Killing Time

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Ah, Slider – a word,’ said Wetherspoon.

  Slider obediently gave him one. ‘Sir.’

  Wetherspoon turned on Hart a smile that would have freezed the tassels off a stripper. ‘If you’d be so kind,’ he said. Men who packed his amount of fire-power did not need to specify the kindness. Slider jerked his head at Hart and she moved reluctantly away. ‘Yes, Slider,’ Wetherspoon continued when they were alone. ‘You’ve made certain enquiries about Mr Honeyman’s predecessor, in connection with a case.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Even allowing for Wetherspoon’s designer charmlessness, Slider felt there was some little hint of disapprobation in the tone.

  ‘The case is not, in fact, one of yours.’

  ‘No, sir, but—’

  ‘There are reasons,’ Wetherspoon trod over him, ‘very serious operational reasons, why your enquiries cannot be answered. In fact, your enquiries must not be pursued. Do you understand me?’

  The words yes, sir hovered obediently at Slider’s lips but he resisted them. ‘I appreciate that it may be a delicate area—’

  ‘No, I don’t think you do appreciate,’ Wetherspoon said. ‘Mr Honeyman has passed on your thoughts to me, and I don’t see that you have any evidence at all that your case and Carver’s are connected in any way. It is for Carver to decide what is or isn’t relevant to his own case. In any case, I have told him what I have just told you – that there must be no enquiries along the particular line you raised with Mr Honeyman. He understands that. Do you?’ Slider drew breath to argue and Wetherspoon leaned his head a little closer and lowered his voice threateningly. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Slider said.

  Wetherspoon straightened up. ‘Good. Now that that’s out of the way, we can concentrate on enjoying this splendid party. But you haven’t got a drink.’

  ‘I’m driving, sir.’

  ‘Ah. Very commendable,’ said Wetherspoon, almost duplicating Honeyman’s reaction. He glanced down at the glass of red in his hand. ‘Pity though – I chose the wines myself. Do you like wine?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Good. You don’t have any sort of talent I haven’t heard about, I suppose?’

  Slider had lost him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘My concert, man, my concert. Singing, dancing, conjuring? Comic monologue? Play the piano, at all?’

  ‘Not even slightly,’ Slider said.

  ‘Pity. Well, you must do your bit by selling tickets. Set a good example. I expect every officer, inspector and above, to sell at least twenty tickets. Friends, neighbours and whatnot. Get in among ’em.’ He paused on the brink of a monumental descent into the vernacular, a jocularity aimed at winning the common soldier’s heart. ‘Bums on seats, that’s the name of the game! Must make it a raging success. For the kiddies, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Slider said. Wetherspoon gave him one more deeply unfavourable look, nodded, and went away. Slider felt the side that had been nearest him begin to thaw.

  Hart reappeared. ‘Trouble, guv?’ she murmured.

  ‘No, just being told there are things it is better for a detective inspector not to know,’ Slider said. He looked across at Carver and saw Carver’s gaze quickly averted. He’d have liked to know what Carver had been saying to Wetherspoon, though – and vice versa. ‘I wonder if he was told the same thing. It didn’t look like it.’

  ‘Come again?’ said Hart.

  ‘Do you ever get the feeling that everyone else knows something you don’t?’

  ‘That’s paranoid,’ Hart said.

  ‘You’d be paranoid if everyone was plotting against you,’ Slider complained.

  A waitress thrust another tray at them, and Slider took what appeared to be a cocktail sausage on a stick, but which proved – as he discovered when he bit it – to be merely a tube full of boiling fat, which instantly glued itself to the gums behind his upper molars and inflicted third degree burns. ‘Bloody hell!’ He grabbed Hart’s glass and swilled desperately.

  ‘Not your night, guv,’ said Hart sympathetically.

  ‘Why didn’t I join the fire brigade when I had the chance?’ Slider said bitterly.

