Hard Going

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Mr Kroll took an entirely different approach. He listened in his customary silence as they laid the damning evidence in front of him, and some thinking seemed to be going on behind those buckled brows. Then he unlatched his lips for the first time since they brought him in, and said, ‘I don’t care. Charge me if you like. There’s nothing you can do to me.’

  ‘How does life imprisonment sound to you?’ Atherton asked genially.

  ‘I’m safer in here than out there,’ Kroll said. ‘You can do what you like.’

  Slider quelled Atherton with a minute glance, and stared at Kroll in silence for a long time, long enough for him to begin to fidget a little. Then he said quietly, ‘If you go down, your wife goes down too, have you thought of that?’

  Kroll looked alarmed for the first time. ‘You leave her out of it. She knows nothing.’

  ‘No jury is going to believe that. To begin with, she had the key.’

  Since Bygod was at home and probably let the murderer in, this meant little, but Slider was hoping to provoke Kroll into making some comment on the observation that would incriminate him. But Kroll only clenched his considerable jaw and said, ‘You leave her alone! She’s got nothing to do with it. Keep away from her or I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll what? You’ll kill me?’ Slider enquired politely. Kroll’s meaty fists were clenched on the table. Slowly they unwound. Slider said, ‘You have the right to have a solicitor to represent you, as you’ve been advised more than once. I think you should have one now.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone,’ Kroll said, staring at the table, and his tone sounded bitter. ‘I won’t have one.’

  ‘Get him someone,’ Porson said. ‘I can smell a complaint coming down the track, and I don’t want some human rights lawyer stinking up the case. Get him someone good.’

  ‘David Stevens,’ Slider suggested. Stevens was a sleek otter of a man with shiny brown eyes, and suits that made even Atherton whimper. He was so successful, you’d think the firm of Lucifer and Faust had a contract on file with his name signed in suspicious red ink.

  Porson nodded in appreciation of the point. ‘Steven’s’d cover our bottoms all right.’ While Slider was contemplating this alluring image, Porson changed tack. ‘Mr Wetherspoon likes Crondace,’ he said, with a latent sigh. Wetherspoon was their Borough Commander, and a royal pain in the arse which he also regularly liked to hang out to dry. He was the ultimate publicity bunny, never happier than when facing the TV cameras and the frenzied clicking of shutters. He had been chummy with the Home Secretaries of the previous administration, and the change of government had not left him with any sunnier a disposition towards the team at Shepherd’s Bush. A golfing, lunching, drinkies-at-Number-Ten media star did not want people on his payroll who looked funny (Porson) or got themselves into trouble by doing the right thing (Slider).

  Slider digested the information, and said, ‘There’s no harm in keeping a second string to our bow, sir.’

  ‘Right,’ said Porson gratefully. ‘And who knows, Mr Wetherspoon may be right.’

  To cheer him up, Slider told him about Mrs Crondace at the bingo hall.

  Porson was doubtful. ‘Sounds as if Lawrence pushed her into it,’ he said. ‘Can’t rely on that.’

  ‘No, sir. And of course Crondace has no alibi at all, as far as we know. There are certainly tempting things about him – not least that he’s missing.’

  ‘Keep after him,’ Porson said. ‘And keep an eye on her. And I don’t see any harm in tossing his flat, if Tower Hamlets’ll play ball. I’ll ask Trevor Oxley. If Crondace is that much of a slob, you never know what you might find. Meanwhile –’ he turned at the end of his walk and faced Slider – ‘get more evidence on the Krolls. Her movements as well as his. And a witness who saw him go in. At least.’

  When Slider got back to his room, most of the troops had gone. In the CID room McLaren was doing something on the computer, Atherton was tidying his desk, and Hollis was pottering about, mug of tea in his hand, with the air of a man already in his slippers.

  ‘Where’s Mackay? I thought he had night duty,’ Slider said.

  Hollis said, ‘I swapped with him, guv. Some school thing for his kid.’

  Unusually noble of him, Slider thought. Nobody liked catching the night shift. Then he remembered Hollis had been having trouble at home – maybe he liked the excuse to stay away. Slider cleared his desk and locked everything, then went back out and said to Atherton, ‘I’m whacked. Fancy a drink?’

