Blood Lines

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Atherton was thinking. ‘Well, if it was murder, there’ll be no shortage of suspects.’

  ‘You mean all that lot upstairs?’

  ‘No, I mean everyone he’s ever given a bad review. He was a critic, don’t forget – the most hated creature on the planet, after the housefly.’

  WDC Swilley had never been self-conscious about her height, feeling it was an unalloyed advantage to be able to see over the heads of a crowd and get things down off shelves without needing a chair. There were occasions when close encounters with members of her own sex made her wonder how they coped with life way down there, and this was one of them. Being shut in a dressing-room with Dorothy Hammond, Production Assistant, made her afraid to move too quickly for fear of crushing her.

  Dorothy Hammond was a tiny person with a neat, sharp face behind large gold-wire-rimmed glasses. Her dark hair was cut short and layered so that it looked like soft feathers; her mouth was curving and tender; her little pointed fingers were tipped with pale-pink nails that looked as unused as a baby’s.

  She didn’t seem particularly upset by the events of the evening – more cheeringly stimulated by the novelty. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have to say it,’ she said briskly, ‘but I didn’t like Roger, and as far as I’m concerned he’ll be no great loss. Not that I’d wish him ill, of course, but—’ She let it hang. ‘I couldn’t be more surprised that he’s killed himself, though. I wouldn’t have thought he was the type.’

  ‘Is there a type?’ Norma asked.

  ‘Oh, I suppose that sounds a stupid thing to say,’ she said, not as if she believed it. ‘But he wasn’t a bit depressed, from what I saw – quite his usual chirpy self. And I’d have thought he liked himself too much to want to deprive the world of his wonderful presence.’

  ‘Conceited, was he?’

  ‘Oh, one of those who think that anyone who isn’t a celebrity is dirt. Calls you darling all the time, but can’t be bothered to remember your name or say please or thank you. Always arrives late, never mind who he’s inconveniencing – leaves his rubbish around for other people to clear up. I had no time for him. I don’t like Sandal much either, but at least he knows his manners. I mean, I don’t expect them to fawn over me, but I do expect common courtesy. I could never understand what—’ She stopped herself abruptly, and as Norma looked enquiringly at her, she blushed a little, and said hurriedly, ‘I suppose it was suicide? I mean, I didn’t see the body, but they say he cut his throat, is that right?’

  ‘His throat was cut, yes,’ Norma said.

  ‘That’s a rotten way to go,’ Dorothy said. ‘No wonder Phil was in such a state. I’ve never seen so much blood. I thought he’d cut himself. It was on his face and everything.’

  ‘There was an awful lot of blood around,’ Norma said. ‘His throat was cut right through.’

  Dorothy looked away. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,’ she said. ‘But really, I would never have thought he was suicidal. Everyone else on the programme, maybe.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I knew it was going to be a bad evening before we started. Everyone was in a rotten temper. Having Roger Greatrex and Sandal Palliser on the same panel was a big mistake in my opinion. I suppose Martin – Martin Fletcher, the editor – was hoping for a verbal punch-up to boost the ratings, but to my mind you don’t take that kind of risk on a live programme. I think that’s why Fiona was in such a state.’

  ‘What do you mean, a state?’

  ‘She was like a cat on hot bricks all day. Speak to her and she wouldn’t hear you the first three times, or else she’d jump like a kangaroo. And she couldn’t speak a civil word to Phil. He didn’t want Roger on the show at all. It was his job to book the guests, and when it came up I heard him saying to her something about, if she wanted Roger she should phone him herself because he didn’t want it on his head, and she said don’t be stupid, all you’ve got to do is pass the message, it isn’t up to you, and he said if it was up to him he wouldn’t have that man on the same planet, let alone the same programme, and they’d all live to regret it.’

  ‘What do you suppose he meant by that?’

  ‘Well, Roger and Sandal hated each other. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Because of this debate in the newspapers?’

  ‘What, that thing about the arts?’ Dorothy laughed derisively. ‘God, no! That’s a put-up job to boost circulation. They’re both on the same side, really. Sandal might pretend to be Essex Man, but he’s as middle-class and elitist as Roger. You couldn’t put a fag-paper between them. They’d both be horrified at the idea of the Royal Opera House losing its subsidy.’