  The party ripened like a mould culture. Officers were getting drunk. The noise grew. Slider got separated from Hart. He got buttonholed by an agonisingly boring man from Hammersmith nick who seemed to know him a great deal better than he ought considering Slider couldn’t remember his name and only recollected ever having spoken to him once, and who wanted to talk to him about crime statistics. He ripped himself free at last like sticking plaster, and began to push his way slowly but purposefully through the crowds, trying to look as though he was on his way somewhere, in the hope of avoiding any more conversations. He was beginning to get a headache.

  And then suddenly Honeyman was at his side again, clutching two glasses of amber fluid. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were shiny. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I’m having a proper drink.’ He proffered one glass. ‘Join me? You weren’t serious about that not drinking because you’re driving business were you?’

  Slider hesitated. Honeyman seemed to have become almost human. ‘I didn’t fancy the wine, sir.’

  ‘Sensible man. Filthy stuff. But for God’s sake, don’t call me sir. Not here. Chance to let down the barriers for once.’ He jerked the glass at Slider, swilling the liquid dangerously up the side. ‘Whisky. Scotch, in fact. Took you for a Scotch man. Was I wrong?’

  Slider took the glass just in time. ‘I prefer a pint, sir, but I like Scotch.’

  Honeyman leaned towards him with a fascinating smile. ‘Between you and me, Wetherspoon fancies himself as a wine-buff. Hasn’t a clue! Reads the Sunday supplements, watches the TV, takes it all as gospel. And the man’s the most frightful bore about it. Never accept a dinner invitation to the Wetherspoons’,’ he warned solemnly. ‘He’s got a sign over his front door.’ Honeyman drew it in the air. ‘“Welcome. This is what death is like.”’

  Slider wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to laugh. ‘I don’t think I’m ever likely to be invited,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you are. Welsh claret,’ he added from a bitter memory all his own. ‘Afghanistan Côtes du Rhone. Nuits St Bogota. What was that advertisement? “Not a drop sold till it’s five weeks old.” Ah, this is more like. Well – cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Slider said obediently.

  Honeyman sank half his Scotch, glanced quickly round, and then looked at Slider. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what’s got into me. I suppose you’re thinking, my God the old fool’s finally flipped his lid.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking that.’

  ‘The thing is, you see, that I’m suffering from a sort of last-day-of-term – oh, what’s the word?’

  ‘Euphoria?’

  ‘That’s it. Together with a dislike of being poisoned. And being talked to like a half-witted schoolboy. This is all strictly confidential, mind,’ he added with belated caution. ‘Where’s that lovely young girl of yours? You won’t repeat anything I say?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Being talked to like that. That’s what gets my goat. I’m going to have another of these.’ He drained his glass, looked around as if wondering where the bottle was, and then turned back to Slider. ‘Talked to like an idiot schoolboy. At my own retirement party. After thirty years in the Job. It’s not on.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So I wanted to tell you, Slider, that I’m on your side. You do what you have to, and I’ll back you up. To the hilt. All the way.’ He swayed suddenly, and had to shift his feet to regain his balance. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. Slider couldn’t believe his ears. Honeyman looked at him almost gleefully. ‘Didn’t think I had it in me, did you? I know what you chaps think of me. But I tell you this – I’m a policeman, first and last. Not a politician. Not a businessman. Not a civil servant. And you are too. That’s what I like about you, Slider. You’re a good egg. D’you want that?’ He gestured abruptly towards the tumbler in Sli
der’s hand.

  ‘No, sir,’ Slider said, and gave it to him. Honeyman took a gulp.

  ‘I’d like to bring this one home before I go. This case. Sir Nigel Grisham’s involved. It’s high profile now, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ High profile now, because of Sir Nigel – but who cared about Sir Nigel’s friend, the dancer-cum-prostitute he paid for and exploited? Fame was all, fame excused all. Jay Paloma had been right.

