Gone Tomorrow

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Yes please – gently!’

  He lifted it, freed the curved claws from the chunks of hair, and placed it on his own shoulder.

  ‘He jumped on me from the top of the kitchen door as I came through,’ Joanna said.

  ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘Vash,’ she said. ‘But it makes no conceivable difference. They’re both bonkers.’

  Sredni Vashtar teetered on Slider’s shoulder, purring like an engine; then, as his brother’s voice was upraised plaintively in the kitchen, scuttered straight down Slider’s front and disappeared in two flouncing leaps towards the smell of food. Slider took the cat-free window of opportunity to kiss Joanna.

  ‘Mm, you taste nice,’ he said at half-time.

  ‘It’s Jim’s sherry.’

  ‘No, it’s you,’ he assured her, and sank back in.

  ‘God, you two!’ Sue said, coming in from the kitchen. ‘You’re like horny teenagers.’

  Slider straightened up. ‘We haven’t seen each other in a while.’

  ‘I haven’t seen my gran for years,’ Sue said, ‘but all she gets is a peck on the beak and a box of Quality Street. Have a bruschetti.’

  ‘Thanks. Isn’t that plural?’

  ‘You want waitress service and a Linguaphone course?’

  ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Joanna said indistinctly, having stuffed the smallest slice whole into her mouth. She went into the kitchen, leaving Slider alone with Sue. She fixed him with a penetrating blue gaze. Tinted contact lenses, Slider thought absently as doom fell on him.

  ‘He wasn’t working overtime last week, was he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Slider said. That was feeble. He’d never been good at this confrontation thing.

  ‘Wednesday and Thursday. Oh, it’s all right,’ she said, waving away any possible answer he might have been going to give –which from where he was standing was not likely to have arrived until next week some time. ‘I won’t ask you to perjure yourself. I know the symptoms. That’s where you men always get it wrong. You think we’re stupid.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re stupid,’ Slider said, which could have meant very nearly anything, so wasn’t the height of tact.

  ‘I just thought,’ she went on, ‘that we’d got all that nonsense over with.’

  Slider felt a looming trap. ‘Look,’ he began, and she flapped a hand to stop him.

  ‘For God’s sake don’t say anything that starts with “look”. Sentences like that lead anywhere and they’re always fatal.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, and Slider saw she was. Sorry and angry and also afraid.

  ‘He really cares about you,’ Slider said awkwardly. Doing the old bosom-baring on your own behalf was bad enough, but having to talk girly about a male friend was as easy as eating a sand sandwich.

  ‘I can’t keep going through this time after time.’

  ‘Talk to him,’ Slider said.

  ‘Talk to him who?’ Joanna asked, coming back in with a tumbler of gin-and-tonic. It was a beauty – long and cool, blue with gin, clinking with ice, and with a floating demi-lune of lemon beaded delicately silver on the upper side. Slider wanted to dive in and stay under till the coast was clear.

  But Sue rescued him. ‘Jim,’ she said easily. ‘About the case.’

  Which showed, Slider thought, that a lady could be a gentleman as well as a bosom friend.

  * * *

  At the table, over a starter of baked goat’s cheese and rocket, Atherton said, ‘I don’t think we’re ever going to solve this one. No witnesses, no info. We haven’t even got a weapon.’

  ‘What about the old man who was strangled with the chain?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘Herbie Weedon? Same story. No-one saw anyone go up. The hardware shop was closed at the time but the deli was still open, but they said they never took any notice of people going in and out of the door to Golden Loans. And why should they?’ Atherton finished in frustration. ‘People just don’t look at each other any more. Everyone wanders round in their own little bubble as if no-one else on the planet exists.’

  ‘But how could the killer know Herbie was going to talk to you?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘Maybe his phone was bugged,’ Atherton said with a faint shrug. ‘He said it wasn’t safe to talk on the phone.’

