Fell Purpose

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Someone’ll miss her, nice girl like that. She’s not a prozzie.’

  Slider agreed. Despite the clothes, she looked like someone’s daughter. Her skin and hair were well cared-for and well nourished, and her navel wasn’t pierced.

  ‘I’m going to go all out to get you resources for this one,’ Porson said, ‘even if it does jeropodise the budget. It’s going to be hell’s own job, though, getting the uniforms back, what with the Carnival.’ The Notting Hill Carnival, held every August Bank Holiday, sucked police out of the system like a black hole. ‘What a weekend to choose!’

  ‘I wonder if it was an informed choice,’ Slider said, thinking of those tights.

  Porson shuddered. ‘If the villains are going to start getting smart, we’re out of a job.’ He glanced round and said, ‘I’m going to go now, before someone tries to interview me. Keep me up to scratch on this. I’ll get on with pulling in some extra men. Ask me for anything you want.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Slider watched him scuttle away, nimbly avoiding the TV cameras. Wise move, he thought. A closed mouth gathers no feet.

  He was giving directions to the slowly increasing manpower – some to start the fingertip search, some to the canvassing of locals – when one of the uniformed extras, Gostyn, came up to him.

  ‘Just found this, sir.’ He held out something which Slider accepted into his plastic-gloved palm. It was an ornament about the size of a fifty-pence piece, an open circle with a Z inside it, all in diamonds on a silver-coloured metal. ‘It was just this side of the bushes, sir, lying in the grass. Think it could be hers?’

  Slider remembered the thin red cut on the victim’s neck. ‘Could be. If it was on a chain round her neck—’

  Gostyn got the point. ‘And he grabbed it while he was struggling with her and broke it,’ he finished for him eagerly.

  Slider shook his head. ‘He must have grabbed it from behind. The chain cut her neck at the front.’

  ‘So he was chasing her, you reckon?’

  ‘Not necessarily. They might have been talking, then she suddenly got scared and turned to try to escape, and he grabbed her then. If she turned suddenly, that could have been when she broke the heel of her shoe and burst the straps.’

  Atherton joined them. ‘What’s that? Oh, a letter Z. That’ll narrow the field.’

  ‘Could be an N, sir,’ Gostyn said, trying to be helpful.

  ‘No, look,’ said Slider, ‘here’s the ring the chain goes through. It hangs this way. It’s a Z all right.’

  ‘Zöe,’ Gostyn said. ‘Or . . .’ He racked his brains unsuccessfully.

  ‘Zuleika,’ Atherton supplied. ‘Zenobia. Zephany.’

  ‘Zebra,’ said Gostyn eagerly, and then blushed his confusion as Atherton’s eyebrow went up. ‘I was thinking of Debra,’ he muttered. Anyway, since when was Zephany a name?

  ‘Can I see?’ Atherton took it and tilted it back and forth. The stones caught the light and flung it back. ‘They look like real diamonds. Small, but not fake. Which means the setting’s probably white gold or platinum. Someone didn’t mind spending money on her. Pretty good going at her age.’

  ‘If it’s hers,’ Slider said. ‘Find the chain before you jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Yes, oh cautious one.’

  ‘Did you have something to tell me?’ Slider asked him.

  ‘Something important,’ Atherton confirmed. ‘The tea waggon’s arrived. Bacon sarnie?’

  After a morning and most of the afternoon setting in train the involved and laborious routine of investigation, Slider was back at his desk ploughing through the paperwork when Freddie Cameron, the forensic pathologist, rang. His cut-glass tones, as neat and dapper as his habitual attire, were as stimulating as a yellow waistcoat. He and Slider went back a long way, and Slider had never known him to be other than cheerful, even in the face of the most insalubrious corpses.

  ‘Hello, Bill! How’s life?’

  ‘I’m waiting for the movie. How are you?’

  ‘Always merry and bright.’

  ‘Even coming in on a Bank Holiday?’

  ‘The traffic’s a pleasure. Absence thereof. And the phone doesn’t ring so much.’

  Slider smiled. ‘I firmly believe if you were being transported to Hades you’d be making cheery small-talk with the Ferryman.’

