Killing Time

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘What time was that?’ Slider put in.

  ‘I left it until the afternoon, because he doesn’t usually get up until about half past twelve. I telephoned at about half past one, but there was no answer. I was busy then for some time and couldn’t get to a telephone, but I called again at about half past four, and again at six, but there was still no answer. After that I couldn’t ring again because I had to go to the House – there was an all night sitting – but in any case I knew there’d be no point, because he leaves for work at about half past six.’

  ‘Didn’t he usually put the answering-machine on when he went out?’

  ‘Yes. I did wonder about that. But he might have guessed I would ring, and didn’t want me to be able to leave him a message.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slider thoughtfully.

  ‘And then the next day I saw it in the paper—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slider again.

  Grisham looked at him greyly. ‘Can you tell me what happened? There were no details in the papers. I keep thinking – wondering—’

  ‘We’re still trying to find out exactly what happened,’ Slider said. ‘Jonah Lafota apparently went to the flat on Tuesday night, kicked the door in, and killed Jay Paloma with a single blow from some heavy instrument. There doesn’t appear to have been any struggle, so it must have been quick. I doubt whether Jay had time to realise what was happening.’

  ‘He killed him,’ Grisham whispered.

  ‘We have Lafota’s fingerprints inside the flat, and we have a witness who saw the door being kicked down by him at half past eleven on Tuesday evening—’

  Grisham sharpened. ‘But he should have been at work at that time. Why wasn’t he at work?’

  ‘We don’t know. I’m afraid there’s a great deal we don’t know yet.’

  ‘But he’s dead,’ Grisham said. ‘Jay is dead. That’s the bottom line.’ He rubbed his face with his hands, looking desperately tired now. ‘What’s going to happen to me, Inspector? Am I going to be arrested for murder? I never meant him to be hurt, I swear it. Will that make any difference? Mitigation, or whatever it’s called. I loved him. I never meant him to be hurt.’

  ‘It will be taken into consideration,’ Slider said circumspectly. ‘And the fact that you have co-operated with us, and haven’t tried to hide anything, will tell in your favour.’

  ‘Co-operated,’ Sir Nigel said blankly. He shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve been the most God-awful fool. And I’m responsible for Jay’s death – I can’t get away from that. I almost wish we hadn’t abolished hanging. I ought to pay the penalty. It would be a relief, in a way.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I loved him so much.’

  Slider could only take so much. ‘I don’t think it would be a relief to your wife and family to see you hanged.’

  Grisham snapped out of it, though it was the frayed snap of very elderly celery. ‘You’re right. I must think of Annie and the children. I suppose there’s no way of keeping any of this quiet? I don’t want to escape my punishment, but the scandal would be a punishment to them, too, and they don’t deserve it.’

  You should have thought of that a long time ago, Slider thought, but not being one to kick a man when he was down, he didn’t say it. ‘That’s not in my hands,’ he said instead.

  ‘Are you going to take me away?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. You aren’t intending to run away, are you? What I’d like you to do is to make a full statement of everything you’ve just told us, with some extra details about times and dates that I’ll ask you about. Then we’ll leave you alone for the time being. Later it will be necessary to interview you again, perhaps here, perhaps at a police station, and the question of charges will arise. Your fullest co-operation will be in your best interests; and I’m sure I don’t need to advise you not to talk to anyone about any of this.’

  ‘No,’ Grisham said. ‘You can be sure I’ll keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘Now I expect you’d like to have your solicitor present while you make your statement, wouldn’t you?’

  Grisham gave a faint smile. ‘I imagine Roger’s already on his way here. Roger Tagholm is my solicitor. Annie wanted me to call him when you first arrived, and I don’t know my Annie if she didn’t call him as soon as the library door closed behind us.’

  Slider found Joanna by Atherton’s bedside. Their heads were close together in absorbed conversation, but first Atherton looked up, and then Joanna turned her head and saw him, and they both smiled. ‘It’s the man himself,’ Joanna said.