  ‘Is it really that easy to bug someone’s phone?’ Sue objected. ‘Outside of a James Bond film, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t difficult, if you’ve got the know-how. The gear exists, and it’s very sophisticated and very compact these days. It doesn’t even have to be inside the actual phone. They’ve got radio bugs that are so powerful they can pick up what’s said on both sides of a telephone conversation from anywhere in the room.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have found the bugging device if there was one?’

  ‘Not if whoever killed him remembered to remove it,’ Atherton said. ‘And I suspect they might have.’

  ‘But then,’ said Joanna, ‘you’re talking about a very sophisticated killer. And if the same person who killed Herbie Weedon killed Lenny Baxter—’

  ‘Which we assume is the case because of the lock and chain,’ Atherton said.

  ‘—then that means Baxter wasn’t killed by one of his drugs customers or his betting customers—’

  ‘Or any other of the assorted lowlife, like Eddie Cranston, that we think he associated with,’ Slider concluded.

  ‘But the killer himself needn’t have been sophisticated,’ Sue said, reaching for the bottle and pouring more Chablis. ‘If it was a gang thing, he could be just a crude tool given orders by a sophisticated boss.’

  ‘Not too crude,’ Atherton said.

  ‘Everet Boston is smart enough,’ Slider said. ‘And so is Sonny Collins. The trouble is we just don’t have any evidence to point to anyone.’

  ‘Or even a motive?’ Sue suggested.

  ‘Murders, very generally, are done for one of two reasons,’ Slider said. ‘Money, or passion.’

  ‘But in this case, the money was left in the victim’s pocket,’ Sue said.

  ‘Well, there’s money as in wads of folding, and money as in don’t jeopardise my business,’ Slider said. ‘Robbery from the person isn’t the only option. What we need is a witness. Some helpful passer-by with a description we can act on. Or, failing that, we could do with laying our hands on someone who knows something from the inside. Like Lenny’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Or Everet Boston,’ Atherton said, standing up and beginning to clear plates. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t keep hold of him when you had him.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Atherton. Sorry, Mr Atherton,’ Slider said.

  Sue followed Atherton out of the room with her eyes. ‘Do you let him talk to you like that?’ she said in mock amazement. ‘He’s only the cook.’

  ‘You just can’t get the staff these days,’ Slider apologised.

  In the car on the way home, Joanna asked out of the blue, ‘Is Jim up to his old tricks again?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Slider said. She looked a protest. ‘Really, I don’t know.’

  ‘Sue seems to think he is.’

  ‘Is that what she said?’

  ‘Not directly. It’s just the impression I got.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Stop being a detective for a minute. What is wrong with him?’

  ‘If he is up to something – which I don’t know that he is –he probably wouldn’t think there was anything wrong with him, or it. They’re not married.’

  She gave him a hostile glance. ‘That’s beside the point. Either he wants a relationship or he doesn’t. He’s got to make up his mind.’

  ‘Why? I’m not defending the position, just asking.’

  ‘In a spirit of pure enquiry? All right, because he expects her to have made up her mind. He wants what she’s got to offer him, but he doesn’t want to give her anything back.’

  ‘I don’t know that that’s true,’ Slider said. ‘It’s just—’ He couldn’
t phrase it, and fell silent.

  At last she prompted. ‘It’s just what? He doesn’t even really try very hard not to get found out. That’s insulting.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s the one hopeful thing, that he wants her to find out.’

  ‘So she’ll punish him? But she’s not his mum. He’d better shape up soon or that’ll be that. Can’t you talk to him?’

  ‘Not possible,’ Slider said firmly. ‘But if he should open the subject with me—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ll tell him he’s not Peter Pan,’ Slider concluded. ‘Good God, there’s a parking space!’

  ‘Grab it, quick,’ she said, allowing the subject to be changed.

  Later, sharing the bathroom basin for tooth-cleaning, she said, ‘I understand, really. He doesn’t want to stop chasing women because that will be the end of his merry days of youth. And he’s afraid of feeling too much for Sue because she can hurt him, where none of his casual dollies could.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s that deep?’ Slider said. ‘Maybe he just can’t help it.’

