Dear Departed

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘I’ve been telling everyone that from the beginning,’ Slider said, frustrated. ‘Now you want them to be different?’

  Atherton waved a large hand blandly. ‘Or they could be the same and Running Man is the murderer and Darren’s a red herring.’

  ‘No luck with finding Darren yet, I suppose?’

  ‘No. We’re trawling around his usual haunts and associates, but no-one’s admitting seeing him. Manchester actually sent someone round to the mate’s house, Dave O’Brien—’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘But Darren wasn’t there and they think he hasn’t been. They believed O’Brien, and I suppose they ought to know,’ Atherton said, with deep scepticism. ‘They’ve promised to keep an eye out for him, but they didn’t think we had a good enough case against him for them to make it a priority.’

  ‘Nor have we,’ Slider said. ‘Oh, well, at least we’ve got a photofit of Running Man to work with. Get that circulated, will you, and I’ll see what Porson says about banging it on the telly tonight.’

  Hart appeared, weaving between the tables towards them.

  ‘Boss, they’ve just rung from the house. The man’s turned up to open the safe.’

  ‘At last,’ Atherton said. ‘I’m sure we could have got someone out of the Scrubs to blow it for us quicker than this.’

  ‘You live in a dream world,’ Slider told him, getting to his feet. His lunch slipped about in his stomach, threatening to cause trouble.

  ‘You’re going over there?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it. You coming?’

  ‘Can I come, boss?’ Hart asked.

  ‘It’s not a party. Go and get on with your work,’ Slider said sternly, but she only grinned and shrugged.

  ‘Wurf a try,’ she said.

  ‘You just can’t intimidate some people,’ Slider complained to Atherton as all three headed for the exit.

  ‘When you’ve worked on the DAFT squad for three months, there’s nuffing more they can do to you,’ Hart chirped.

  The man from Acme Safes (‘How traditional,’ Atherton had murmured) was waiting for them at the house, and fidgeting about being kept waiting.

  ‘You kept us waiting long enough,’ Atherton reminded him.

  ‘There’s a lot of calls on my time,’ he said, with imperishable dignity. He was a small, rounded sort of man in very clean overalls with ACME over the pocket and very shiny shoes on his rather small feet, on which he teetered a little like a teacher at a 1950s prep school. His hair was so neat and shiny it looked painted on. ‘By rights I shouldn’t be here now,’ he said sternly. ‘This is supposed to be my Saturday off.’

  ‘We are rather a special case,’ Atherton said, though Slider had flung him a look that said leave it alone.

  ‘Oh, I know, I know,’ Acme man sneered. ‘You people think you’re so important just because you go around investigating murders. Well, other people have important jobs too, you know. Opening safes is skilled work.’

  Slider gave Atherton a slight kick to stop him retorting, and said, ‘Please carry on, Mr – er.’

  ‘Pickett’s my name,’ said the Acme man, and Slider could see now why he had need of so much dignity. PC Gallon, who was in attendance, made a snorting noise, but when they all looked at him his face was rigid and his eyes fixed on the distance, though his cheeks looked suspiciously hollow.

  The safe contained one or two pieces of jewellery, chequebooks, birth certificate, house deeds and other documents, and a great quantity of share certificates. Atherton sat down at her desk with them and leafed through, his eyebrows going up and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.

  ‘This is quite a portfolio,’ he said. ‘I think we know now where she got the money from to support her lifestyle. I wonder if she did her own buying and selling or if she had an adviser?’

  ‘Her grandmother says she was given a hundred thousand when she was seventeen, which she invested in shares and property,’ Slider said.

  ‘But only eighty thousand went on the flat she bought, according to Jasper.’

  ‘So she presumably put twenty thousand into shares. Quite a lump sum.’

  ‘Yes, and at the beginning of the biggest bull run in history. With the right transactions she could have increased that ten or twentyfold. I’d like to take these back to the office and work out what sort of an income they would generate. Enough to keep a girl in goodies, anyway.’