  ‘Do it for me,’ Honeyman said, ‘and I’ll back you all the way.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘I know you will. Good man. Not many of us left. Not like that lot.’ He gestured with his eyes in the vague direction of the rest of the world. ‘Got to go. Presentation and speeches next, and then I’ve got to go and have dinner with them. Well, I won’t be leaned on. They’ll find out. I’ll sweet-talk all they like, but I won’t be leaned on.’

  And with a nod he swayed away. Slider watched him go and wondered if it was possible to be drunk just on noise, because the world wasn’t making much sense to him just then and his head was reeling, but he hadn’t touched a drop. Not even the Scotch, more was the pity.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They Eat Horses, Don’t They?

  Hart had left her car at the station, so he drove her back there. ‘Are you all right to drive home?’ he asked.

  ‘I only had two glasses,’ she said. ‘You were right. It was like urine re-cyc.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Anyway, I got to get changed, then I’m going up the canteen for a cup a coffee before I go home,’ she said. She looked at him hopefully, but his mind was elsewhere, and he merely grunted. In his office he found a message asking him to call Det Sup Smithers, giving her home number. He telephoned Joanna first.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were at the farewell party.’

  ‘I was. But I’ve come back here to do some thinking.’

  ‘Are you coming home? I was just going to have some supper. Oatcakes and cheese and a very large malt whisky. In the bath.’

  He visualised it. ‘Which one?’

  ‘We’ve only got one bath.’

  ‘Which whisky.’

  ‘The Macallan.’ But she had already guessed that he was going to say no. ‘I’ve got no clothes on,’ she added hopefully.

  ‘I was just ringing to say don’t wait up for me, I might be late,’ Slider admitted.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Just peachy,’ she said. ‘Except that I’ve been getting funny phone calls.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘I say hello, they put the phone down.’

  ‘How many? How often?’

  ‘Three this evening.’

  ‘Oh. Are you worried?’

  ‘No, not really. It’s annoying, more than anything.’

  ‘Don’t answer any more. Put the answering machine on,’ he advised.

  ‘What if you want to call me?’

  ‘You’ll hear my voice on the machine, and you can intercept.’

  ‘But I’m not sure it’s working properly.’

  ‘I thought you were going to get it fixed. Oh, never mind now. Look, put it on anyway, and if I want to phone you – it picks up on the fourth ring, so I’ll let it ring three times and stop, and then ring you again immediately.’

  ‘All right. Are you on to something? Is that why you’re staying late?’

  ‘I wish I were. Every new bit of evidence I get seems to make things foggier instead of clearer.’

  ‘It’ll come to you,’ she said. ‘Virtue brings its own reward.’

  ‘That’s a misquotation,’ he said.

  ‘Just testing.’

  He pressed the receiver rest to get a new dialling tone, and dialled Pauline’s Richmond number.

  ‘Pauline? It’s Bill.’

  ‘Oh, hi. Well, I’ve done it for you. Don’t ask me how. He’s going to ring you – but not at home and not at work. Give me your mobile number.’

  Slider told her.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll give this to him, and he’ll contact you and arrange a meet.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘He knows it’s urgent,’ Pauline said. ‘That’s all I can tell you. He’s got to watch his back. Leave it to him. And – Bill? Be careful.’

  ‘I always am.’

  ‘No you’re not. I heard about that attack on you, and your sergeant – what’s his name?’

  ‘Atherton.’

  ‘That one. It’s a dangerous game now. That’s why our friend agreed to contact you. He wants to keep you out of it, to save his own skin.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ Slider repeated. ‘Pauline, thanks for doing this for me. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘All part of the service. D’you know why I never got married?’

  ‘No,’ Slider said, puzzled.

  ‘I didn’t think you did. When you’ve got this case out of the way, I’ll hold you to that meal. But I warn you, it’ll be a credit-card job.’

  ‘Nothing’s too good for you,’ Slider said.

  Almost immediately he put the phone down it rang again. He answered it and was greeted by silence. He thought for a moment it was one of Joanna’s ‘funny phone calls’, but after a moment Irene said, ‘It’s me.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Why should anything be the matter?’