  Atherton looked up. Was there the slightest hesitation before he said, ‘Yes, okay’?

  ‘I’ve been thinking about a pint all afternoon,’ Slider said, ‘ever since Mackay and Coffey came in wittering about the Navigation.’ Connolly came into the room at that moment, on her way back from the loo. ‘Are you off?’ Slider said. ‘Want to come for a pint with us?’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Janey, that’s weird. The minute I came in the room I knew you were going to say that. Do you believe in premonition?’

  ‘No, but I’ve a queer feeling I’m going to. Are you coming then?’

  ‘Thanks, boss, but I’ve got a date.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘Kidding me? I wouldn’t go out with anyone in the Job. They’re all mentallers. I got this one off the Internet.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little rash?’ Atherton said.

  ‘And isn’t that what you may find yourself saying tomorrow morning?’ Slider added.

  Connolly grinned. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘See that you are,’ said Slider.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t put out on the first date. One night of meaningless sex can get in the way of a long-term relationship,’ said Connolly.

  ‘I’ve always relied on it,’ said Atherton.

  ‘I got a date as well,’ McLaren announced, with a hint of pride.

  ‘Way to go, Maurice,’ Atherton said. ‘Get back on that horse.’

  ‘Tim, that lives upstairs from me, his girlfriend Maura’s got a mate,’ McLaren explained, getting up and coming over. ‘We’re doing a double date. Going down the Green Man.’

  ‘Maurice, Maurice, a blind date?’ Atherton said. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Why not?’ McLaren protested. ‘Maura says she’s a very nice person.’

  Atherton groaned, and Hollis, ambling across, said, ‘He’s right, y’know. It’s classic code. “She’s got a nice personality” means she’s either a size twenty or she’s got a face like a beaten tambourine.’

  ‘This Maura’s nice looking, is she?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘Yeah, she’s great,’ McLaren said.

  ‘Right. Nice-looking girls always have an ugly friend they’re trying to get fixed up. We’re talking dog here, Maurice. We’re talking Crufts’ Best in Show.’

  McLaren’s jaw set. ‘I don’t care. I’m going. She’s called Natalie. I’ve always liked that name.’

  ‘And you tell me off for picking horses by the name!’ Atherton shook his head.

  Hollis switched sides. ‘Hang about, though. Maybe he’s on to something. You should go, Maurice. You know what they say – ugly girls are more grateful. You could well score.’

  Connolly, who had been sorting out her handbag at her desk, made a sound of disgust so loud it would unknot your tie. ‘Name a’ God, I don’t believe you people! Would you listen to yourselves? You sound like somethin’ out o’ Mad Men.’

  ‘Oh, and women aren’t interested in sex,’ Atherton scoffed.

  Connolly gritted her jaw. ‘Men just use sex to get what they want.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Atherton said. ‘Sex is what they want.’

  Slider’s phone rang, interrupting the exchange – and not before time, he thought. He caught Atherton’s eye and hesitated.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Atherton advised. ‘Those pints aren’t getting drunk, and neither am I.’

  ‘D’you want me to get it, guv?’ Hollis offered.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ Slider said.
‘I’ll go. Put your coat on,’ he added to Atherton. ‘We’re out the door in two minutes.’

  It was Freddie Cameron on the other end. ‘I’ve finished the post-mortem and microscope analysis,’ he said, ‘and there’s nothing new to add to my verbal conclusions about the death. But one thing has emerged that I thought I’d better tell you about. I don’t know if it alters anything, but just in case …’

  ‘I’m on my way out for a drink and then home,’ Slider said. ‘Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?’

  A slight pause as Freddie looked at the clock. ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I had no idea. I must get weaving. Martha and I have a black-tie dinner tonight. Charity thing. Damned waste of an evening – I’d sooner give them a cheque and be done with it, but the memsahib likes putting on a long dress. Only blessing is I don’t have to make a speech this time. What was I saying?’

  ‘Something emerged from the post-mortem. I hope not a slavering alien from the abdomen.’

