Gone Tomorrow

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Why not?’ Atherton agreed. A fortnight of sunshine and unfeasibly energetic sexual activity. And now a nice meaty corpse to get our teeth into.’

  ‘Some people have strange tastes. How did you know, anyway?’

  ‘Bad news has wings. Maurice was talking to Paul Beynon from the SCG while you were upstairs.’

  ‘I knew him at Kensington,’ McLaren said. ‘He rung to give me the gen.’ His time at Kensington was his Golden Age, source of all legend. Amazingly, it seemed he had been popular there. At all events, they were always ringing him up for a bunny, and vice versa.

  ‘So it seems I just got back in time,’ Atherton said.

  ‘Yeah, from what you said, another day’d’ve killed you,’ McLaren said lubriciously.

  ‘How’s Sue?’ Slider asked.

  Atherton smiled. ‘You’ll never know.’

  McLaren pricked up his ears. ‘Oh, is that who you were with? That short bird I saw you with that time? Blimey, you still going with her?’

  His surprise was understandable, if tactless, for Atherton had always demanded supermodel looks as basic minimum, and Sue – a colleague of Joanna’s – was neither willowy nor drop-dead gorgeous. She had something, however, that melted Atherton’s collar studs. But he didn’t rise to McLaren. He merely looked sidelong and said, ‘You know the old saying, Maurice: better to have loved a short girl than never to have loved a tall.’

  ‘Right, shall we get on with it?’ Slider interposed. The rest of his team, bar Hollis and Mackay who were still at the scene, had come in behind him. ‘With no identification on the corpse, we’ve got more work even than usual ahead of us. In fact, I expected to find you all hard at it already,’ he complained.

  ‘We have been. Hive of activity, guv,’ McLaren said smartly. ‘Just waiting for you to get back to see how you wanted it set up.’

  ‘Never mind that Tottenham. When did I ever want it set up any differently? Here’s the Polaroids from the scene. And I shall want a sketch map of the immediate area up on the wall. Get on with it, Leonardo.’

  McLaren stuffed the last of the sandwich in his mouth. ‘Right, guv,’ he said indistinctly. ‘Get you a cuppa first?’

  ‘From the canteen? Yes, all right, might as well. It’ll be a long day.’

  ‘Get me one too, Maurice,’ Anderson said.

  ‘Slice cake with it?’

  Anderson boggled. ‘You what? Turn you stone blind.’

  McLaren shrugged and hurried off.

  Atherton shoved the newspaper into his drawer and unfurled his elegant height to the vertical. ‘He probably thought you meant DiCaprio,’ he observed to Slider.

  The park keeper, Ken Whalley, was in the interview room, his hands wrapped round a mug of tea as if warming them on a cold winter’s day. He had a surprisingly pale face for an outdoor worker, pudgy and nondescript, with strangely formless features, as if he had been fashioned by an eager child out of pastry but not yet cooked. Two minutes after turning your back on him it would be impossible to remember what he looked like. Perhaps to give himself some distinction he had grown his fuzzy brown hair down to his collar where it nestled weakly, having let go the top of his head as an unequal struggle.

  He looked desperately upset, which perhaps was not surprising. However un-mangled this particular corpse was, it was one more than most people ever saw in a lifetime, and finding it must have been unsettling.

  Slider, sitting opposite, made himself as unthreatening as possible. ‘So, tell me about this morning. What time did you arrive at the park?’

  Whalley looked up over the rim of the mug like a victim. He had those drooping lower lids, like a bloodhound, that showed the red, which made him look more than ever pathetic. ‘I’ve already told the other bloke all about it,’ he complained. ‘Back at the park. I told the copper first, and then I had to tell that plain-clothes bloke an’ all.’

  ‘I know, it’s a pain the way you’ll have to keep repeating the story,’ Slider sympathised, ‘but I’m afraid that’s the way it goes. This is a murder investigation, you know.’ Whalley flinched at the ‘M’ word and offered no more protest. ‘What time did you arrive?’

  Whalley sighed and yielded. ‘Just before a’pass seven. I’m supposed to open up at a’pass.’

  ‘At the South Africa Road end?’ A nod. And what time did you leave home?’

  He seemed to find this question surprising. At last he said, as if Slider ought to have known, ‘But I only live across the road. I got a flat in Davis House. Goes with the job.’

