Body Line

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Slider’s unhappy look said he knew that.

  Atherton felt compelled to rescue his boss. ‘Except that he was murdered, sir,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Porson allowed graciously, ‘except for that.’

  Joanna came down to the kitchen early on Monday morning with George in her arms. A thin sunshine was mucking about with the stainless steel pots on the high shelf by the stove, and her missing husband was standing staring at nothing while the kettle emptied itself in steam over the ceiling.

  ‘We need to get an electric one,’ she said, reaching over and turning off the gas.

  ‘Uh?’ Slider said, jerking back to reality.

  ‘Blue!’ said George, holding out his arms with a beam of delight. It was a great thing in any life, Slider thought, accepting the surprisingly solid bulk into his own arms, to have someone who was always so unequivocally glad to see you. He looked at Joanna. ‘I’m sorry I woke you up. I tried to get out of bed carefully.’

  ‘I know you did. But I always know when you’ve gone. You having tea?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Peas,’ George said. He took a good grip on Slider’s ear so he could lean over his shoulder and watch his mother getting out mugs and tea bags. ‘More!’ he said urgently, pointing with his other hand, moist pink forefinger energetically poking from the dimpled fist. He had recently discovered the joys of pointing and did it assiduously.

  Joanna held up his feeder cup. ‘Do you want some milk, George?’

  ‘Mum-mum-mum-mum-mum,’ George said.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ She set about the twin tasks of tea and milk and said gently to her spouse, ‘Didn’t sleep well?’

  ‘Not much. Sorry. Was I restless? I tried to keep still.’

  ‘I could feel you trying. The case, is it?’

  ‘Yes. There are things I can’t quite get to grips with.’

  ‘You will, Oscar,’ Joanna said with calm certainty. ‘You look tired, though. Why don’t you go back to bed for a bit? Maybe you’ll sleep.’

  Slider smiled. ‘Not a chance. My brain’s spinning like a teetotal, as Porson would say. I might as well use it to good purpose and go in early. If I read back over all the notes something might click.’

  Joanna tested a spot of milk on her hand, licked it off and held out the cup to George, who became urgent with morning hunger.

  ‘Orbal! Blue! Ahmah!’ he cried.

  ‘This child has a remarkable vocabulary,’ Slider remarked.

  ‘Thank you,’ Joanna said as she relinquished the cup – no harm in trying early for manners.

  ‘Fank,’ George said, beamed at his accomplishment, and rammed the spout into his mouth, sucking greedily.

  ‘Did he just say thanks?’ Slider asked, turning to look at Joanna.

  ‘He does copy sounds,’ she said. ‘He said “door” the other day. And “ball”.’

  ‘Stone me, the child’s a genius.’ Slider gaped. ‘He’s barely more than a year old!’

  ‘He’s sixteen months,’ Joanna said, amused. ‘And that’s what children of that age do. You just don’t remember. Here’s your tea. Give him to me while you drink it.’

  He passed George over, started sipping his tea, and noted that Joanna, having hitched the baby on to her left side, was not only drinking her own tea, but was actually starting to make toast as well. So, she could do other things while holding a baby, but a poor imbecile man couldn’t, was that it?

  ‘Do you want a boiled egg?’ she asked.

  ‘I take it back. It’s not the child that’s a genius, it’s you,’ Slider said. ‘The domestic octopus. If I could patent you I’d make a fortune.’

  ‘One egg or two?’ she asked, turning her head with a smile that melted his loins.

  ‘Voluptuous siren,’ Slider said. And to George, ‘Let’s hear you repeat that, boy.’

  George unplugged himself from the cup, fixed his father with his blue gaze and said, ‘Boy!’

  ‘Close enough for jazz,’ said Slider.

  Connolly, first in, poked her head round Slider’s door and said, ‘Oh. I thought I heard someone. Morning, boss.’

  ‘Must be telepathy,’ he said.

  ‘Is that right? What?’

  ‘It was you I wanted,’ Slider said. ‘I have a job for you, but I don’t know how you’ll do it.’ He explained. ‘I thought of you because you’re good at getting people to talk to you.’

