Blood Lines

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  There was a pause while Slider digested all this; and then he said at last, ‘So, this man you saw rang for the lift and looked at you, and you went away. Now what made you think he had anything to do with the murder?’

  ‘Well, because of coming out of the gents where the poor bloke was topped,’ she said.

  ‘But you didn’t actually see him come out of there?’

  ‘Not to say, see him,’ she said reluctantly, ‘but I’m sure in me own mind that’s where he come from.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘And the look he give me. I wouldn’t want to meet him again in a dark alley.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘And the blood,’ she said, as though affirming something already agreed.

  ‘Blood?’ Atherton exploded, unable to prevent himself.

  She looked reproachful. ‘I was just coming to that, if you’d a give me half a chance. See, when he put his hand out to press the button, his sleeve like kind of pulled back and I see his hairy wrist an’ his wristwatch and the end of his cuff, and he had blood on it, on his cuff. Not a lot, but it was red, so it must’ve been fresh, mustn’t it? And I thought at the time he’d cut himself shaving—’

  ‘At that time of night?’ Atherton protested.

  ‘With his sort of beard he’d have to shave more’n once a day,’ she told him scornfully. ‘You thank your lucky stars you’re nice an fair, my lad. My first ’usband had that sort of beard – wicked on the razors, it was. Three I’ve had, counting this present one – buried two of ’em – and five sons, one of which was a sailor, so I know a bit about beards. And my first – he was one o’ them blue-chin ones. If we went out of an evening, up west dancing or down the dogs or anything, he had to shave again afore we went, and by the time we got home and went to bed he was like a coconut mat again. You could’ve sanded down doors with his chin. Now my boy Reggie—’

  ‘Did you see blood anywhere else?’ Slider asked, drawing her back from this primrose path.

  ‘No-o,’ she said reluctantly. ‘That’s all I see. I didn’t see no cuts on his face, anyway.’

  ‘So why has it taken you so long to come forward?’ Slider asked, but still gently. He didn’t want to rouse her resentment.

  ‘Well, I never thought of it,’ she said. ‘It went straight out of me head, and it was only yesterday when I went in to work I found out it was that lav that the poor gent was killed in. So that was what made me think of it then, and the blood an all.’ She looked at Slider wide-eyed for once. ‘D’you think that was him, the murderer?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said cautiously.

  She gave a shudder. ‘Fancy, I was that close to him,’ she said. ‘I lived in St Mark’s Road when the Christie murders was going on, and my mother reckoned she’d stood at the same bus stop with him. She said he had ’orrible eyes, like a dead cod. And now I’ve met another one. It’s like fate, innit?’

  ‘The most important thing, Mrs Reynolds, is, do you think you could recognise him again?’

  ‘What?’ she said derisively. ‘Printed on my brain, he is! I’d know him anywhere.’

  ‘And you’d be willing to come in again and look at an identity parade for me, if necessary?’

  ‘Oh, I’d do that all right,’ she said, ‘but I want your word that my name’ll be kept private. I don’t want it all in the papers that I’m the key witness or nothing. Because you haven’t caught him yet, have you?’ She looked from one to the other and did not require an answer. ‘That’s what I thought. See, I don’t want my life being at risk, if this bloke finds out I’m the only person what can pick him out. I want witness protection.’

  The effects of watching too much television, Slider thought. ‘I can assure you that if protection is needed, you’ll get it,’ he said. ‘And for the moment, there’s no need for anyone but us to know your name. But you mustn’t tell anyone about this either, you know. That’s the way these things usually get about. A witness tells a friend in confidence, and the friend tells another friend, and so on.’

  ‘I’m not a fool,’ she said briskly. ‘I haven’t told no-one any of this – not even your bloke at the desk,’ she added with a flick of her head. ‘I know how to keep my mouth shut. Careless talk costs lives – and it’s my life we’re talking about.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Slider said. ‘I’m sure you won’t be in any danger, even if this does turn out to be the man we’re looking for.’