  ‘I see. All right, when you got there, were the gates open or shut?’

  ‘Shut. They was shut,’ he said quickly.

  ‘And locked? How do you lock them?’

  ‘With a chain and padlock.’

  ‘And were the chain and padlock still in place, and locked?’

  ‘Yeah, course they were,’ Whalley said defensively.

  ‘And what about the Frithville Gardens end?’

  ‘I never went down there. Once I saw that bloke in the playground I just rang you lot, and then I never went nowhere else.’ He looked nervously from Slider to Atherton and back. ‘Look, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I never locked up properly last night.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Well I did. I done everything right, same as always. It’s not my bleedin’ fault ’e got done!’

  ‘All right, calm down. Nobody’s accusing you of anything,’ Atherton said. ‘We just need to get it all straight, that’s all. Once we’ve got your statement written down we probably won’t need to bother you again.’

  Whalley seemed reassured by this. All right,’ he said at last, putting the mug down and wiping his lips on the back of his sleeve. ‘What j’wanna know?’

  ‘Tell me about locking up last night,’ Slider said. ‘What time it was, and exactly what you did.’

  ‘Well, it was about a’pass nine. I’m s’pose to lock up at dusk, which is generally about arf hour after sunset, but it’s up to me. I generally lock up earlier in winter, ’cause there’s not so many people about. It’s a cut-through, but there’s no lights in the park, so we can’t leave it open after dark. Course, people still want to take the short cut, and they used to bunk over the gate, so we had them new gates put on down the Frithville end, with all the pointy stuff on top.’

  Slider had seen them: irregular metal extrusions, vaguely flame-shaped, topped the high gates, looking as if they were meant for decoration but in fact a fairly good deterrent. Of course, a really determined person could climb over anything, but the flames prevented ‘bunking’ – hitching oneself up onto one’s stomach and then swinging the legs over – which would deter the casual cutter-through.

  Whalley went on, ‘But in summer it stays light longer and it depends what I’m doing what time I shut up. But anyway, I went over a’pass nine with the chains and padlocks. What I do, I shut the South Africa gate but I don’t lock it, then I walk through telling everyone it’s closing. Then I lock the Frithville gate, and walk back, make sure everyone’s out, then lock the South Africa gates.’

  ‘And that’s what you did last night?’

  There were beads of sweat on Whalley’s upper lip. ‘That’s what I’m telling you, inni? I did everything just like normal and then I went home.’

  ‘Have you ever seen deceased before?’

  ‘No, I never seen him before in me life,’ Whalley said emphatically. ‘I don’t know who he is, and that’s the truth.’ He wiped his lips again.

  ‘Did you see him in the park anywhere before you locked up?’

  ‘What, j’fink I wouldn’t a noticed a bleedin’ dead body?’ Whalley said indignantly.

  ‘No, I meant did you see him alive? Was he hanging around, perhaps?’

  ‘I dunno. No, I never.’

  ‘Was there anyone in the park who took your notice? Anyone unusual or suspicious-looking?’

  Whalley drew up his shoulders and spread his hands defensively. ‘Look, I don
’t go checking up on people,’ he whined. ‘It’s not my job. I just go through telling ’em it’s closing. Everyone was out before I locked up, that’s all I know. You can’t put it on me. F’ cryin’ out loud!’

  ‘It’s just,’ Slider said gently, ‘that you said you didn’t go down to the Frithville gate this morning, but when one of our constables went down there, there was no padlock and chain. The gates were shut, but they weren’t locked.’

  Whalley stared a long time, his lips moving as if rehearsing his answer. Then at last he licked them and said, ‘Someone must’ve took ’em.’ Slider waited in silence. Whalley looked suddenly relieved. ‘Yeah, someone must’ve cut through ’em. You could cut that chain all right with heavy bolt-cutters.’

  Walking away from the interview room, Atherton eyed his boss’s thoughtful frown and said, ‘Well?’

  ‘Well?’ Slider countered. ‘How did you like Mr Whalley?’

  ‘Thick as a whale sandwich, and more chicken than the Colonel. What did you think of him?’

  ‘I don’t like it when they start supplying answers to questions they’ve no business answering,’ Slider said.

  ‘That stuff about bolt-cutters?’