  ‘A lot of them must be Cornfeld Chemicals,’ Slider said. ‘Granny said she was given ten per cent at the float.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know what the shares are at at the moment. I’ll have a look when we get back. I’ve got a paper in my desk.’

  ‘Might be an idea to find out if there are any other big shareholders, outside the family,’ Slider said.

  Atherton gave him a sharp look. ‘You think it could have been to do with money, or the business?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it never hurts to have a few facts to hand.’ He was examining the rest of the papers. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘now here’s something.’ He held it up, a long, narrow envelope of the sort that only lawyers ever used.

  ‘Her will?’ Atherton said eagerly.

  ‘It ain’t chopped liver,’ said Slider. ‘Now we might find out who had a motive for her death.’

  ‘Only if they knew about it,’ Atherton said. ‘It’s usually you warning me not to jump to conclusions.’ He waited impatiently while Slider read down the pages. ‘Well?’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Slider. ‘If her nearest and dearest did know about this, there’d have been a few who’d be pissed off with her, but whether it would make grounds for murder is debatable. She’s left everything to charity.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A very conventional mixture of medical, educational, third world and environmental,’ Slider said. ‘Well, well. Unless our basic charities have got more ruthless chief execs than hitherto realised, I think we can rule out inheritance as a motive.’

  Atherton’s afternoon with the newspaper and a calculator resulted in the conclusion that her portfolio was worth about three quarters of a million, and averaging out the yields would have brought her an income of around thirty thousand a year. Not a fortune, but, as he said, enough as a supplementary income to buy nice clothes and theatre tickets and restaurant meals, and to support her generosity to various charities.

  His call to Companies House brought further interesting news. ‘I thought you said that Daddy Cornfeld gave each of the children ten per cent?’ he said to Slider.

  ‘That’s what Granny said.’

  ‘Jassy’s name doesn’t appear on the list.’

  ‘Really? I suppose she must have sold them.’

  ‘If she did, it must have been a while ago. I checked back five years.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, though. Given what we know about her, I suspect Jassy would have sold anything that wasn’t nailed down.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Atherton, ‘and it’s probably another cause of her resentment. She must be kicking herself. The Cornfeld shares have gone up a lot in recent years, and the current yield is five point two per cent. That’s partly because of the recent slight downturn in share price, which has affected the whole sector – the whole market, in fact – but the yield – price ratio has always been good.’

  ‘What did Horace say, Winnie?’

  ‘The share has always produced good income as well as capital growth,’ Atherton translated.

  ‘It sounded better the other way. Well, I don’t know that it gets us any further forward. Chattie certainly had money to leave, but if anyone knew about her will, they’d know they weren’t going to get anything.’

  ‘And if they didn’t know – who might think they would benefit?’

  ‘Jassy?’ Slider hazarded.

  ‘Possibly,’ Atherton said. ‘She’d been given enough by Chattie over the years. She might think big sis would have cut her in for something and she’s selfish enough to be cold-hearted about it. And th
at brings us back to Darren.’

  ‘The Absent.’

  ‘And now that we know Running Man was not Darren,’ Atherton said, ‘either Darren was Standing Man and he did it, or Running Man did it – or,’ he added, suddenly thinking of something, ‘Running Man was a friend of Darren’s and they were in it together.’

  ‘Or,’ Slider reminded him, ‘it was someone else.’

  ‘Yes, there is that,’ Atherton said, subsiding. ‘Well, I don’t know. What now?’

  ‘We carry on, what else?’

  ‘I think I should keep an eye on Toby,’ Atherton said. ‘The band’s playing tonight at the Jazz Barn, and I think I ought to go along and maybe have a word with him.’

  Slider eyed him. ‘Oh, you think that, do you? It wouldn’t have anything to do with Marion Whatsername, would it?’

  ‘Of course she’ll be there,’ Atherton said. ’Naturally. But I go there for the music anyway. It’s a pretty hot scene.’

  ‘Hot scene?’ Slider wrinkled his nose at the expression.

  ‘Hot scene – cool jazz,’ said Atherton.

  ‘And where is the Jazz Barn?’

  ‘Newport Pagnell.’

