fantasies,’ Slider said.
‘All things to all men? Well, I suppose that’s possible.’
‘He took people’s colour and gave it back to them enhanced. He wasn’t a Narcissus, he was a chameleon. And perhaps he was happy to be the person of their dreams, as long as it contributed to his.’
‘Money.’
‘Financial freedom.’ Slider frowned. ‘He seems to me to be the victim in all this.’
‘He was the victim, guv,’ Atherton pointed out kindly.
‘You know what I mean. Everybody wanted a piece of him. He was being pecked to death, one beakful at a time.’
‘I wonder if he loved any of them?’
‘He cared enough for Gilda Steenkamp to break it off with Lucy just for the asking. Maybe he really did love her.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘Why did he take pictures of her, and keep them, if it wasn’t love?’
‘You’re a romantic at heart, really, aren’t you? Gilda Steenkamp was the wealthiest of all his wealthy clients.’
‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t care for her,’ Slider said. ‘Rich people need loving as much as poor people.’
‘If you say, “or perhaps more” I shall walk away. Does it not occur to you he had future blackmail in mind?’
Slider shook his head dismissively. ‘You have to think,’ he said, ‘what a person needs most. And what Lingoss was most missing in his life, it seems to me, was a proper mother.’
Atherton grimaced. ‘One he could boff? Straight to Oedipus.’
‘Don’t be crass,’ said Slider. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do. Don’t have to agree with you, though.’ Atherton stretched. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’
‘I must have tea before we start again,’ Slider said. ‘About a bucketful.’
‘We’d better have something to eat as well,’ Atherton said. ‘I’ll send someone out for sandwiches. What did you mean, by the way, about the plot being over-engineered?’
‘Eh? Oh, putting the car in for repair. And the anniversary celebration. Showing he was a loving husband. I don’t think those were really necessary.’
‘I suppose once you start plotting something like this it’s hard to leave it alone. You keep elaborating. You keep trying to second-guess what might come back to trip you up.’ They turned the corner. ‘I’m glad it wasn’t Steenkamp in the end, though. She’s still got more books in her.’
‘She could write in prison,’ Slider said. ‘Jeffrey Archer did, didn’t he?’
‘You’re thinking of Oscar Wilde.’
‘I rarely if ever think of Oscar Wilde.’
‘You will, guv’nor, you will.’
He had turned off his mobile, of course, while he took the interview, and reaching his office was about to turn it back on when Lawrence came in from the CID room and said, ‘There’s a couple of messages for you, sir, to ring home. I hope it’s nothing serious.’ She gave him a sympathetic and yet hungry look. We’re all drama junkies these days, he thought.
Lydia answered, which made his heart jump with alarm. But she said at once, ‘You’re not to worry, it’s not bad news. Joanna went into labour about seven o’clock. She didn’t want you to be bothered, knowing you’d be doing an important interview. And she thought there was enough time. But it started to go quickly. It’s like that sometimes with second babies. Your dad took her in, and I stayed to look after little George.’ She always called him that because Slider’s father’s name was also George. ‘I offered to be the one to go with her, but she thought I’d be better with the boy if it was a long time, not knowing when you’d be able to get away. You know I’m happy to stay on. I’ll feed him and put him to bed, and if necessary I can bed down in the spare room.’
‘You’re wonderful. Thank you. Is she all right?’
‘Last bulletin from your dad she was fine, but I haven’t heard anything for a while now. But she’ll be all right,’ Lydia said comfortably. ‘She’s healthy as a horse.’
Yes, but horses could get ill and be hurt, couldn’t they, and this was childbirth, the big lottery, all hunky-dory and straightforward until it wasn’t.
‘Go,’ said Porson. ‘Go straight to the hospital. You don’t want to miss all the fun.’
Fun? Slider thought. ‘I think I’ve missed it already,’ he said.