  ‘You didn’t see him,’ she snorted. ‘He looked capable of anythink to me.’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ Slider asked Atherton.

  ‘I think it’s a load of old Tottenham,’ he said robustly. ‘You heard what she said about her mum standing at the bus stop with Reg Christie. She’s a sensation-seeker, wants to be important, so she invents a sinister-looking man at the scene of the murder covered in blood and giving her threatening looks.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Slider. ‘Well, she didn’t say covered in blood, did she? Just a little bit on his cuff.’

  ‘You believed her,’ Atherton discovered.

  Slider paused. What he thought was that sometimes in this game all you had to go on to decide between what mattered and what didn’t was a policeman’s instinct; and something in his scalp had prickled when Mrs Reynolds started talking. If she was genuine, even following what he had come to think of as the Honeyman theory, the Man by the Lift, if he had come out of the gents, might at least be able to help pin down the time a bit more accurately and would therefore qualify for following up and tracking down.

  What he said was, ‘If she had been attention-seeking, she might well have said he was covered in blood. And if she was attention-seeking she’d have surely said that she saw him come out of the gents loo.’

  ‘And that’s what convinces you? That she hasn’t told us anything useful?’

  ‘I think she’s telling the truth, and I think she’s an observant person and not given to embroidery. It doesn’t mean to say the man she saw was our man, of course.’

  ‘Her description doesn’t sound like Somers,’ Atherton complained. ‘And we’d just got him the perfect, hand-cut crystal motive.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like Palliser either.’

  ‘Maybe it was Parsons,’ Atherton said recovering his sense of proportion.

  ‘She didn’t see anyone else in the corridor, so she must have come down the stairs before Somers discovered the body, or he’d have been standing at the door. So if the man she saw had come out of the loo, either he was the murderer, or—’

  ‘Or he wasn’t,’ Atherton finished with grim humour. ‘The trouble has always been that we haven’t any exact times.’

  ‘What we have got now,’ Slider said, ‘is the bag to look for.’

  ‘You think the bag’s important?’

  Slider grinned suddenly. ‘Me? Think? In this case? I think either the bag’s been dumped somewhere near the scene—’

  ‘Or it hasn’t. God help us, what a case! When this is over it’ll be hols all round at the Latex Hilton. Still, we’ve got something to work on with Somers, at least. Shall I go back and confront him, guv, see if he breaks down and confesses?’

  ‘No, not today,’ Slider said. ‘I want to get the full report on his sister and Greatrex before we go any further with him. It’s always best to lead from strength.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t know anything about bridge.’

  ‘I can’t help knowing the language, can I? Anyway, it won’t do any harm to let Somers stew for a bit. You can go and roust him tomorrow morning, if the report’s come through.’

  ‘Thanks. So what now?’

  ‘What now? Food, rest, recreation. Remember those?’

  ‘All right for you, you’ve got a woman to go back to,’ Atherton complained.

  ‘You can come too.’

  ‘Thanks, but won’t you want to be alone?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s all right. We did all that last night – the reunion, the heartsearching, the conf
essions, the forgiveness—’

  ‘Stop it, you’re getting me excited. What confessions?’

  ‘I had a fit of jealousy to explain and get over,’ Slider said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Atherton wisely, ‘she told you about it, then? Sue seemed to think she wouldn’t. We had quite a discussion about whether it was best to tell or keep silent.’

  ‘Tell? Told me what?’ Slider said.

  ‘About this old flame of hers turning up.’ Atherton looked at him. ‘Wasn’t that what you meant? Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

  ‘What old flame?’

  ‘Oh, blimey, guv, me and my big mouth! Have I gone and put my foot in it?’

  ‘Stop clowning. What old flame?’

  Atherton looked serious. ‘Look, there’s nothing to tell. It’s some bloke she had a do with years and years ago turned up at the orchestra as a substitute for someone who was sick. That’s all. End of story. She didn’t know he was coming. Hasn’t had any contact with him in years. Sue was just debating with me whether it would be better for Joanna to tell you he’d been there, and risk your feeling jealous over nothing, or not tell you and risk your finding out later and thinking there was something to be jealous about simply because she hadn’t told you. And now,’ he added, striking his brow, ‘I’ve gone and given her the worst of both worlds.’