  ‘Of course.’ Freddie put on his unconvincing cockney accent. ‘I ’ad that Orpheus in the back of my boat once . . .’

  ‘Orpheus? Didn’t we have him up for luting?’

  ‘My God, that’s terrible! Let’s change the subject. I’ve got your corpus. Sorry business – poor little beast. Thought I’d give you a preliminary report.’

  ‘Thanks. Was it what it looked like?’

  ‘From external examination it certainly looks as though death was due to strangulation, and the tights fit the pattern on the skin, so they probably are the weapon.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start.’ Anything straightforward was a relief.

  ‘I’m a bit choked up with work at the moment with half my staff on holiday, so unless there’s a particular reason to hurry, I’ll have to put off the post for a day or two. I can’t see anything out of the way, though. No sign of drugs, but I’ll do the usual tests when the time comes. No sign of forcible penetration, or indeed of recent sexual activity – no semen or lubricant traces. But our young lady was not a virgin. In fact I’d say she was probably quite experienced.’

  ‘God, they start early these days,’ Slider said. ‘She can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.’

  ‘How old were you?’ Freddie asked drily.

  ‘I was a country boy,’ Slider said. ‘We didn’t have anything else to do. Any defence injuries?’

  ‘Nothing visible. There might be some subcutaneous bruising. No blood or tissue under the fingernails, unfortunately.’

  ‘Her nails were cut short,’ Slider mentioned.

  ‘Yes, and she had strong hands, too – I wonder if she played the piano? Probably the assailant took her by surprise, and instead of hitting or scratching him she tried to pull the ligature away. Pity. But we may find hairs or fibres somewhere. Nil desperandum.’

  ‘I love it when you talk Latin to me. Time of death?’

  ‘I haven’t done a liver stick yet, but I doubt if the temperature is going to tell us much we don’t know already. I’d estimate she’d been dead about twelve hours when I saw her this morning, which as you know is give or take the usual eight-hour margin.’

  ‘Helpful.’

  ‘But I understand she was found at about seven?’

  ‘Six forty-five. Woman walking her dog.’

  ‘So that cuts it down this end. And I noticed—’

  ‘The dew on her hair?’

  ‘Give that man a coconut. Now, I’ve done a quick bit of research and dew point would have been at about two o’ clock this morning, so given that the ground underneath her was dry—’

  ‘She must have been put there before then. Was she killed where we found her?’

  ‘The hypostasis was consistent with it, though as you know that’s only an indicator, not proof positive. But given the trampled grass and her broken shoe and the way the body was lying, I’d say it most likely happened there.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Slider said. ‘It’s hard to make a body look natural once you’ve moved it.’

  ‘Oh, it was a trick question, was it? I’m supposed to tell you things you didn’t know.’

  ‘How about her name? That would be a help.’

  ‘I’ll send over the fingerprints and dental record as soon as I’ve done them, but I dare say someone will claim her before you have to use them. Oh, by the way, I understand you found some sort of pendant or charm? Well, we found the chain, broken. It was underneath her when we turned her over. Possibly slipped down inside her clothing when it snapped, and slipped out at the bottom later on, when she was struggling. You saw the cut on her neck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you wo
uld have. It’s consistent with the chain. Must have exerted considerable force – I’m guessing it was a sharp jerk to restrain her rather than an attempt at strangulation.’

  ‘Considerable force? So it might have cut his hand too?’

  ‘Possibly. I’ll test it for tissue or blood, but don’t count on it.’

  ‘I never do.’

  ‘Buck up,’ Freddie said sympathetically. ‘At least it wasn’t a rape.’

  ‘No, just murder,’ said Slider. ‘So much more civilized.’

  Slider let himself in, very late, to the narrow hall of the flat, and at once Joanna appeared, in her dressing-gown, finger to her lips.

  ‘Don’t wake the baby,’ she said, coming to kiss him.

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Perfect. You have a perfect baby.’

  ‘How was the day?’

  ‘It went very well. A good time was had by all, I think.’

  He followed her into the kitchen. ‘How was Dad?’

  ‘He seemed all right. He’s a bit slower about everything, but he’s pretty spry, considering, and there’s nothing wrong with his mind. He and Matthew were ages out in the garden, talking about the countryside and nature and so on.’