  She nodded, her eyes far away. ‘I think I can see me way. Don’t worry, boss. It’ll be grand.’

  ‘And of course – as quickly as possible,’ he added.

  Angela Fraser was what Swilley described to herself as ‘wired’ – tense, excited, but elated with it. She met her in Café Rouge, sufficiently far down the parade from the office to avoid being spotted if Amanda should happen to come back.

  ‘She’s been in a filthy mood since your blokes came in,’ Angela confided, sitting beside Swilley on a banquette, at the back of the restaurant and facing the door. It was part of her new persona as a secret agent: she reckoned she could see anyone coming in before they saw her, and nip into the ladies, which was back here, if necessary. ‘Snapping at everyone, complaining about the coffee. Can’t get anything right for her. She sent back a letter because there was the tiniest little crease in the paper. She even bitched about one of the clients, and they’re like gods to her, normally.’

  ‘Has she given you any idea why she’s in a bad mood?’ Swilley asked.

  ‘I’d have said it was grief over David dying if she was anyone else, but I don’t think that woman’s got a heart. I think she’s worried, but I don’t know what about. Unless—’ The wide open eyes searched Norma’s face. ‘You think she had something to do with it, don’t you? The murder.’

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ Swilley said blandly. ‘I just do as I’m told, and leave the thinking to my boss. He’s good at it.’

  ‘I liked him,’ Angela said, settling down. ‘He reminded me of this teacher I had at school, Mr Maltby. Maths. He was nice. I was rubbish at maths, but he always made you feel you could do stuff, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Swilley said. ‘So what have you found out?’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of stuff in Amanda’s room, and she leaves it all locked up when she goes out.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never known an office where so much is locked away. I mean, salaries, yes, and staff files, but not anything else. What could she have to keep secret? We all know all the clients and their backgrounds. But I did get to look at the accounts. Some of it’s in books that Nora keeps, and there’s a lot more on her computer. It’s security locked, but I know her access code.’

  Norma was amused. ‘How come?’

  ‘She’s a dipstick,’ Angela said simply. ‘She wrote it on a sticky label and stuck it on the side of her top right-hand drawer. Thinks no one’ll ever find it there, but I’ve seen her checking it before she logs on. Anyway, I found out the main things you wanted to know. The first thing is that we don’t get a government grant, which really surprised me. I’d have thought that’d be the first thing Amanda would go for, because the government’s dead keen on getting disabled people back to work.’

  ‘So where does the income come from?’

  ‘Well, the companies pay a fee. The big ones have to employ so many disabled by law, so they pay us a retainer to find the right person whenever they need one, and the smaller companies pay on a case by case basis. And then there are donations. I guess that’s what Amanda spends her time doing. It’s mostly from private individuals, and one or two companies – manufacturers of mobility equipment and disability aids mostly – but the biggest donor is the Windhover Trust.’

  Swilley looked enquiring. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, to see if Fraser knew.

  ‘Oh, they’ve been paying us a monthly donation since the beginning,’ Angela said. ‘It’s a medical charity. I asked Nora about it once. Medical research and support, she said. I think they’re something to do with one
of the drugs companies,’ she concluded vaguely.

  ‘What would they get out of it – making such a big donation to you, I mean?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s good for their image,’ Angela hazarded. ‘And don’t they get tax relief or something? I think Nora said companies get their tax reduced for charity donations. And maybe Amanda collects data for them, or sends them customers. I don’t know. That sort of thing would be what’s in her private files, I suppose. Anyway, the Windhover’s a big supporter – we could about survive on what they pay us alone. Oh, and I asked Nora about setting up the agency in the first place, like you asked me, and she said that was Windhover as well – gave Amanda a big lump sum to get the office building adapted and get the whole thing going.’

  ‘They sound like the good guys,’ Swilley said.

  ‘Well, I guess they are. It’s nice when you hear all the stories about these big multinational drugs companies, to know there’s one that’s doing something good, giving something back.’