  Slider pulled himself together. ‘No you haven’t. Don’t be so dramatic. There’s nothing to tell, as you so rightly said. So are you coming back with me to Joanna’s?’

  Atherton hesitated, wondering whether he would really be welcome. ‘I’m not finished,’ he said.

  ‘Then I’ll disregard the rumours,’ Slider said kindly. ‘Come on, make your mind up, I’ve got to phone her.’

  ‘Well, if I really won’t be de trop.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Into Each Wine, a Little Leaf Must Fall

  ‘By the way, did you hear the news?’ Joanna said. ‘Laurence Jepp was attacked in his home last night and killed.’

  ‘Laurence Jepp?’ Slider said. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

  ‘Singer,’ Atherton supplied, dabbling his last chip in the salty vinegar which had accumulated at the bottom of the bag. A sudden longing had overcome Joanna for fish and chips, and Slider had gone along with it on condition that they ate them out of the paper, anything else being a spineless compromise.

  ‘He sang Leporello in our Don Giovanni,’ said Joanna. ‘It’s terrible. I can’t believe he’s dead – I was standing just behind him in the coffee queue in the Courtyard only last week.’

  This sounded uncomfortably like Mrs Reynolds. Slider said, ‘It’s always a shock when it’s someone you know.’

  ‘Well, I knew him to say hello to, that’s all,’ Joanna said, reaching for a sense of proportion. ‘Its a good job the Don’s finished now. He was a terrific Leporello, and the understudy was very weak.’

  ‘I saw his Pagliacci,’ Atherton said. ‘It’s a sad loss to music.’

  ‘Was he married?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Apparently not. He lived alone, anyway – in Ealing. They showed it on the news – one of those big houses on the Green. Really enormous. I expect he only had a flat in it, though. I can’t believe he was that rich – I mean, not in the Pavarotti class. None of the English singers are.’

  ‘What happened?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘They didn’t say much. Someone broke into his house while he was asleep. A burglar, I suppose. Apparently he had a panic button beside his bed and he must have pressed it before he got clobbered, because the alarm went off and the police were there within minutes, but it was too late.’ She leaned over to top up the glasses with hock. ‘It’s a bummer, isn’t it? Poor old Larry.’

  ‘As you say, it’s a good job the Don is finished,’ Atherton said lightly. ‘Jepp wasn’t in anything else, was he?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but I’m only in Traviata now.’

  ‘Who’s singing Violetta?’

  ‘Sonia Morgenstern,’ Joanna said, and Atherton made a face. ‘Well, all right, she’s a bit ripe and fruity—’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind that, but she’s got so much vibrato she never gets within a tone of the note she’s aiming at. And her coloratura—’

  ‘I thought that was wallpaper,’ Slider complained.

  ‘No, that’s Coloroll,’ Atherton corrected. ‘But you weren’t far off. They’re both decoration—’

  ‘Yes, thank you, I don’t want a music lesson,’ Slider interrupted. ‘Can we talk about something else? I’m up to my navel in culture these days.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Atherton shrugged. ‘Who d’you fancy for the cup, then, sir? Booked anywhere for your holidays?’

  ‘Did you read that story in the newspaper the other day,’ Joanna said, ‘about the girl who worked in the unisex hairdressers? She was clipping round the back of this middle-aged bloke’s neck when she saw his hand going up and down under the cape, so she thought that’s enough of that nonsense and whacked him quite hard on the head with the clippers. And it turned out he had his glasses under there and was cleaning them on his tie.’

  They sat late in Joanna’s garden, drinking wine under the terminally blighted oak tree that took up most of the space, listening to the sounds of the evening and talking. When the wine was finished and Atherton had gone, ranging out into the night like a lean cat with the flattest of eyes and demurest of goodbyes, Joanna returned to Slider and gave him a brooding and not entirely friendly look.