  Slider suppressed a smile. ‘Oh, well, I definitely think you should go, then.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Newport Pagnell,’ Atherton said loftily. ‘I’ll have you know it’s where they make Aston Martins.’

  ‘Did I say anything?’

  ‘I know the look.’

  ‘I hope you don’t expect me to write this up as overtime for you? You’ll have to conduct your love life on your own time, like everybody else.’

  ‘All right.’ Atherton sighed. ‘But if I have a pop at Toby afterwards?’

  ‘Be my guest. But the answer’s still no.’

  ‘Oh, this is nice,’ Slider said. He and Joanna were lying in bed spoonwise, her back to his front, his arms round her and his hands cupped over her bulge.

  ‘Mmm,’ she agreed.

  ‘What a pity you have to go to work.’

  ‘There are two ways to look at that.’

  ‘I know, lots of nice money. But it is Sunday.’

  ‘Extra fee, Sunday,’ she said. She squirmed a little, to get even more comfortable, her buttocks nudging into his groin, which began to have thoughts of its own.

  ‘You’re enjoying working, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘God, yes! It’s wonderful to be back, after all those weeks with nothing. Though I suppose I’d better get used to idleness. There’s no guarantee anything else is going to come in after this.’

  ‘Mm. But if it does – well – you’ll have to stop eventually, won’t you?’

  ‘When the baby comes, of course,’ she said; and then, ‘Is that what you’re worried about? That I shan’t be able to live without music when junior makes his appearance?’

  ‘I didn’t say I was worried about anything.’

  ‘I know all your tones of voice by now.’

  ‘It’s pitiful to be so transparent.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she said, kissing his arm, all she could reach of him. ‘It’s endearing.’

  ‘I don’t want to be endearing. I want to be exciting, challenging, dynamic and overwhelmingly sexy.’

  She revolved eelishly in his arms to present her frontside to his body and her lips to his. ‘Well, you’re already all of those, honeybun.’

  ‘Honeybun?’

  ‘Tiger, then. God, it’s hard work getting you to make love to me!’

  ‘Oh, is that what? You only had to ask.’

  A satisfactory period later, when she was lying damply in his arms with her head on his chest, he said, ‘But seriously.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘About this working business.’

  ‘There’s no deflecting you, is there?’ she murmured. ‘Seriously – I am fully cognised of the demands of the situation. And I’m pretty sure holding our child in my arms is going to come out tops over cradling a fiddle under my chin.’

  ‘Only “pretty sure”?’

  ‘I’ve never done it before, so how can I be certain? But the one is life and the other’s a job. So be at peace, my love.’

  ‘What a pity you’ve got to go to work,’ he said, kissing the top of her head.

  Ten minutes later she got up, and an hour after that she was gone. Slider felt at a loss. He had said he wasn’t coming in, there being nothing on that someone else couldn’t do, but he wasn’t used to having time off. He finished the main section of the paper, and then telephoned Atherton.

  The phone rang for a long time, and then a voice answered, ‘Hello?’ – a mumbling, sleepy and definitely female voice.

  ‘Hello,’ he said kindly. ‘I was expecting a baritone, not a soprano.’

  ‘Wha’?’ the voice said, then coughed, and said, ‘Did you want Jim? I think he’s in the shower.’

  ‘He’ll be an hour or two, then,’ Slider said. Atherton took washing very seriously. ‘Can you ask him to ring—?’

  ‘Hello?’ It was Atherton’s voice this time. He had evidently snatched the receiver from her.

  ‘I see you didn’t waste your efforts last night,’ said Slider.

  ‘Wait a minute, I’ll take it in the kitchen.’ The line went dead, and a moment later opened again. ‘I forgot to tell her not to answer the phone. I wasn’t expecting any calls. Why aren’t you asleep at this time of a Sunday?’

  ‘It’s a quarter past nine,’ Slider observed.

  ‘Civilised people don’t get up until eleven on Sunday.’

  ‘Well, that accounts for it, then. Was that Marion Davies?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Atherton. He didn’t say, ‘if it’s any of your business,’ but the implication was there in his voice.