  ‘I expect lots of them do,’ Swilley said. ‘I expect a lot of these stories are exaggerated.’

  Angela looked pleased at the idea of the world being a nicer place. ‘Yeah, I bet you’re right.’

  ‘So that’s the income,’ Swilley prompted. ‘What about the outgoings?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, you wanted to know about salaries. Well, Nora gets £1650 a month – gross – which surprised me a bit because it’s not that much more than me. I get £1350.’

  Around twenty thousand and sixteen thousand respectively, Norma thought after a quick calculation. ‘Is that about average?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t say about Nora – I mean, she’s supposed to be an owner, isn’t she? But mine is a bit above average. When you work for a charity you don’t expect high wages.’

  ‘And what about Amanda?’

  ‘There wasn’t anything about her getting a salary, either in the books or on the system – I suppose she’d be bound to keep that private. But in the bank account I did find a regular transfer to another account of ten thousand every month.’ She screwed up her brow. ‘But that couldn’t be her salary, could it? I mean, that would be a hundred and twenty thousand a year. She wouldn’t take that much, when it was a charity, would she? Only, I can’t think what else it could be, because it’s too big to be utilities or rates or anything, and if it was office supplies or something like that it’d be paid when the invoices came in, not monthly.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Norma said. ‘I wonder if it could be paying off a loan of some sort?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never heard of any loan – and a loan for what, anyway? Apart from the office and office supplies, we don’t use anything else.’ She shrugged the problem away, being essentially uninterested in it. ‘Anyway, I made a note of the bank account number in case you wanted it. I suppose you’d be able to find out whose it was, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Swilley. ‘If it was important.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘You’ve done very well.’

  The last of the elation faded from Angela’s face, and she slumped. ‘Doesn’t make any difference, though, does it? It doesn’t bring David back.’ Her lip trembled and she put her hand over it and pressed for a moment. When she removed it, a certain steeliness had come with further thoughts. ‘If she did have anything to do with it, I hope you get her! It makes me sick to think of her being all pious and smug and all the time she’s done something like that.’

  ‘Well, we don’t know she’s done anything,’ Swilley said quickly. ‘And you mustn’t let her think you suspect her, whatever you do.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t,’ Angela said easily. ‘I can be as two-faced as the next person.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Butcher’s Dog

  Porson actually came to Slider’s office rather than summoning him, proof of excitement. Because he was The Syrup, it wouldn’t be revealed any other way. Except that – wasn’t there something of a shine to the old boy’s bumpy pate, and a sparkle lurking under the overhanging eyebrows?

  ‘Well, someone took his finger out, wonders will never cease,’ he said in his normal grumbling tone. ‘Got some corporation for once in a blue moon, from the Excise opposite number, bloke called –’ he inspected the paper in his hand – ‘Wouter Zollars. Bloody Nora, what a name! Still, what wouldn’t we give for more of his sort?’

  ‘For a few Zollars more,’ Slider said. He just couldn’t help himself.

  Fortunately Porson didn’t notice. ‘Right! None of that “them and us” bollocks from him,’ he said. He was staring again at the paper. ‘Blimey, I don’t fancy standing up in a meeting and having to pronounce this lot. I’m not even going to try for you. You can have the phonetic version. I’m not the United Nations. Anyway, this Zollars knows the Havik boat all right. It’s moored in the IJmuiden marina, like your man thought, and it’s on their “to watch” list. It’s registered to a Jaap Boeckman, but they reckon that’s a pseudonym for a bloke called Jaheem Bodeker. You’d wonder why he’d bother changing,’ he added in hurt tones.

  ‘And Bodeker’s someone they know?’

  ‘You might say. He’s a bit tasty. Up to all sorts of naughtiness as a lad, graduated into the diamond trade in his twenties, courier, got caught and ended up inside. Come out about ten years ago. Hasn’t been in any trouble since, but he’s one of those villains, you know in your gut they’ll never change. You can’t teach an old leopard new tricks. They’ve been watching him ever since, haven’t caught him out, but friend Zollars’d bet his pension he’s up to something. He goes down to the marina every Wednesday, supposed to be going out night fishing, but when we told Zollars about the meeting with the Windhover he come over all unnecessary and had to sit down in a darkened room for ten minutes.’