  ‘You have a morbid imagination. But, actually, you’re not far wrong. It seems that Bygod had a carcinoma of the lung, with metastases just about everywhere. I’d say he only had a few months to live.’

  ‘Poor bloke,’ Slider said, with feeling. Life was always precious, but when you had so little of it left … ‘I thought he looked thin. Would he have known?’

  ‘He probably wasn’t feeling in the pink,’ Cameron said drily. ‘As to whether he’d had a diagnosis, you’d have to check with his doctor. But given he was an intelligent, educated man, I’d bet he knew the game was up.’

  ‘I see. Well, thanks for telling me.’

  ‘I thought it might change the tenor of some of your questions. Or your thought processes.’

  ‘Yes, you may be right.’

  ‘I’ll send the full report over tomorrow but there’s nothing else you didn’t know. And now I must make a noise like a bee and buzz off.’

  Atherton was waiting in the doorway, ready to go. ‘What was that about a slavering alien?’

  ‘Bygod had cancer.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Atherton. He thought a moment. ‘Does that change anything?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Slider.

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s get a pint.’

  They couldn’t use the White Horse across the road because it had Karaoke on Saturday nights, and they had time to reflect as they walked down to the Boscombe on what a strange form of masochism that was. They settled into a corner with pints in front of them, and Slider took a minute to phone Joanna and tell her where he was and what time he’d be home. ‘She says d’you want to come to supper?’ he relayed.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got something arranged,’ Atherton replied.

  When he had rung off, Slider took a pull at his pint and, gazing studiously into the middle distance, said, ‘Is everything all right with you and Emily?’

  ‘Emily is in America,’ Atherton said in a deliberately patient tone.

  ‘I know, but – I just wondered.’

  Atherton gave him a sidelong look. ‘Is that you delving uncharacteristically into my private life?’

  Slider did what any sensible man does when he senses danger: shut up and kept still. After a short pause he was rewarded for his reticence. Atherton said casually, ‘She wants me to move in with her.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Slider cautiously. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s not good,’ Atherton said with a touch of irritation. ‘It’s too soon, it’s too sudden, it’s too absolute.’

  ‘She’s practically living at your place already, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she’s at my place. A perfectly equable arrangement. Now suddenly she wants me to sell my house and move into her father’s flat. That’s a whole new game of marbles.’

  Slider felt about for a thread to tug. ‘But you love her, don’t you?’ he tried.

  ‘This has nothing to do with love,’ Atherton said, in an explaining-the-obvious tone. ‘This is economics. My house, my property, my assets, suddenly subsumed into hers.’

  You could only admire a man who could use words like ‘subsumed’ in the course of an emotional diatribe, Slider thought. ‘I’m sure you could work out the financial side of it – a fair agreement about who owns what.’

  ‘My freedom,’ Atherton said, as if finishing his previous sentence.

  ‘Ah,’ said Slider.

  Atherton scowled. ‘What does that mean – “Ah”? Are you about to spout some psychological pseudo-wisdom and set me straight?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Slider said, and took another long pull. ‘Nice pint.’

  ‘Don’t “nice pint” me. You started this. You see, this is exactly why we don’t discuss personal matters with the people we work with.’

  Slider looked at him. ‘I get it,’ he assured him. ‘You’re afraid of losing your freedom, it’s a big commitment, she’s moving too fast and pressurizing you – I get it. Women always want to jump ahead to the end of the story. I suppose they’ve got hormones and Time’s wingéd chariot pressurizing them. The nesting instinct versus the tom-cat propensity. Classic mismatch. Nothing to be done about it. Nature has a lot to answer for.’

  Now Atherton grinned. ‘Nifty footwork, ol’ guv of mine! From Jung to Freud to David Attenborough in one lunge, with a splodge of Marvell thrown in for decorative effect.’

  ‘Why so surprised? You always seem to think I’m an ignoramus.’

  ‘I don’t. I think you’re as clever as a fox with a PhD in foxiness. So what’s your advice, then?’

  Slider gave him a look of broad innocence. ‘None of my business,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of interfering.’