  ‘Shall I leave?’ Slider asked plaintively. ‘You looked so cosy when I came in, I wouldn’t want to be in the way.’

  ‘We were just talking.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Jim has this theory that everyone in the world is a character out of Winnie the Pooh.’

  ‘What I said,’ Atherton corrected her, ‘was that the characters in said book are such archetypes that you can categorise all the people you know by them.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Joanna objected. ‘And we were just arguing about which character he was.’

  ‘I’m Christopher Robin,’ Atherton said quickly. ‘The wise outsider, the adjudicator who takes no part but sees all; the Great Narrator.’

  ‘Also known as God,’ Joanna said sarcastically. ‘Whereas I said—’

  ‘He’s Piglet,’ Slider said.

  She looked delighted. ‘Yes! You see it too!’

  ‘I shall sulk,’ Atherton said. ‘I won’t be Piglet. Joanna’s Rabbit, of course—’

  ‘You swine!’

  ‘But you, Bill,’ he went on solemnly, ‘are hard to define.’

  ‘He’s Pooh Bear, living under the name of Slider,’ Joanna said.

  ‘But with just a touch of Eeyore, do you think?’

  ‘Is this the best you can manage by way of intellectual exchange?’ Slider asked.

  ‘From where I’m lying, it’s a Socratean Dialogue,’ Atherton said. ‘Do you know what the absolute worst thing about being in hospital is?’

  ‘I’m sure you’d like to tell me.’

  ‘It’s the relentless baby-talk. At some point in history all the medical staff jointly decided that they could cope with the revoltingness of sick people if they treated them like subnormal seven-year-olds. “We’re just going to pop you down to X-ray and take some pictures of your tummy.”’ He made a sound of disgust. ‘They all do it. It’s always “just”: we’re just going to do this or that – we’re just going to cut your leg off – as if that makes it better. And “pop”. Everything’s “pop”.’

  ‘Pop?’ Slider enquired mildly.

  ‘Pop you down to theatre. Pop you into bed. Pop this thermometer in your mouth.’ He assumed a whining falsetto. ‘“Would you just like to pop yourself over onto this trolley for me?” No I bloody would not!’

  ‘You’re feeling better,’ Slider concluded. ‘Your word-sensitivity’s returned.’

  ‘It never went away,’ Atherton said. ‘I just hadn’t got the energy to talk about it. How’s the case coming along?’

  Slider frowned. ‘I’ve got a whole lot of new information.’

  ‘You don’t seem too happy about it.’

  ‘Because it doesn’t make sense,’ Slider said resentfully. He told them about Grisham. ‘It looks like another couple of loose ends tied up, but it just makes things worse.’

  ‘But you’ve got this Jonah bloke already, haven’t you?’ Joanna said. ‘You thought he did it, and now Grisham says he paid him to do it. What’s the problem?’

  ‘As Grisham himself said to me, why should Jonah do it?’ Slider said. ‘Look, a man comes up to you in a club and shoves a wad of banknotes in your hand and asks you to go round and frighten a friend of his – why would you do it?’

  ‘For the money,’ Joanna said.

  ‘A couple of hundred?’ Slider shook his head. ‘Not worth the risk, especially if you’re working for Billy Yates. Besides, you’ve already got the money. The man�
��s tired and emotional, and you’re four times the size of him. If you want the cash, you’ve got it. You don’t have to do anything for it. It’s very unlikely the bloke will ever come back asking for it, and if he does, you’ve only got to smile menacingly and say you don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no money. What’s Grisham going to do?’

  ‘You’re assuming Jonah’s bright enough to think of all that,’ Joanna said. ‘What if he’s really, really dim, and just does what he’s told?’

  ‘If he’s merely obedient, why kill Paloma? That’s just crazy.’

  ‘He could have been drunk. Or lost his temper,’ Joanna said.

  ‘Or just over-enthusiastic,’ Atherton said. ‘You said he’s huge – maybe he doesn’t know his own strength.’

  ‘Or maybe he’d always hated Paloma and was glad of the excuse,’ Joanna added.