  ‘That’s what he used to do with me,’ Slider said, smiling faintly, remembering pre-dawn trips to watch for badgers.

  ‘And Kate was wonderful with the baby. She’s mad about him.’

  ‘If only we could have the children to stay, she could babysit him,’ Slider said.

  ‘I’ll go out house-hunting again tomorrow. I’ll widen the search area as well.’ She eyed him sympathetically. ‘You look exhausted. Was it awful?’

  ‘I’ve known worse. But she was so young.’ He told her the bare facts. ‘And we don’t even know who she is yet. Unknown person, killed by person unknown. I’ve had people trawling missing persons and runaways, and another lot looking through the rogues’ gallery. All without success so far.’ He yawned hugely, surprising himself. ‘Any phone calls?’

  ‘Just one message for me. They’ve changed the programme on Thursday to the bloody old Enigma. I hate that piece.’

  ‘But you love Elgar.’

  ‘That’s why I hate the Enigma. What a waste of talent! Variations aren’t music, they’re an exercise: how many different ways can I write this dopey tune? It’s like asking Shakespeare how many words he can make out of “Constantinople”. Like giving Sir Christopher Wren that puzzle with the three houses and the three utilities, and you have to link them all without crossing the lines!’

  ‘I love it when you get all vehement,’ Slider smiled, gathering her in to his chest.

  ‘You do realize what this means, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘You’re going to have to practise?’

  ‘Some detective you are,’ she said. ‘Work it out: you, murder investigation. Me, concert Thursday. You were supposed to be home on Thursday night minding the baby.’

  ‘Oh Lord, yes. I can’t depend on getting back in time.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been phoning round all evening. Everyone’s away or busy.’

  He pondered sleepily. Now he was winding down, Morpheus was catching up, stepping on his heels. With an effort he connected up various threads. ‘Atherton said this morning that he and Emily would sit for us some time if we wanted to go out.’

  ‘Nice of him. I’d like to go out with you some day, before I’m old and sere.’

  ‘But he’s going to be busy this week too. So maybe Emily would come over – or you could take George to her.’

  ‘Genius. The man’s a genius. Why didn’t I think of her? I’ll ring her tomorrow.’ She kissed him affectionately. ‘Look at you, you’re exhausted. Do you want anything to eat?’

  He shook his head. ‘Too tired to swallow.’

  ‘Go on to bed, and I’ll rub your back for you.’ It soothed him when he was tense after a bad day. She let him have the bathroom first, and then popped in and brought the bergamot oil back with her. But he was already asleep, curled on his side with one fist under his chin.

  He had surprisingly long eyelashes for a man, she thought, looking down at him. There was a bit of hair on the crown of his head that grew a different way from the rest, and it was hard to get it to lie down. The baby had just the same unruly tuft. She felt the enormous and surprising pang in the loins, that only a woman who has borne a son to the man she loves can feel.

  TWO

  Tout Passe, Tout Casse, Tout Lasse

  Fathom, one of Slider’s DCs, appeared at the door: a big, thick-built, meaty-faced lad who looked as if he ought to be slinging hay-bales rather than negotiating the intricacies of a murder investigation. ‘Guv, I’ve had a breakthrough,’ he announced excitedly.

  Slider looked up. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve mastered the photocopier at last?’

  ‘No, guv,’ he said, wounded. ‘I’ve got the victim’s name. Well, I think I have. You see, I looked up diamond initial pendants on Google, and there were pages of ’em, but none in circles like that one. So I rang up this contact of mine – she does the consumer page in the local rag. She’s brilliant – knows where to find anything in the shopping line. Anyway, she put me on to this jeweller’s shop in King Street, the only local place they do ’em. And bingo! The bloke remembered the Z because you don’t sell many of ’em and he had to order it in special. So he looked up the receipt and it was a Mr Wilding, bought it in May for his daughter when she passed Grade Eight piano.’

  ‘Piano! Freddie, you’re a genius,’ Slider said.

  ‘Guv?’ Slider waved it away. ‘Anyway,’ Fathom continued, ‘it seems the bloke couldn’t stop talking about his daughter – proud as a parrot, which is how come the jeweller got to hear so much about her, and remembered the name. Zellah.’