  ‘If you were breaking into the park for nefarious purposes, would you bother to take the padlock and chain away with you? Or having cut through them, would you just leave them lying where they fell?’

  ‘I see what you mean. So you think Whalley’s lying? He’s nervous enough.’

  ‘In his position I’d be nervous, whether I was lying or not. When a corpse is found on your watch it doesn’t bode well even if you’re innocent. It’s possible he merely forgot to lock the gates, and doesn’t want to admit it in view of the consequences.’

  ‘Point.’

  ‘The other possibility is that he’s in on it in some way. But what “it” is, we can’t know until we can find out who deceased is.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see Whalley as a criminal conspirator,’ Atherton said. ‘He’s a pathetic little runt.’

  ‘I expect you’re right. It’s just the padlock and chain not being there that bothers me. Our corpse was too nattily dressed for climbing over gates. Especially gates with pointy bits on the top.’

  ‘You think he had an appointment in the park?’

  Slider shrugged. ‘Whatever he went there for, he went there. Alive or dead, he went through one of the gates or over it, and I can’t make myself believe in over.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Opening the Male

  In the post-mortem room of the hospital’s pathology department, Freddie Cameron, the forensic pathologist, presented to the world an appearance as smooth as a racehorse’s ear. It was his response to the unpleasantness of much of his work to cultivate an outward perfection. His suiting was point-device, his linen immaculate; his waistcoat was a poem of nicely calculated audacity and his bow-tie du jour was crimson with an old gold spot.

  All this loveliness, of course, was concealed as soon as he put on the protective clothing, but still he was positively jaunty as he shaped up to the corpse.

  ‘Anything’s better than facing another pair of congested lungs, old bean,’ he said when Slider queried his pleasure. ‘I’m even beginning to eye my bath sponge askance. This flu epidemic seems to have gone on for ever. Good to see you back,’ he added to Atherton. ‘Good holiday? You’re looking very juvenile and jolly.’

  ‘Fully functioning on all circuits,’ Atherton admitted.

  ‘So, you’ve no ID on our friend here?’ Cameron asked.

  ‘Not so far,’ Slider said.

  ‘Well, I’ll take the fingerprints for you, and a blood sample. Chap looks a bit tasty, to my view.’

  ‘I agree. Everything about him suggests there’s a good chance he’ll feature somewhere in our hall of fame.’

  ‘Right. Well, as soon as my assistant arrives, we’ll begin. Ah, here she is. Sandra, this is my old friend Bill Slider. Sandra Whitty.’

  Slider shook hands. She was an attractive young woman, sensationally busted under her lab coat. Her lovely profile preceded her into a little pool of held breath which had gathered round the table; broken a moment later as McLaren muttered fervently, ‘Blimey, she takes up a lot of room!’

  Why is it we’re all so childish about bosoms, Slider wondered. He wasn’t immune himself. Charlie Dimmock had a lot to answer for. He met Miss Whitty’s eye apologetically. ‘Excuse the reptile.’

  Fortunately, she only looked amused. ‘That’s all right, I keep pets myself.’

  She obviously knew what she was doing, and handled the body with an easy strength as she and Freddie removed the clothing and put it into the bags McLaren held out. There was nothing in any of the pockets to identify the deceased. One jacket pocket yielded cigarettes – Gitanes, a rather surprising choice – and a throwaway lighter. The other contained a quantity of change and a crumpled but clean handkerchief. The inside jacket pocket contained a fold of notes held with an elastic band. When McLaren unfolded and counted them, it came to over a thousand pounds, in fifties, twenties and tens.

  ‘Now there’s a thing you don’t see every day,’ Freddie said. He breathed in deeply. ‘Ah, money! I can almost smell the mint.’

  ‘Evidently robbery from the person was not a factor,’ Atherton said.

  ‘But there’s no wallet, driving licence, credit card, or any of the gubbins a man carries about,’ Slider said. ‘Was he unusually self-effacing, or did the murderer cop the lot?’

  ‘If he did, why wouldn’t he take the money?’ Freddie added. ‘Only fair, after taking the trouble to kill the chappie.’

  ‘I’d have taken the jacket,’ Atherton said. ‘It’s a lovely piece of leather. I wonder where he got it?’ He looked at the label sewn inside just under the collar. ‘“Emporio Firenze”,’ he read. ‘Never heard of them. Still, it’s very nice.’