  ‘If that’s what you say about your friends, heaven help your enemies,’ she said, without heat.

  He rinsed his brush and watched the water swirling away down the plughole. He wasn’t a bit sleepy now, and as personal problems were the flavour of the moment … In for a penny, he thought. Might as well get it over with.

  ‘You wanted to have a serious talk,’ he suggested.

  She turned back in the bathroom doorway. ‘Oh that. No. Not now. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Depends on your point of view.’

  ‘What are you in the mood for?’

  ‘No more talk,’ she said. ‘Let’s just go and have some really rampant sex.’

  ‘There are no two points of view about that,’ he said, following her and putting out the light.

  During the morning one small piece of comfort in an otherwise unpleasant case arrived on his desk: the PM report on Herbie Weedon suggested that he had not actually choked to death. His neck, which Slider remembered as being about the same width as his head, had been so well-covered that the chain had dug in and restricted his breathing but had not actually stopped it altogether, and none of the delicate bones – the cricoid, hyoid etc – had been fractured. Perhaps, eventually, sufficient force would have been administered to achieve these effects but, in Freddie’s opinion, Weedon’s heart, which was in a shocking condition anyway, had given out before that happened. Why Slider should find any comfort in the fact that Weedon had died of heart failure rather than being strangled he didn’t know, but it seemed just marginally better. Not a ray of sunshine, precisely, but a small one up to them. Herbie had slipped under the net. They had not got him – he had got him.

  Swilley interrupted his thoughts. ‘Guv, have you got a minute?’

  ‘Where would I get one of those?’ Slider asked.

  Swilley took that for an invitation. ‘I think I may have something.’

  ‘Really? That was quick.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if it is anything,’ she backpedalled, ‘but, look. I didn’t find any match for a girl with the name Boston—’

  ‘I didn’t really think you would,’ Slider said.

  ‘But I got onto Everet Boston’s old school, and they put me onto his old form teacher. He remembered Everet very well. A bright lad, but always in trouble. And when Everet’s mum was unavailable – which was often, because she was apparently a bad lot – they used to have to call in his auntie, a Mrs Angela Coulsden who lived in Wrottesley Road. That’s just round the corner from Furness Road where Everet lived with his mum. So I ran the name Coulsden through the records and came up with a Mary Coulsden, who had two minor busts a couple of years ago, one for underage drinking and one for shoplifting a lipstick from Woolworths. Cautioned for both and nothing recorded against her since.’

  ‘Same address?’

  ‘No,’ Swilley said apologetically, ‘and the appropriate adult that was sent for was her dad, a Neville Coulsden. But the address was All Souls Avenue, which is only two minutes from Wrottesley Road. They could easily have moved.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And Mary was the name on his tattoo.’

  ‘Which Doc Cameron says is fairly recent.’

  ‘And,’ Swilley concluded, as one coming to the fruitiest bit last, ‘when the store dick in Woolies nobbled her, she gave a false name to begin with. She called herself Teena Brown – spelt T, double e, n, a. Only gave her real name when they got her down the nick. Which was Mary Christina Coulsden. Maybe she didn’t like the name Mary,’ she concluded, looking at him hopefully.

  ‘So if she is the same person, she might still be going under the name of Teena Brown,’ Slider said. ‘Did you—?’

  ‘Yes, I checked, but there are no busts against a Teena Brown, spelt either way. But that doesn’t mean anything. She might have been careful, or lucky—’

  ‘Or Lenny Baxter might have been doing everything for her,’ Slider concluded. ‘Well, it isn’t much, but it gives us another line to follow up. Put the word out for a tom using that name, and see if you can find the parents. They might still be at the same address—’

  ‘The father is. He’s on the current voters’ register.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No mention of Angela, though. He’s listed as living alone.’

  ‘All right. Go and see him. If it is the same, maybe the girl’s run home; or if she hasn’t, he might know where she might go to hole up. Good work, Norma. If this works out there could be a sainthood in it for you.’

  She smirked. ‘Something like a golden ha-lo?’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ Slider said.

