Blood Sinister

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘This is my dangerous moment,’ she said lightly. ‘Any minute now you’ll realise that free means you don’t have to settle for me either, and off you’ll flit like a butterfly to more exotic flowers.’

  ‘Yes, you should worry,’ he advised her. ‘I’m such a fickle man.’

  ‘It’s all right to be upset,’ she mentioned. ‘I won’t be offended.’

  He rested his face against her hair and closed his eyes briefly. It was a gesture that needed no thought. She was his mate now, she was home, and everything he did with her or without her took place in the context of her, automatically, as once it had – though without the same pleasure – in the context of Irene. She was now selbstverstaändlich. And because of that, this piece of paper didn’t have the impact it might otherwise have had. He didn’t feel upset, he just felt strange. And guilty, of course, but that was endemic. And he couldn’t help wondering how Irene would be feeling, receiving her copy of this same document, and opening the envelope in Ernie Newman’s house, perhaps in her predecessor’s kitchen, waiting for her predecessor’s electric kettle to boil.

  Joanna squeezed him a little tighter, reading his thoughts effortlessly. ‘You ought to ring her, perhaps? It must be a hard moment for her, whatever the circumstances.’

  He kissed her gratefully. ‘Yes. I will. When I get to work.’

  Not here, not from his-and-Joanna’s phone. Joanna smiled inwardly. That was male tact. There were so many things he thought she minded, out of some elderly and elaborate code of chivalry he had learned young and never forgotten; and they were hardly ever the things that she really did mind, she who had been breadwinner and decision-maker to herself all her adult life, husband in her own household, without the luxury of a Norman Rockwell aproned wife’s sensibilities.

  ‘Yes, do that,’ she said in benison. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  At the door he turned. ‘Have lunch with me?’ He knew she was not working.

  And she knew he had a murder case. ‘Will you have time?’

  ‘For you, always.’

  ‘All right. I’ll ring you later and check,’ she said, hedging his bets.

  The phone was ringing as he reached his desk. It was Freddie Cameron.

  ‘You’re up early,’ Slider said, switching the receiver from hand to hand as he shed his coat. It was good navy wool, but so old it had gone almost white along the seams. There were men who cared about overcoats and men who didn’t, and that was just the way it was.

  ‘I’ve done your post, old dear.’

  ‘What, this morning? Don’t you ever sleep?’

  ‘No, yesterday. Servissimo. I’m up to my ears in bodies and I’m going to be in court for the next couple of days, so I thought I’d better put in a bit of overtime. Martha was not amused.’

  ‘I should think not. That way lies divorce and madness.’

  ‘Anyway, I put your report in the mail last night,’ Freddie said, with a shrug in the intonation, ‘and I’ve called to give you the edited highlights. Talking of which, I see you’ve been getting big coverage in the papers.’

  ‘Not me personally.’

  ‘All the broadsheets have had fulsome obits on the Agnew,’ Freddie said. ‘Career appraisals. Highlights of her campaigns as a mercenary in the justice war. Farewells from journalists and editors. Personal tributes from showbiz personalities and Queen’s Counsels – which are much the same thing, of course. An endorsement from Ronnie Biggs—’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Just testing if you were listening. They don’t seem to have published the fine details of the murder, though, which shows extraordinary restraint.’

  ‘An appeal was made to keep them out,’ Slider said, ‘but I think they’re showing solidarity because she was one of their own, rather than for Mr Porson’s sweet sake. But if we don’t get home sharpish with the streaky rashers, they’ll forget their promises soon enough.’

  ‘Is the case still with you or is AMIP taking it?’

  ‘All AMIP’s taking at the moment is aspirin.’

  ‘Ah, the ’flu epidemic.’

  ‘They flew, they have flown. It’s down to me and my little chums. So, tell me, was it strangulation?’

  ‘It was indeed. Strangulation with some force. The hyoid was fractured, and there was considerable damage to the thyroid and cricoid cartilages with severe localised bruising and extensive petechiae above the ligature.’

  ‘Any idea what that was?’

  ‘A narrow band of material. Probably a tie, possibly a folded scarf – something of that sort.’