  ‘I didn’t see that coming,’ Slider remarked.

  ‘I made him spell it. I’ve never heard of it,’ Fathom admitted.

  ‘It’s from the Bible,’ said Slider, who’d had that kind of education. ‘I hope you got an address as well?’

  ‘Yes, guv. Two Violet Street, East Acton. You know?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Slider. He knew.

  There was a small development of former council houses, built in the thirties and sold off in the eighties, set out in roads with unbearably sweet floral names: Daffodil Street, Clematis, Orchid, Foxglove, Pansy Gardens, Tamarisk Square . . . It was only about a mile as the crow flew from that spot by the railway embankment; although, divided from it as it was by the width of the Scrubs, Du Cane Road, the Central Line rail tracks, and the near-motorway of the A40, it probably felt like a lot further away than that to the residents.

  ‘Then I looked ’em up on the electoral register and the last census,’ Fathom went on. ‘He’s Derek and the wife’s Pamela June. No one else living there, just them and the girl.’

  ‘Well done, lad,’ Slider said, and if there was a note of surprise in his voice – because Fathom had not exactly shone like true specie so far at Shepherd’s Bush – Fathom didn’t seem to notice it.

  ‘Zellah Wilding,’ Atherton said. ‘It sounds positively Brontëesque. It’s an untamed beauty with flowing raven locks, rampaging about the moors in a thunderstorm.’

  ‘I wonder why they haven’t missed her,’ Slider said, ‘if she’s been gone two nights.’ Knowing the name only made him feel sadder. The unknown victim was now much more of a person: a person whose fate had become his intimate business, but whom he would never meet.

  ‘Maybe they have,’Atherton said. ‘You know Mispers don’t pass stuff along that quickly when it’s older girls. Or maybe she was staying away somewhere. It’s still school holidays.’

  ‘True,’ Slider admitted. ‘Well, someone’s got to go and tell them. Want to volunteer?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to go?’ Atherton wheedled.

  ‘I’ve got too much bumph to clear. You’re it. Go thou – and think like me.’

  The houses on the floral estate were small, neat, almost cottagey, red brick wi
th white trim and good-sized gardens front and back. Now that they were in private hands, they had lost some of their uniformity, as owners tried to obliterate their council past by changing the doors and windows in usually inappropriate ways, tacking on porches and bays, and in some cases even applying stone-cladding (for which Atherton knew Slider felt the death penalty ought to be re-introduced).

  He conceived an embryo of respect for the owner of number 2 Violet Street when he saw that the new double-glazed windows had been made in size and style to match what they replaced, and the new front door was seemly and wooden and painted a modest dark green, in contrast to the all-glass, aliframed horrors of its neighbours.

  The front garden had a neatly trimmed privet hedge, a small square of lawn, and a circular bed of well-tended roses. Behind there would be an unusually large garden, because the street was laid out at an angle, and this house benefited from the corner. Also because of the corner there was a separate side entrance to the back garden, shut off by a high wooden gate. As he got out of the car, the roaring of the traffic down the Westway – as this section of the A40 was called – became apparent. Along this side of the dual carriageway, a row of houses had been demolished back in the eighties for a road development that had never happened, and there was now a strip of wild land, the lost plots reverting to nature. The rear garden of number two backed on to this strip. Atherton wondered how a careful gardener would feel about having to live right next to a riot of seeded grass, bramble and willow-herb, all anxious to escape to civilisation. Well, they would have something worse to think of now.

  From the other side of the car stepped Connolly, a uniform who had joined Slider’s team as a temporary replacement for Swilley and was keen to transfer permanently to the CID. She was from Clontarf originally, and though ten years in Putney had muted her Dublin accent, the cadences of her home town would never be eliminated from her speech. She was a green-eyed blonde, almost too petite to be a copper; attractive – though Atherton told himself she was not in the same class as Kathleen ‘Norma’ Swilley, who was away having a baby in the inconsiderate manner of womankind and, incidentally, breaking Atherton’s heart. Not that he wasn’t happy with Emily: it was just that he hated to see a work of art despoiled. Norma pregnant was like the Mona Lisa with a moustache scribbled on it.