  ‘Their livelihood depends on that sort of thing?’ Norma suggested blandly. ‘It’s a gravy train, the whole arts bit, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re telling me! Well, not Glyndebourne, because that’s private, but the rest of it’s a disgrace. The Opera House soaks up millions in subsidies every year, but let some inner-city school ask for a couple of hundred to mend the roof, and they’re told there’s no money in the kitty.’

  Norma took a tug at the reins, before she was galloped away with. ‘So what is the trouble between them, then, if it isn’t that?’

  Dorothy looked blank for a moment. ‘Oh. I don’t know exactly. Something personal, I don’t know what. All I do know is they can’t be trusted not to go for each other. I mean, they even had a row tonight while I was out of the room for a second.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I didn’t really hear anything, only the raised voices, and of course they stopped as soon as I came in. All I heard was as I opened the door, Roger was saying something like, “He doesn’t even know what day it is,” and then Sandal said something I didn’t hear, and Roger said, “It’s none of your bloody business anyway,” and then they saw me and stopped. But Roger’s face was really red, and Sandal looked like thunder.’

  ‘Who else was there at the time?’

  ‘No-one,’ she said. ‘You see, Fiona brought Roger up and left him with me, and then Phil brought Sandal in, and we four were there for about ten minutes, chatting, until reception rang to say Sir John had arrived. So Phil went down to meet him, and I – well, I just popped out for a minute to the loo, and when I came back, I heard them at it.’

  ‘Do you think Roger Greatrex was really upset by the quarrel?’

  ‘What, enough to want to kill himself?’ she asked. ‘No, I’d have said he was more mad than upset. Like I said, I couldn’t have been more surprised that he did it. The last time I saw him, he was looking really cheerful – like the cat that got the cream, really, which was his usual expression.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About seven, I suppose. I was just going back to green, and he must have just come out. I asked if I could get him anything – we’re not supposed to let them wander about on their own, really, in case they get lost – but he said he was going up to make-up and he knew the way, and he made it quite plain he didn’t want me around so I left it at that and went back to green.’

  ‘And he went up the stairs?’

  ‘I suppose so. I didn’t watch him go. He was heading in the right direction.’

  Norma nodded. ‘And what about Sandal Palliser? Do you think he was upset by the quarrel?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. He doesn’t show his feelings really – always polite on the outside, whatever’s happening. You can’t really fathom him.’ Something obviously struck her. ‘Oh, but he—’

  ‘But he what?’ Norma prompted when she didn’t go on.

  Dorothy blushed again. ‘It’s nothing really. But after I passed Roger in the corridor, after I went back to the greenroom, Sandal said he had to go out and make a phone call. I said he could use the phone in there, but he said he needed a bit of privacy, and he had his mobile with him, and he’d only be a minute. Well, I couldn’t stop him, could I? And he said he’d only be a minute. And after five minutes I went out to look for him – and that’s when I met Phi
l, all covered with blood.’

  ‘You didn’t see Sandal, then?’

  ‘Well, no. But he was there with the rest when I went back up after phoning the police.’

  It was, Norma thought, like one of those tiresome farces where the characters keep going in and out of different doors and just missing each other, for no apparent reason except to further the misunderstandings of the plot.

  Though the post mortem did not promise any great surprises, there was the usual crowd of onlookers with their hands in their pockets and the Trebor’s Extra Strong Mints energetically a-suck, just in case. Lying on its back, the corpse didn’t look quite so bad. Slider looked into the face, and examined the hands. Roger Greatrex had been tall, lean, blue-eyed, and with artfully tousled, possibly streaked fair hair. He had a long, rather melancholy face, prominent nose, high cheekbones, a wide, thin-lipped mouth, a strong chin. His hands were long, large-jointed and veined – that’s where the age always showed, Slider thought – his nails were well-kept, and he wore no rings.

  ‘Would you call him good-looking? Attractive to women?’ Slider asked generally.