  ‘Nice watch, too,’ Sandra said.

  ‘Is that a Rolex?’ Atherton asked, leaning forward.

  ‘It only thinks it is,’ she said succinctly. ‘Good fake, though. Date, phases of the moon, two different time zones, alarm, stopwatch function and integral microwave oven and waffle maker. Not cheap.’

  ‘How do you know so much about men’s watches?’

  ‘I’ve handled a few,’ she said. Slider could see Atherton working it out and felt a mild urge to kick him. When it came to women he had all the self-restraint of an Alsatian puppy on a bowling green.

  ‘Look here, Bill,’ Freddie said a moment later. ‘Someone has been into the pockets. You see here, the left inside pocket is stained with blood where it rested against the wound. Now, over here, a tiny smear of blood on the right inside pocket. Someone’s checked the contents of the left pocket and then transferred the blood on his fingers to the right.’

  ‘While looking for something,’ said Slider.

  ‘Which presumably he found,’ Atherton added. Any chance of a fingerprint?’

  ‘I’ll have a look under the microscope, but I wouldn’t hold my breath,’ Freddie advised. ‘It’s a very tiny smear.’

  When the jumper was removed, it revealed a tattoo on the right forearm.

  ‘Nice,’ Sandra commented tartly. It portrayed a plump red heart with a steel-blue dagger thrust through it. There was a realistic drip of blood falling from the tip of the dagger, and around the heart was wrapped one of those heraldic ribbon scrolls bearing the word ‘Mary’. It was an unpleasant and disturbing combination of sentiment and violence. ‘Mary’s a lucky girl,’ Sandra said.

  ‘It may help to identify him,’ Slider said.

  Atherton was not impressed. ‘He could have got it done anywhere, any time.’

  ‘Not any time,’ Cameron said. ‘I’d say it was quite recent – within the last couple of years.’

  ‘All right, but anywhere. If we’ve got to start trawling the tattoo parlours of the world—’

  ‘It’s better than nothing,’ Slider said.

  ‘Not by much.’

  Slider knew w
hat he meant. A tattoo was a bit like fingerprints – good for confirming an identity when you already knew who you had; but for plucking an identity out of the void, it was as useful as a fishing net on a stick for retrieving a ring you’d dropped over the side of the cross-Channel ferry.

  When the body was naked, Cameron made his external examination, reporting as he went. There was a little click every time he activated the tape recorder by means of the foot button; that and his cultured voice were the only sounds that disturbed the hum of the air conditioning. Slider thought it was a bit like being in his office, with the coo of a pigeon on the windowsill and the murmur of traffic outside. Strangely soporific. He found himself drifting a little.

  ‘Deceased is male Caucasian, height five feet eleven, age apparently mid-thirties. He appears to be well nourished and in good health. Good musculature. No skin lesions, no surgical scars. No sign of any drugs usage.’

  He measured and described the knife wound in the chest, and continued, ‘No other visible wounds. Some evidence of bruising on the left side of the jaw, on the left upper arm and to the knuckles of the right hand. Bruising is not fully developed, suggesting that it was inflicted a short time before death.’

  Slider jerked back to the present. ‘What sort of bruising?’ he asked when the recorder clicked off.

  ‘Looks as if he was in a scrap of some sort. This one on the arm, you see, shows the shape of knuckles: one, two, three lobes and a fainter fourth, the little finger, which has less impact because of the curve of the fist. A right-handed punch, delivered with great force.’

  Slider looked, recreating it. ‘Probably turning away slightly, fielding it on his arm instead of his face.’

  ‘Well, that should help us identify him,’ McLaren said. ‘A man with a tattoo who was in a fight.’

  ‘Narrows the field wonderfully,’ Atherton agreed.

  ‘Right,’ said Cameron, ‘let’s open him up. Mints, Sandra.’

  Sandra Whitty pulled out of her pocket the obligatory tube of Trebor and passed them round. Reaching for his long scalpel, Cameron began to whistle softly, a habit he hardly knew he had. The tune, Atherton recognised after a moment, was ‘Some Enchanted Evening’. Whistling, he slipped in the blade and opened the body like a man opening his mail.