  ‘For you, Jim,’ Hollis called across the room. ‘Line two.’

  Atherton took it. At first he thought he was getting an obscene phone call: there was nothing but heavy breathing. But when he said ‘Hello?’ again, there was an instant response.

  ‘Hello, hello, Mr Atherton? Sorry, I thought someone was coming in. It’s James Mason here – not the actor of course.’

  ‘I should hope not. Yes, Mr Mason, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I hope maybe it is what I can do for you,’ Mason said. ‘That leather jacket you brought to show me.’

  ‘Yes? You’ve had some thoughts on it?’

  ‘Better than that, I’ve seen its twin. One of my regulars came in this morning to bespeak a new suit. A very nice gentleman, and a very good customer. Appreciates fine cloth and good tailoring just as you do. I showed him that cashmere-mink cloth I showed you, and he said yes right away. Couldn’t wait. Of course, there will be enough there for two suits, if you should change your mind—’

  ‘Not at the moment, thanks. What about the leather jacket?’

  ‘Ah, well, he wasn’t wearing that himself, of course. A very good dresser, always, and never casual, not in town. Knows the value of matching the outer shell to the inner strength. We are what we wear. No, I don’t think I would ever see him in town in a leather jacket. There are places—’

  It struck Atherton that Mason was more than usually rambling, and it sounded like nerves. ‘So who was wearing it, then?’ he asked with a hint of impatience.

  ‘His driver,’ Mason said. ‘He was waiting outside with the car – there’s no parking outside my shop, as you know – and while we were in consultation he came in and said that there was a traffic warden coming, and asked my gentleman if he was ready. My gentleman said he should drive round the block and come back. That was when I noticed the jacket. It was the same quality, the same cut and style, and the lining was the same – that very fine tartan wool in the shades of brown. I couldn’t see the label, of course, because he was wearing it.’

  ‘So you don’t really know—’

  ‘One moment please, Mr Atherton. There is more. I took my gentleman into the back to consult on the style of the suit –his measurements I have already, of course;
those I did not need to take. Later the shop bell rang, and I put my head out just to see who it was. It was the driver come back. I said we would be a few moments longer, and he nodded. But he seemed to feel it warm in the shop, and he slipped the jacket off. That’s when I saw the label. It was the same.’

  ‘I see. That’s very interesting,’ Atherton said. ‘Did you say anything to either of them?’

  ‘No, indeed! For one thing, I did not know how important the jacket might be. To be making a fuss for nothing – and for another thing, I should not like to upset a very good customer by asking impertinent questions. Also—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If it is a serious matter, I should not like to do the wrong thing. Perhaps you would not like me to ask anything. So I let it go, and I pondered. And now I have rung you. Is it important?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Atherton said. ‘When I first came to you, it was a question of identifying someone—’

  ‘The dead person, yes.’

  ‘But we know who he was now. On the other hand, we still know very little about him. The jacket might be a lead. If your customer’s driver bought it from the same person, it might give us an idea of what he was up to. Do you have the driver’s name?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’ve never made for him,’ Mason said simply.

  ‘Then I had better have your customer’s name,’ Atherton said. ‘I notice you’ve been careful not to let it drop so far.’

  Mason hesitated. ‘The thing is, my dear sir, that the gentleman is a very good customer of mine, and I should not like him to think I had been talking about him behind his back.’

  ‘I’ll be tactful,’ Atherton said. ‘All I want is the name and address of his driver. He can’t object to giving me that, surely?’

  ‘Oh, no. No, no. Of course not. No, any respectable citizen must want to help the police in any way they can, and he is a very respectable citizen.’ He sounded deeply doubtful.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mason, I’ll treat him with kid gloves. What’s his name and address?’

  ‘It’s Mr Bates. Trevor Bates. And he lives in Aubrey Walk in Holland Park.’

  ‘He’s well-to-do, then.’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed.’

  ‘I’m not surprised you don’t want to upset him.’ He wrote down the full address. ‘Telephone number?’