  Slider reminded Porson of his own caveat. ‘We only know about one meeting.’

  ‘Both going out night fishing, the same night, regular?’ Porson said. ‘One’s a known courier, the other comes ashore with a box o’ something no one ever gets a look at? Work it out, laddie. It’s not rocket salad.’

  ‘I wonder what they did this last Wednesday, with Rogers dead,’ Slider mused.

  ‘They must’ve thought about that before they offed him,’ Porson said, ‘because Bodeker – thank Christ I can say that one – went down as usual. Dutch police want him very bad. They’re going to set up a big multi-agency operation and take him on the next run, let him get right to the boat with the goods on him and grab him.’

  Slider looked aghast. ‘But if they do that we’ll lose our end of it. They’ll close it down and we’ll never be able to catch the rest of them.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Porson barked. ‘That part of it is out of our hands now. The big boys have taken our ball and we can’t play.’

  ‘We’ve got two murders on our books.’

  ‘You’ve got the hand print off the motor.’

  ‘But no one to match it against. And even if we could get the murderer, there’s little hope he’d give up his boss – the top man.’ Slider fiddled unhappily with his pen. ‘There are still lots of things I want to know. I’ve got ongoing investigations—’

  ‘I know that,’ Porson said, slightly more sympathetically, ‘and there’s no reason you can’t go on trying to tie up loose ends, as long as you don’t frighten the horses. Because if anything we do spooks the gang and the operation goes wrong, it’ll be all our bollocks on a platter. I don’t like this set-up any more than you, but we’ve got Europol and the Excise boys and God knows who else getting involved now, and that lot’s too rich for our blood. We’re not even second division. We’re Noddy and Big Ears. Just remember that.’ He headed for the door, but turned when he reached it to say from beneath seriously-levelled brows, ‘If you do anything that throws a spaniel in the works, I’m not going to bat for you, not this time. I mean it. You listening to me?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Slider.

  When Porson had gone he lapsed into thought again.

  Wonder who played Rogers�
�s part on Wednesday/Thursday? Couldn’t have used Windhover or that old boy in the harbour would have said so: you can bet he and a few others were watching her once they heard about Rogers being murdered. A different boat, a different harbour. Must have been another small inlet – too much scrutiny at the bigger harbours.

  He twiddled his pen. If I’m right, speed is of the essence. He swivelled his chair and stared out of the dusty window at the blank sky. Speed is of the essence. And always the same day of the week.

  Norma came in and made her report, and was disappointed that her boss seemed so distracted, he wasn’t even moved by the revelation that Windhover was behind the agency. She eyed him curiously. ‘You knew that already, didn’t you?’

  Slider roused himself. ‘No. No, I didn’t. But I’m not surprised. I know she’s involved somehow, I just haven’t figured out how yet. You’ve got that bank account number? Right, get on to the bank and get them to tell you whose name it’s in.’

  She nodded. ‘Are we going after her?’

  ‘Not now. Not yet. There are other things going on. We have to be careful. And I don’t know yet—’

  She waited but he didn’t finish the sentence. ‘You look tired, boss,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Didn’t sleep much last night.’

  ‘Have you had lunch?’

  He looked at the clock in surprise. ‘Is it that time?’

  ‘Want me to get you a sandwich?

  He roused himself. ‘No, thanks, I’ll go up to the canteen. I need a change of scene.’ Maybe it would create a change of thinking.

  Connolly found him there, toying with a portion of moussaka. He looked up at her resentfully.

  ‘Aubergines,’ he said. ‘I mean, what’s that all about? It’s not a shepherd’s pie and it’s not a lasagne.’

  ‘It’s an abomination,’ she said, to humour him.

  ‘And look at this salad. It’s all frisée.’

  ‘I hate that yoke. You’d cut your mouth on it. And it tastes like shit.’