  ‘I know all your tones of voice. What’s the matter?’

  She seemed to have difficulty voicing it. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you all evening,’ she said at last.

  ‘Well I’ve only been here about a quarter of an hour. I was at Honeyman’s farewell bash.’

  ‘I don’t mean there. I was trying to ring you at home.’

  He prickled with advance warning of a storm. ‘Where?’

  ‘Where you live, of course,’ she said shortly. ‘Sergeant Paxman gave me your home number.’

  ‘Oh, did he?’

  ‘I told him it was urgent. Anyway, why shouldn’t he?’ Irene said sharply. ‘He knows I’m your wife. Is it supposed to be a secret?’ Slider couldn’t answer that. ‘So I rang there, and a woman answered.’

  ‘And you hung up, of course. That explains it. She thought you were a heavy breather.’

  ‘Who is she?’ The question was both naked and urgent. Slider dithered over what was best to do or say, what would hurt all involved the least.

  ‘No-one you know,’ he said at last.

  ‘She didn’t sound like a landlady.’

  ‘You can tell that from “Hello”?’

  ‘Bill, don’t torment me,’ Irene said. ‘You’re living with someone, aren’t you?’

  ‘I should have thought that was self-evident.’

  ‘You know what I mean. You’ve got another – you’ve got a woman.’

  No way out of it. ‘If you must put it that way – yes.’

  ‘It’s that black girl, isn’t it? That’s why you took her to see the house. You’re going to move in there with her.’

  ‘Irene, for God’s sake! I told you WDC Hart is one of my firm, a loaner until Atherton’s on his feet again. I’d just gone to see the house was all right, that’s all, and she happened to be with me.’

  ‘You don’t have to lie to me,’ Irene said pathetically. ‘Why shouldn’t you have another woman? It’s only natural. You’re an attractive man. I couldn’t expect you to be a monk for the rest of your life. I just wish you’d had the courage to tell me, and not make me find out that way.’

  ‘Why do I feel I’ve strayed into a Celia Johnson movie? Watch my lips: I am not having an affair with Hart!’

  ‘Well it looked like it, from what I saw. And you said you’re living with someone.’

  ‘You’re the one who can tell everything from one word on the phone. Couldn’t you tell that wasn’t Hart?’

  Irene made one of those extraordinary and devastating leaps of
logic that women seemed to be capable of when sniffing out infidelity. ‘Oh my God,’ she said with the horror of absolute conviction in her voice, ‘it’s that woman at the pub, isn’t it? When I had lunch with you. The one who came in, and you said she was Atherton’s friend.’

  ‘She is Atherton’s friend.’

  ‘Yes, and the rest. I knew she wasn’t his type. My God! No wonder you seemed so put out when she turned up. I thought it was because you were ashamed of being seen with me.’

  ‘Oh Irene—!’

  ‘But why did you have to lie about her? You could have told me. I’ve got no right to complain, after all.’

  ‘You were in the middle of telling me that Matthew wanted to go home. I thought—’ That was a sentence too delicate to finish.

  ‘Well, obviously,’ she said bravely, ‘there’s no question of that now. I’m sorry I embarrassed you by mentioning it. I had thought that maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe we might be able to get back together – for the children’s sake if nothing else – but obviously it’s too late for that now.’ She drew a slightly quivering breath. ‘If only I’d spoken earlier, maybe it would have been different. But I suppose you couldn’t have forgiven me even then. I’ve made a mess of everything, haven’t I?’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he began, but she interrupted him.

  ‘It is. I never knew when I was well off, that’s what it was. And I suppose I didn’t really think, when I walked out, that it was an irrevocable step. It was a sort of cry for attention, really, I suppose. I was just trying to make you notice me. I never thought properly about the consequences.’

  ‘Oh, Irene,’ he said helplessly.

  ‘It’s all right, I know, I’ve made my own bed and all that. Do you love her?’