  ‘So how did it go last night? The interview with Toby,’ he added, when the silence warned him he had been misunderstood.

  ‘We all went for a drink at the Sow and Pigs after the concert, but I managed to get him on his own for a bit, and put some pressure on him. I think there may be something there after all. He was definitely edgy, and a bit more leverage could get him to cough. If only we had any direct evidence. You can’t lever someone effectively if all you’ve got is no alibi and a motive. I wonder if we could justify having a look round his flat? If we could find a hoodie or a bloodstain or a knife—’

  ‘Yes, if. I don’t think we could get a warrant on that basis. See if he’ll let you have a voluntary look round to begin with, and we’ll go from there.’

  ‘Okay. You’re not coming in?’

  ‘I’m going to have a day off if it kills me.’

  ‘Pity Joanna’s working.’

  ‘Oddly enough, that sentiment had occurred to me.’

  It was another lovely day. He improved the shining hour by telephoning his ex-wife Irene, had a shy chat with his son Matthew, mostly about football, and a long listen to his daughter Kate, who wanted to have her navel pierced – ‘no’ was about the only word he managed to get in – and after doing the washing up, balancing his chequebook, contemplating without enthusiasm washing some shirts and wondering fruitlessly about Atherton and Marion Davies, he finally settled down on a chair in the garden with the paper and a gin and tonic. Atavistic memories of a more leisured life asserted themselves, and he was beginning to relax and think that being alone for once in his life was rather pleasant, when the phone rang. It was Atherton, and he sounded disturbed, which was in itself disturbing.

  ‘I think you’d better come,’ he said. ‘We’ve got trouble.’

  * * *

  When Marion had departed to her own devices, Atherton had decided that it would be a shame to let up the pressure on Toby Harkness now, when he had got him nicely simmering, and went round to his flat to have a little chat with him and see how amenable he was to having his place searched.

  His ringing on the entryphone bell was not answered, but he could see Toby’s car in its parking slot, so he rang and rang again. Probably dead drunk last night, Atherton thou
ght, and still unconscious. Eventually there were footsteps on the stairs and a tall young woman appeared, dressed in leggings and a vast T-shirt and with her hair sleep-tangled. She mouthed something at Atherton from behind the glass doors and he held up his warrant card. At that, she fumbled the door open, and said, ‘Is it Toby you want? I could hear you buzzing him. I live next door.’

  ‘His car’s here, so I assumed he was in,’ said Atherton.

  She looked at him from under her fringe. ‘Only,’ she said breathlessly, ‘I think he might be in trouble. He’s been a bit strange these last few days. I mean, usually he’s ever so friendly but when I’ve seen him recently he’s just brushed past me as if he didn’t see me. And then last night—’

  ‘Just a minute – your name?’

  ‘It’s Manda – Amanda Hare.’

  ‘All right. What happened last night?’

  ‘Oh, well, you see he came in late and I think he had someone with him because I could hear him talking. Those walls are ever so thin. And then he put music on, really loud, which is not like him, and I was trying to get to sleep so I banged on the wall, but it didn’t stop. And then I heard something like furniture being moved about, sort of thumps and bangs, and a lot of shouting. And then the music stopped and it all went quiet. And since then, nothing.’

  ‘Do you think he went out again?’

  ‘I didn’t hear him go out. Anyway, like you said, his car’s there.’

  ‘True,’ said Atherton, and then something occurred to him. Toby hadn’t had his car with him last night. Jasper had given him a lift both ways. He stepped back, looked up and down the road and spotted Jasper’s Toyota MR2 parked a few yards away. Something cold walked up his spine. He had said that Toby was edgy last night, but perhaps ‘on the edge’ was a better description. What if Atherton’s pressure had pushed him over?

  ‘I think I’d better go up and see if he’s all right. I don’t suppose you have the key to his flat, by any chance?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ Manda said. ‘Are you going to break the door in?’ she asked hopefully.

  Was he? Atherton pondered briefly the fact that he hadn’t any justification for it, except the copper’s instinct that was making the hair on the back of his neck stand up like someone in a crowd trying to see the parade. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.