  ‘What was all that about, then?’ she asked.

  ‘What was what about?’

  ‘Don’t be tiresome. I’m talking about your performance tonight.’

  ‘My performance?’

  ‘Snapping at everyone. Making sarky remarks about opera and music. Playing the poor beleaguered Essex Man surrounded by pretentious Islingtonites.’

  Slider stared in amazement. ‘I didn’t. I wasn’t. I was a bit surprised by your performance, though – since you coined the word.’

  ‘I didn’t coin it, I only used it. Please try to be accurate. I thought it was part of your job.’

  ‘You’re doing it again, you see.’

  ‘Doing what again?’

  ‘Making pointed remarks about my job. It doesn’t matter so much about sneering at me, but Atherton’s a policeman too, you know.’

  ‘Leave Atherton out of this—’

  ‘I’d love to, but it was me who was being left out by you two, yakking on and on about music. It was perfectly obvious which of us you found the better company—’

  ‘And I was right, wasn’t I? The way you’ve been behaving tonight, you weren’t fit company for anyone.’

  ‘You should have stuck with him while you had the chance, then.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Work it out for yourself!’

  ‘Oh, we’re back to that are we? I thought we’d come to it sooner or later. It never fails – as soon as a man thinks he’s got you, he starts throwing your past in your face, complaining that you weren’t a virgin when he met you. You’re such hypocrites, all of you!’

  Slider opened his mouth to snap at her, and then shut it again as the echoes of the last few exchanges came back to him. ‘What are we doing?’ he said at last, appalled. ‘This isn’t us.’

  ‘Why should we be different from anyone else?’ she said grimly, but the heat had gone out of her, too. She looked at him for a long moment, while the grimness slowly gave way to wryness. ‘You want to tell me about it?’

  ‘About what?’ he said defiantly.

  ‘About what’s wrong,’ she said, and seeing the denial in his face said, ‘I take back everything I said up to this point. But there is something wrong, isn’t there?’

  ‘Not with you, with me,’ he said unwillingly.

  ‘Is it the case?’

  ‘Oh—! No, not directly.’

  ‘What, then?’

  He sat down abruptly, and she sat too, facing him across a little
strip of carpet that seemed suddenly as daunting as the Mojave Desert. He licked his lips nervously. As an until-recently married man, he wasn’t used to this talking to each other business. Better, though, as he was always telling reluctant criminals, to have it out in the open. ‘Atherton told me that – that there was an old flame of yours down at Glyndebourne.’

  A faint smile. ‘What lovely language. An old flame.’ But that was all she said.

  ‘Well, was there?’ Slider asked after a minute, feeling foolish, truculent and insecure in about equal proportions.

  ‘Little tattle-tail, isn’t he?’ she said without affection. ‘What business is it of his, I’d like to know? Well, since you ask, a person I knew a long time ago and haven’t seen for years turned up, called in as a sub in the orchestra, that’s all.’

  ‘A person you knew,’ he repeated. ‘More than knew, surely?’

  She looked at him with some deep unwillingness, but what it related to he couldn’t be quite sure. ‘I used to live with him.’

  Damn, Slider thought; though he had feared as much. ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him before?’

  ‘I don’t have to discuss my past with you. I don’t ask you about yours.’

  ‘I haven’t got any,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘That’s beside the point—’

  ‘It is the point. You aren’t going to spend your life tripping over people I’ve been to bed with.’

  ‘Oh—!’ She got to her feet in a movement of frustration and suppressed rage, walked a few steps, and turned back to him, her fists clenched with the effort of keeping her temper and being reasonable. ‘The past is past. It’s gone and dead and over, and it’s none of your business anyway. What happened to me before I met you is mine and you can’t have it – not because I won’t give it to you,’ she hurried on, ‘but because there’s no way you can possess it. So just leave it alone, or you’ll destroy what we have.’

  ‘What about when it isn’t over and dead? When it gets up and walks back in?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when it does.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me about this bloke being at Glyndebourne.’