‘Never mind. There’s hours of work here, and Seagram’s not going anywhere. I can do anything you’d be doing.’ As Slider hesitated, Porson’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What? You think I can’t do the basics? You think I live in some ivory towel, cut off from the world? I was a copper when you were in short pants, laddie.’
He wasn’t that much older than Slider, of course, but it’s the thought that counts.
And then there was the traffic, the bloody, bloody traffic, and what with bus lanes and bike lanes cramming everyone else into single file it was never going to be any better. When you’re stuck in a car crawling along there’s nothing to take your mind off various scenarios which your subconscious, the bad fairy of whimsy, likes to spread out for your amusement. He put the spinner on to go round Hammersmith Broadway, which was all right as far as it went, but London red buses have a dispensation from God and don’t have to heed the police or indeed anything else. He always thought the famous wartime photograph of the number 77 to King’s Cross stuck in a bomb crater was mostly evidence of the bus driver’s belief in his own immortality.
Then there was finding somewhere to park, and finding the way in. All the doors seemed to be locked or have No Entry signs on them. Are hospitals like that to keep people out, or keep the one’s they’ve caught in? Finding someone to admit there was such a person as Joanna in the system. Finding the ward. Then finding anyone who worked on the ward. A large West Indian cleaner shrieked with laughter when he applied to her for information and said, ‘Don’t ask me, darlin’, I only work here.’ Amusing, yes, but not helpful.
Finally, it was Dad who found him. ‘I thought I heard your voice,’ he said. Slider scanned his father’s face, and saw no doom or horror in it. ‘She’s in a private room, round here. Room G.’
‘Wh—?’
‘They ran out of beds on the ward, that’s all. It’s not costing anything.’
He hadn’t been thinking of cost. He’d been thinking they put people in private rooms who are too sick for the ward.
Mr Slider read it in his face. ‘She’s fine. It was really quick.’
‘She’s had it?’
‘All done and dusted. I’m not sure, I think she’d been having pains at home for a while and not told us. I think she was hoping you’d get back in time to go with her. Almost left it too late – once she started the second stage it was over like lightning. But it’s all right now. Go on, you daft devil, don’t just stand there – go in. She’s waiting for you.’
When he was a boy, and came home from school to seek out his mother in the kitchen, sometimes the surge of love and joy at seeing her again was quite simply too much. Had to be deferred, deflected, or he might die of it. So instead of rushing to her and flinging his arms around her waist, he would pour out extravagant caresses on the smooth black head of Ben, their collie, while Ben, willing proxy, had wriggled his rear end and licked Slider’s face. His mother had understood. She would look round from the stove (he always remembered her standing at the stove) and smile, and remark to the unseen audience, ‘He kisses the dog!’
Joanna understood, too. When he stepped into the room he couldn’t look at her, and heard himself say, idiotically, ‘This is a nice room. Lots of light.’
And she said, ‘I’m glad you like it. I picked out the wallpaper myself.’ He kisses the dog.
But then it was all right, and he could look at her, and bear the terrible stretching pain of his love for her that sometimes seemed as though it would split him in two. She was propped up on pillows in the high, white bed, and to one who had got used to her big belly she looked unexpectedly flat, like a cartoon of the unpopular schoolteacher run over by a steamroller. She looked tired, but no more than at the end of a long day at work; only her flattened, sweat-darkened hair gave the game away. Normally her hair stood up and out like the petals of a chrysanthemum. It took a lot to wilt it.
He crossed to the bed and took her hand; plugged himself in; life started up again. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Piece of cake,’ she said boastfully.
He smiled, and saw it reflected in her eyes. ‘I like cake.’
‘Everybody likes cake.’
His eyes were avoiding the other significant piece of furniture in the room, the hospital-issue cot, with something doll-sized and tightly wrapped under the cover, a small red face between hospital-issue cotton shawl and ludicrous stockinet hat. Too newly born to have its own clothes from home yet. And he had the feeling again, that he would die if he looked properly too soon.
‘Considering how big you were,’ he said, ‘it looks like a very small cake.’
Cruel as the Grave Page 29