  ‘Pair of stockings?’

  Cameron chuckled. ‘Tights, dear boy! A good feminist would never wear stockings. And, no, the texture was wrong for tights. The material was smooth. I’d plump for the tie, if you put a gun to my head. Nicely available, for one thing. Carry it in – and out – round your neck.’

  ‘If you could get the knot undone,’ Slider said.

  ‘There was no knot,’ Freddie said. ‘The killer relied on strength and determination. And there were some other points of interest. The strangulation was carried out from behind, which was not what you’d expect from the position of the corpse.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Slider said. ‘No, silly question, of course you are.’

  ‘You can see by the comparative depth of the bruising,’ Freddie explained. ‘The ligature was placed round the neck, crossed over at the back and pulled tight. Now, if the ends had been pulled by someone standing in front of her, the crossed part would have dug into the neck at the back, but in fact the pressure is all at the front. So that means …’ He paused, inviting comprehension.

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Slider. ‘It’s pretty difficult to strangle someone from behind when they’re lying on their back on the bed.’

  ‘Ten points,’ Freddie awarded him approvingly. ‘And when you add the intriguing little fact that the wrists were tied after death—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dead men don’t mark,’ said Freddie. ‘The ligature round the wrist was tight, but there was no bruising. However, from the distribution of hypostasis, she was put into the position we found her in immediately.’

  ‘So she was strangled somewhere else in the room,’ Slider said, ‘and then put on the bed and tied to the bedhead to make it look like a sexual assault?’

  ‘That’s a viable hypothesis,’ Cameron said. ‘There was, in fact, semen in the vagina, but there’s no bruising or any other sign of forcible penetration. I’ve sent a sample off to be typed, as well as the sample from the condom. Though I doubt we’ll get much from the condom – too dilute.’

  ‘We don’t know’, Slider said, ‘that they are from the same person.’

  ‘I don’t like to contemplate that scenario,’ Cameron said. ‘But we have a bonus ball: there was some tissue under the nails of the left hand. She managed to scratch her assailant: not deeply, just a surface abrasion, but enough to give us a tiny sample. I’ve sent that off to the genetic boys, too. Let’s hope it matches one or other semen sample.’

  ‘Let’s definitely hope that – and further that it matches Prentiss,’ Slider said, ‘otherwise it starts getting complicated. Oh – was the sexual penetration post-mortem?’

  ‘No way of telling,’ Freddie said. ‘Not a nice thought, that.’

  ‘No,’ said Slider. ‘Not that it would have mattered to her once she was dead.’

  ‘True. Still, at least the condemned woman ate a hearty dinner,’ Cameron went on, ‘with wine and spirits. I’ve secured the stomach with contents, in case you want it analysed.’

  ‘I can pretty well tell from the kitchen what she ate,’ Slider said. ‘There’s no reason to think she was poisoned or drugged?’

  ‘Nothing in the pathology, though there are plenty of things that don’t show up unless you look for them. So unless you want me to go through the whole pharmacopoeia from Astra to Zeneca—’

  ‘No, not at this point.’

  ‘She seems to have ingested a large quanti
ty of alcohol, which might have made her easier to strangle. D’you want a blood test for the volume?’

  ‘Hold off on that for the moment. I need the semen and tissue typed, and we’ve got to think about budget.’

  ‘Sooner you than me,’ Cameron said. ‘Well, I must away. I’ve two to do at Guy’s, before the Old Bailey.’

  ‘Complicated case?’

  ‘That fire in Hendon. Arson stroke murder. Four bodies and a dispute over identity. A pathologist’s life is not a nappy one. Let me know if there’s anything else you want.’

  ‘A holiday in the sun,’ said Slider promptly.

  ‘A holiday? Ah, yes, I had one of those once,’ said Freddie.

  He heard Swilley’s voice in the outer office, saying good morning to Anderson, who was first in. Anderson hardly spared time for a hello before offering yet again to take her wedding photos.