  ‘Except the mouth,’ Atherton answered him. ‘That’s a bad mouth. From what I can see of the teeth, they weren’t too good either. Didn’t take care of them when he was a lad.’

  ‘His clothes are expensive,’ Slider said. And stylish: a light-biscuit-coloured double-breaster, hanging fashionably loose from the bony shoulders, trousers with pleats and turn-ups, brown moccasins – expensive but not well-polished. All of course were now spoiled with blood – the tie was so stained he had to turn it over to see the design: a blue and lilac Matisse, very ‘in’. Along with the streaked hair, it spoke a man for whom appearance was important, a man who wanted to be younger than his age.

  Freddie was preparing to undress the body, and Mackay was standing by with the evidence bags, having tossed Anderson for it and lost. ‘I say, guv,’ Mackay said suddenly, ‘the dirty bugger’s left his flies undone.’

  ‘Fly,’ said Atherton automatically. ‘Flies are what you have in theatres or on dead meat.’

  ‘Well, what d’you call him?’ Mackay protested.

  ‘Was that how he was found?’ Slider asked Freddie.

  ‘No-one here’s touched it, if that’s what you mean,’ Freddie said.

  ‘Probably doesn’t mean anything,’ Slider said. ‘He wouldn’t be the first man to forget.’

  ‘Those pleat-fronted trousers hang better anyway, so you don’t notice so much,’ Atherton said.

  Freddie drew open the inside top pocket with forceps. ‘See what I mean about the bloodstains?’ he said to Slider. ‘I’ll cut some pieces of the fabric for the lab.’

  ‘If someone’s had a hand in there, it’s just possible we may get a fingerprint,’ Slider said. ‘Can you cut the whole outside of the pocket away?’

  Freddie grunted and complied, and removed from the exposed pocket a very battered leather wallet. It contained a number of credit and other cards, two hundred and fifteen pounds in cash, and three wrapped condoms.

  ‘Not robbery from the person, then,’ Slider said. ‘What’s that?’ A piece of card, about four inches by five, had fallen out from behind the wallet onto the corpse’s chest. Freddie passed it over.

  It was blank on one side; on the other side a plain black cross was embossed at the top in the centre, and below it was printed in Letraset:

  When the righteous turneth away from his righteousness, shall he live? In his trespass that he hath trespassed and in his sin that he hath sinned, in them shall he die. Ezek. 18:24.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Atherton.

  ‘Ezekiel,’ Slider said. ‘Nice warlike book – lots of smiting and swords and wrath-of-the-Lord.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have thought he’d be religious,’ Mackay commented. ‘Not dressed like that.’

  ‘What’s dress got to do with it?’ Anderson asked.

  ‘Well, he’s not got sandals on, or a beard.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to be religious, anyway,’ Anderson said.

  ‘Then why’s he carrying that card?’ Mackay said with triumphant logic.

  ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you,’ Atherton said kindly, ‘that perhaps the murderer put it there?’

  ‘If he was murdered,’ Mackay returned. ‘There’s no blood on it, anyway.’

  ‘Maybe he had gloves on. Or it could have been sent to him earlier as a threat.’

  ‘So, but why would he carry it around in his pocket?’

  Atherton rolled his eyes and left Mackay to his triumph.

  ‘Send the wallet and the card for fingerprinting too,’ Slider said. There was nothing else in the inside pocket. The other pockets revealed nothing of more interest than a used handkerchief, a handful of change, a stick of lip salve, a key-ring with car and house keys on it, a two-week-old tube ticket from South Kensington, and a very crumpled small paper bag containing five Pontefract cakes, two of which had stuck to the paper.

  ‘There aren’t many places you can still get sweets weighed out and put in a bag,’ Slider said. ‘I wonder how long he’s had these?’

  ‘Probably prophylactic,’ Atherton said. ‘He looks the type. Muddy complexion – dead giveaway. No personal things, you notice. No letters, photographs, anything like that.’

  ‘Not everyone carries them,’ Slider said.

  ‘But if they do, they often carry them in the wallet or the inside pocket. Maybe that’s what the pocket-fumbler was after.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Slider said. The rest of the clothes were of no particular interest, except that the socks had holes in them, and the toenails were long and not over-clean.