  ‘And another thing,’ Slider went on, ‘where do the poison pen letters come in?’

  ‘Maybe they never existed. You never saw any. Maybe Paloma just made them up.’

  ‘But he was afraid of something,’ said Slider. ‘Maybe there weren’t any poison pen letters, but he was afraid of something.’

  ‘Maybe this, maybe that,’ Atherton said sleepily. ‘Anything’s possible. Maybe Jonah didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Slider. ‘You said you were going to solve this case for me from your bed.’

  ‘I can’t make bricks without straw. Bring me more facts.’

  ‘Facts,’ Slider said crossly. ‘What are facts? You think you know something, and then you turn it round another way and it means something entirely different.’

  ‘Nothing is what it seems, and reality is up for grabs,’ Atherton said sympathetically.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Joanna said, ‘did I ever tell you my favourite Bob Preston story?’

  ‘You have so many,’ Slider said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘But this is a true story. You know Bob Preston, who used to be our co-principal trumpet? Right, well, Bob studied composition at university, and for his finals he had to write an original piece of music which would be marked by his professor. His professor was—’ She named a famous English composer. ‘He was so brilliant he scared the shit out of Bob, though he admired him tremendously. Anyway, when it came to it, Bob couldn’t write a note, hadn’t an original thought in his head. Complete blank. He was in despair, because everything depended on this composition. Then a street-wise friend gave him a tip. “Take a piece of your professor’s own music,” the friend said, “turn it upside down and write it out in your own handwriting. Your prof won’t recognise it, but it’ll fit his brain patterns well enough for him to think it’s good. He’ll love it, he’ll give you top marks.” Bob thought this was a brilliant idea, so he got hold of a Fantasia which he happened to know his prof was particularly proud of. He turned it upside down and wrote it out – and discovered that what he had was the first movement of a Sibelius symphony.’

  Atherton shouted with pleasure.

  ‘I never know whether to believe your stories,’ Slider complained.

  Joanna smiled seraphically. ‘Everything I tell you is either true, or bloody well ought to be.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Quinbus Flestrin

  Slider faced David Stevens in the corridor outside the tape room.

  ‘Look, Dave, you’ve got to get him to come across. It’s not doing him any good, this refusing to say anything.’

  Stevens shrugged his bouncy shoulders. ‘I can only take my client’s instruction. If he doesn’t want to talk—’

  ‘Have you explained to him about the change in the law over the right to remain silent?’

  ‘Who d’you think you’re talking to here? Of course I have.’

  Slider struck off points on his fingers. ‘We’ve got the footmark on the door, fingermarks inside the flat, an eyewitness who saw him kicking the door down. And now we’ve got Sir Nigel Grisham’s statement that he paid Lafota money to put the frighteners on Paloma. There’s no doubt we’ll get custody extended.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Stevens easily.

  Slider blinked. ‘I’ve got enough to charge him.’

  Stevens smiled. ‘So charge him.’ He was eyeing Slider closely. ‘Charge him,’ he said again.

  ‘I want him to tell me what happened!’ Slider burst out in frustration. ‘Grisham only asked him to frighten Paloma. Why did he kill him? Was it an accident? Why did he wait until the next evening? How did he know Paloma was at home? Keeping silent now is pointless – can’t you make him see that?’

  Stevens grinned his predator’s grin. ‘Ah Bill, Bill, the great poker face! You’ve got doubts, haven’t you?’

  ‘Don’t get clever with me. I just told you that.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘If there’s anything he’s got to say in mitigation, he’s weakening his position by not telling me now. You know that. Make him understand it.’

  Stevens laid a hand on Slider’s shoulder. His shirt was crisp, his suit unwrinkled, his aftershave a poem; and his eyes twinkled with that whole-hearted enjoyment of life only solicitors can afford. ‘I will do my best, old son,’ he pledged. ‘Angels can’t do more.’

  Jonah, seedy, rumpled and smelling of sweat, lit another cigarette and coughed through the first drag. His eyes were bloodshot from smoke and lack of sleep. He glared at Slider defiantly across the table.