  ‘You don’t want to have anything to do with those professionals,’ he said earnestly. ‘They charge a bloody fortune. A century plus just to turn up, and a tenner a time for the pix. And half of ’em are in league with villains. They give the tip-off about when the house’ll be empty, and a gang goes in and cleans out all your wedding presents.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Tony, but I really think—’

  ‘Straight up! There’s this snout of mine, he used to be in on a shutter scam before he went straight, told me all the wrinkles. He was the fence. Made a fortune. Toasters, microwaves, food mixers—’

  ‘An electric fence, then?’

  ‘You gotta use your loaf, Norm,’ Anderson urged. ‘I’ll do you a real nice job. Did I ever show you my sister’s wedding pix? I did this thing off the top of a ladder, with her on the grass and her dress spread out all round her. She looked just like a flower—’

  Slider had had enough. He went out to rescue Swilley, and, basking in her look of gratitude, told her about his visit to Medmenham.

  ‘Well, that sounds a bit more like it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, plenty of free-flowing detail to comfort a policeman’s doubts. I would still like some confirmation from someone outside the triangle, though. This wine bar they went to – Ramblers. It would be nice if anyone there remembered our couple and could put an approximate time on it. It would be nice to have someone in the case whose word we could trust.’

  ‘Okay, boss, I’ll get on to it. D’you want me to chase up Piers Prentiss?’

  ‘No, leave him be. I want Medmenham’s story checked first. If it’s okay, there’s probably no need to touch Prentiss junior.’

  Back in his office, he took a moment before he plunged into the rest of the day’s work to call Irene. The phone was picked up at the first ring.

  ‘What were you doing, crouching over it?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just passing when it rang,’ she said. She sounded defensive.

  ‘Are you all right? I got something in the post today.’

  ‘Yes. So did I.’

  A silence. ‘How do you feel about it?’ Slider asked awkwardly.

  ‘How do you think I feel?’

  Something in her voice warned him. ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘What if I have? It’s a big thing, after all these years. Someone ought to feel something.’

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ he said. ‘It was never what I …’ He couldn’t say wanted. ‘. . . anticipated. When I married you, I really thought it was for good. But things change.’

  ‘People change,’ she said, as though that were something else.

  ‘Yes. We’re both different now,’ he said carefully. ‘I just phoned to see if you were all right.’

  ‘That was nice of you.’ He couldn’t tell if she was being ironic or not.

  ‘I do care about you, you know,’ he said. ‘I want you to be happy. And also—’ This was more delicate territory. ‘Well, I phoned because I wanted to say thanks. That I appreciate all you did for me all those years. I wanted to say – I’m not sorry that we married.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and the line vibrated with perilous emotions. ‘Me, too. Thanks for saying that. We had some good times, didn’t we, Bill?’

  ‘We did,’ he said, though for the moment he couldn’t think what they were. Except the children. They were definitely a good thing. ‘Will you tell the children?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so. When they get back from school. I think they’ll take it all right. I mean, they must know it was about due.’

  ‘Do you think’, he asked diffidently, ‘it would be a good idea if you and I were to take them out somewhere together next weekend? Just the four of us. If I can get the time off.’

  ‘To celebrate?’ Irene said, with a twist of lemon.

  ‘Of course not to celebrate,’ he said. ‘To reassure them. To show we can still be all right together, even though – well, you know. What do you think?’

  ‘It might be nice,’ she said cautiously. ‘But I won’t say anything to them yet, in case you can’t get the time. I wouldn’t want them to be disappointed.’

  If she had learned one thing in the years she had been a policeman’s wife, it was not to plan ahead.

  Atherton came in, looking as if he had been out on the tiles.

  ‘Late night?’ Slider asked casually.

  ‘No, early. Early, early hours.’

  His breath had the vinous sting of heavy consumption. Slider thought if he took a breathalyser test right now his drive in to work might take on a whole different complexion.

  ‘Nice to be able to afford debauchery,’ Slider said.

  ‘You have yours laid on at home,’ said Atherton.

  Slider wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Had the dog been up to his old tricks? But he didn’t feel up to pursuing it. ‘I’ve had Freddie Cameron on the phone,’ he said, and passed on Freddie’s report.