  Atherton looked into the amber depths of his Fuller’s Pride. ‘I do love her,’ he said soberly. ‘It’s just such a big step. I’ve been on my own for so long. I need more time.’

  Slider let him alone to find the solution himself.

  ‘I suppose I have to talk to her,’ Atherton sighed. ‘Tell her exactly that.’ He grimaced. ‘Why do women always want to talk about stuff?’

  ‘They do stuff at GCSE, when we’re doing woodwork,’ Slider explained kindly.

  ‘I suppose you’re working tomorrow?’ Joanna said when they sat down to supper – spaghetti with her home-made Bolognese sauce, which was so rich and good even Atherton had asked for the recipe. The secret was chicken livers. Joanna didn’t do gourmet, but she was big on tastes. ‘When I have a Sunday off for once, it’s too much to expect you’ll be off too.’

  ‘I’ll have to go in,’ Slider said. ‘I hope not for too long, though. Oh, and Atherton’s invited us over for supper tomorrow night, if Dad doesn’t mind babysitting. I said I’d check and let him know.’

  ‘Oh, you spoke to him, then?’

  ‘No, we communicated by sign language.’

  ‘Don’t be cute. You know what I mean. Did you talk to him about Emily?’

  ‘A bit. Men don’t do that heart-to-heart stuff you women go in for.’

  ‘You’re treading close to the line with “you women”,’ she warned him. ‘What did he say? Is something up?’

  ‘He feels it’s moving too fast, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, Emily’s not getting any younger.’

  ‘That’s what I told him. But no man likes to be regarded as a stud.’ Joanna gave him a snort of ripe disbelief. ‘In the breeding sense, I mean. We’re not just mobile inseminators, you know – we have feelings,’ he said poignantly. ‘And when a woman has a child, it largely replaces the man in her affections, so he’s breeding his own usurper. That simply goes against logic.’

  ‘I had no idea you were carrying so much resentment,’ Joanna said sweetly.

  ‘I don’t mean me. I love being married to you, and all it entails. I’m talking about ordinary men.’

  ‘Well, of course, you make perfect sense. But what’s the alternative? Jim’s old life of lonely promiscuity? That’s no way for a rational human being to function.’

  ‘He’ll just hav
e to work that out for himself,’ Slider said. ‘Logically.’

  ‘Oh, you and your logic. As if human relationships were electrical circuits: close this switch and the current goes that way.’

  ‘I think they pretty much are,’ Slider said, only partly to tease her. ‘Just rather complicated ones.’

  ‘On which subject, how’s your case going?’

  ‘We’ve got two very good suspects – or four, if you count their wives.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice. What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Nothing yet. We have to map their movements, which is the boring footwork. Of course, they can’t both be guilty.’ He paused, brooding.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked after a minute.

  He came back. ‘I was just wondering, what sort of murderer checks his hair in the mirror just before going to do the deed?’

  ‘A vain one,’ Joanna said. ‘Aren’t all murderers vain? It’s the ultimate in self-obsession to think you have the right to take someone else’s life.’

  ‘You have a point,’ said Slider.

  When Slider got in the following morning and went to the men’s’ room, he found Hollis in there, braces over a vest, shaving. His arms were very white, as if he never stripped off. Perhaps if you grew up in Manchester you never developed the habit.

  ‘Hullo!’ Slider said. ‘You in already? Or didn’t you go home?’

  Night shift ended at two for the CID – the desks were unmanned then until six.

  Hollis hesitated, but meeting Slider’s eyes in the mirror said, ‘Didn’t seem worth it, guv. I put in some time on the computer, tracking the Krolls.’

  ‘Oh. Good work. Come and report to me when you’re ready.’

  When he came, it was with Fathom and McLaren, the latter bearing a cup and a plate.

  ‘Got you a tea from the canteen, guv,’ McLaren said.

  ‘Very kind of you. What’s on the plate?’

  ‘Bread pudding. Special this morning.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Slider said. The canteen’s bread pudding was very good. There was the slightest hesitation as McLaren handed it over which made Slider wonder if he had actually meant it for himself; but it was too late now. ‘Atherton in yet?’