  ‘I’m liking this man less as we go along,’ Atherton complained.

  ‘Maybe he had a touch of arthritis and couldn’t bend down that far,’ Slider suggested kindly. Atherton snorted derision.

  There was a moment’s respectful silence, however, as the underpants were taken off. ‘Well, that accounts for his popularity with women,’ Anderson said at last, rather wistfully.

  ‘No wonder he wore pleated trousers,’ said Mackay.

  ‘You’d have thought he’d have trouble balancing,’ Anderson said. ‘I mean, with all that forward drag—’

  Freddie was examining the equipment in question with rather closer attention than might be thought necessary. ‘Look at this, Bill.’

  ‘It’s not easy to look anywhere else,’ Slider complained.

  ‘No, but look – here, and here. Smears of blood.’

  ‘That’s more than I need to know.’

  Freddie snatched back the purple bikini briefs which Mackay was in the act of bagging. ‘Yes, look, and here, on the waistband. Now what do you make of that?’

  ‘I’d rather not make anything of it,’ Slider said. ‘But if you force me to, I’d say somebody with bloody hands has handled it. Please don’t ask me why.’ To Mackay, ‘Bag the pants and the trousers separately. We might get a lift off one or other of them.’

  ‘It’s more evidence that it was murder and not suicide, though,’ Atherton commented. ‘Unless Philip Somers – or somebody else – found him dead and interfered with the body.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid there’s always that possibility,’ Slider said.

  ‘If somebody was looking for something in his inside pocket and didn’t find it,’ said Atherton, ‘maybe he went on to look in his underpants as well. No, scrub that, it’s stupid. What would a man keep in his underpants instead of his pocket?’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to check if he’s Jewish,’ Mackay said. There was a short silence. ‘He was circumcised.’

  ‘So are lots of people,’ Atherton said. ‘Anyway, he’s a blue-eyed blond. What’s to check?’

  ‘Here’s another little problem to add to the collection,’ said Freddie, who had been re-examining the trousers through a magnifying glass. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any blood on the tag of the zipper.’

  ‘So maybe he had just forgotten to close it,’ Atherton said.r />
  ‘And chummy just couldn’t resist a peek?’ Mackay suggested. ‘If he was famous for the size of his salami—’

  ‘I’ll make it the first thing I ask everyone who knew him,’ Atherton promised.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Definition of Character

  Detective Superintendent Honeyman was a small, tidy man with a pale face and a repressed expression, which always made Slider think of Richmal Crompton’s William scrubbed clean and pressed into his Eton suit for a party he didn’t want to go to. Honeyman parted what was left of his hair low down just above his right ear and drew it carefully over the bald top of his head in a Robert Robinson to meet up with the side-linings on the left. Did he really believe it would convince onlookers that there was a full head of hair all present and correct? Slider pondered. Or was it a more complex form of self-delusion, or even self-hypnosis carried out in front of the looking-glass? It was very dark, shiny hair, and Honeyman oiled it into place, so that from the front it looked rather as though he was wearing a crash helmet. The worst thing about it was trying not to look at it; concentrating on the effort meant Slider frequently missed things that Honeyman said.

  ‘Ah, Slider, there you are,’ he said. He had a small, high, rather fluting voice, which must have been a terrible handicap to him when he was a uniformed PC out on the wicked streets of London – even if villains were more polite in those days. ‘This Greatrex business.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Slider said, fixing his eyes on the point between Honeyman’s eyes. This meant looking down rather, since Honeyman standing up was shorter than him; and perhaps subconsciously Honeyman compensated by tilting his head back so that he could look at his subordinate from under his eyelids, like a small mistress of the house trying to subdue a tall housemaid by the power of personality.

  ‘I suppose it’s suicide,’ Honeyman said hopefully.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Slider said, and an expression of dissatisfaction overspread the little features.

  ‘Oh dear. And why not, pray?’ Slider told him about the knife, and Honeyman’s suffering lightened a little. ‘I can’t see your difficulty. It is possible deceased threw the knife away himself, isn’t it?’