  Atherton’s greyness was shed instantly. Alert, eyes wide, he sat on Slider’s window-sill and crossed his arms into thinking position. ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, this is weird! He has sex with her, using a condom, because he’s a careful boy – or she’s a careful girl – and chucks the debris down the lav, presumably as per usual habit; relaxed enough about it anyway not to check that the corpus voluptae is safely off on its journey to the sea. Then he has sex with her again, without precautions. Then gets her drunk, strangles her, and arranges her on the bed to make it look like a stranger-rape, despite the fact that his semen is inside her, ready to finger him as the rapist.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Slider agreed, ‘but we don’t know what order things happened in. Maybe it was sex with condom, then more drinks, then unprotected sex because they or she were merry enough not to care.’

  ‘Then strangulation,’ Atherton acknowledged, ‘but why the rape scenario?’

  ‘Not thinking clearly. If he was drunk too …’

  ‘But if he was trying to make it look like a random rapist, he ought to have faked a break-in as well. A stranger wouldn’t have known that you could slip that lock.’

  ‘He would if he tried,’ Slider said.

  ‘Yes, but Prentiss wouldn’t know that we’d realise that. If someone’s faking something they daren’t get that subtle, in case the other side misses it.’

  ‘I’ll just sit here and let you argue yourself into a corner,’ Slider said. ‘There are yet other scenarios.’

  ‘Sell me one,’ Atherton invited.

  ‘Sex with condom, drinks, quarrel or whatever, strangulation, and then bondage sex with the corpse, because that’s what he really likes, or as an act of revenge – humiliating her when she couldn’t fight back.’

  ‘You’ve got a nasty mind,’ Atherton complained. ‘But necrophilia does at least make more sense than the set-up idea. Anyone who’d do that would be mad enough not to care about leaving the semen behind, and wouldn’t need to fake a break-in. But Prentiss didn’t have a scratch on his face, did he?’

  ‘It needn’t have been the face,’ Slider said. ‘It could as easily be the neck, or it might be hand or arm, trying to l
oosen his grip. Or it might have been the bare body while they were bonking. And in any case, Freddie says it’s a tiny tissue sample – nothing more than a slight abrasion.’

  ‘I suppose she was too drunk to fight much,’ Atherton said. ‘I didn’t like the woman, but she’s gaining my sympathy point by point.’

  ‘But remember, we don’t know yet that the semen is Prentiss’s, or even that both lots are from the same person. Prentiss may have noshed, made love and left, and the murderer came in afterwards for the rest of the sex. Or someone else might have been responsible for the condom and Prentiss for the rest.’

  ‘And meanwhile we’ve got an unverifiable alibi for him, and a wife who gives him an alibi he apparently doesn’t want.’

  Slider smiled faintly. ‘Life is fun, isn’t it?’

  ‘So what’re you going to do, guv?’

  ‘Have a crack at Giles Freeman myself, and get Porson to try and hurry the DNA results. We’re stuck without them. Meanwhile, you go and have a bash at Mrs P. Your famous charm and sexual magnetism might get something different out of her.’

  ‘Okay.’ He stood to go. ‘What’s this about you giving the fabulous Norma away at her wedding, by the way?’

  ‘How the hell did that get out?’ Slider said, startled.

  ‘Oh, it isn’t out. Norma told me. Wanted to crow over me, I think. But I told her you wouldn’t go if I wasn’t there.’

  ‘And she believed you?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Atherton admitted. ‘She called me a lying, weaselling scumbag. So I’m relying on you to get me an invite, guv.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Could you bear to think of me being humiliated in that way?’ Slider nodded grimly. ‘Could you live with yourself afterwards?’

  ‘I could try.’

  ‘You wouldn’t enjoy the wedding without me. It’ll be nothing but strangers there.’

  ‘My job, of course, doesn’t accustom me to meeting strangers.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s different in a social situation,’ Atherton said. ‘You need me as a buffer. Look, I’ll get your sandwiches every day. I’ll be good for ever. Go on, go on, get me an invite, pleeese!’

  ‘The furthest I’ll go’, said Slider, ‘is to ask her why she doesn’t want you there.’