  ‘I didn’t do it, right?’

  ‘You didn’t do what?’ Slider asked.

  ‘I didn’t kill Jay.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘I dunno. How should I know?’ All I know, ’e was dead when I got there, right?’

  ‘That’s not very original. If I had a fiver for every time someone’s told me that—’

  ‘Itsa trufe!’ Now Jonah sounded frightened. His voice cracked a little. ‘I never done niffing to him. He was dead when I got there.’

  ‘All right, tell me about it,’ Slider said.

  Jonah was no orator even when he wanted to speak. It was like pull-out toffee, getting his story, but assembled it amounted to this: he had driven from his flat to White City, timing it to arrive at about twenty past eleven when the pubs were turning out, so that he wouldn’t be noticed. He went up to Paloma’s flat, kicked the door in with one mighty blow of his right foot, went straight to the sitting-room, from which he could hear the sound of the television. Paloma was sprawled dead on the floor with his overturned chair.

  ‘How did you know he was dead?’

  ‘Aw, come on, man!’ was Jonah’s reply to that.

  ‘Did you go right up to him and look?’

  ‘Nah, I could see from the door he was dead all right.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nuffing. I never done niffing. I just got out, right? It wasn’t no business of mine.’

  ‘Hmm. But you see, the people next door who heard you kick the door in also heard you knock over something heavy. They heard a thud, as if something heavy had hit the floor. Now what was that, I wonder, if it wasn’t Jay Paloma?’

  ‘I never touched him! I tell you I never touched niffing!’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  Jonah stared at him, eyes wide, his mouth open to repeat his panicky denial. But Stevens beside him stirred like the first faint dawn breeze ruffling the willows, and Jonah’s mouth remained open and silent as he tried to capture the thread which had been spun for him.

  ‘The bottle!’ he cried at last. He might as well have pronounced it eureka. ‘I was shakin’, man, an’ I needed a drink, so I grabbed the bottle. The whisky bottle on the table.’

  ‘So you did go into the room, then? Just now you told me you stayed by the door.’

  ‘Look, I just went to look at ’im, right? Like anyone would. I never touched ’im. And I was so shook up, like I said, I grabbed the bottle and took a drink, and when I turned round to put it back, I knocked the table over.’

  ‘You knocked the table over?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Lafota seemed to feel relief at having
reached sure ground. He looked at Stevens for approval. ‘That’s what these people must of heard, right? An’ everyfing went on the floor. So I picked it up and put it back, and then I took off.’

  ‘Why did you pick everything up?’ Slider asked.

  ‘I dunno,’ Lafota said, floored by the question.

  But in Slider’s mind the scenario played true. What could be simpler for a man-mountain in a normal-sized sitting-room than to knock the table over? He might have done it at any point while he was whacking Paloma; or it might actually have happened as he said, when, shaky from the killing, he had fortified himself with a drink. It had the sappy ring of truth about it, that bit. The killing he had planned and visualised, but the mess as the table went over, spilling magazines, whisky and the contents of the ashtray on the floor, was something unexpected, and it threw him. In his panic, wanting to leave things as he had found them, wanting to leave no trace of his having been there – other, of course, than the dead body – the big lug had tidied up after himself, put the table back, rubbed the ash into the carpet so that no-one would notice it, entirely forgetting that he had left his dabs all over the whisky bottle. It was the sort of stupid thing a person would do, when they were not accustomed to thinking things out, and found themselves in an unexpected and frightening situation.

  ‘So why did you kill him?’ Slider asked at last, conversationally.

  ‘I never,’ Jonah said stubbornly. ‘I told you. He was already dead when I got there.’

  ‘All right, then what did you go to the flat for in the first place?’ No answer. ‘Why did you go to the flat and kick the door down?’ No answer. ‘Did you do it for the money?’

  Jonah looked contemptuous. ‘You call that money? I wouldn’t spit on a beggar for that.’ Stevens stirred, and Jonah glanced at him anxiously, and then said, ‘I never killed him. He was dead when I got there.’

  ‘But then why did you go there?’