Blood Never Dies

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Nah. It’s separate, innit, blokes’ time? You don’t wanna mix ’em. I mean, he didn’t come round and watch when I had a bird up there.’

  ‘Did you ever go to his house?’

  ‘I don’t even know where he lived.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen him lately?’

  ‘Not since he got sacked from Ransom’s. I thought I might see him at the club, but he’s not been in there either, not when I’ve been in.’

  ‘Why was he sacked? You said he was good at it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ For the first time, Tommy looked puzzled. ‘I dunno. He was good. And Ewan liked him – he’s the director – because he knew the ropes. He said he’d done film extra work, so he didn’t have to be told all the basic stuff. He knew a lot of technical stuff, an’ all. Him and Ewan got on great, chatting away about cameras and lighting and angles and frames and all that bollocks.’

  ‘So it wasn’t Ewan who wanted rid of him?’

  ‘No, that was down to the big boss, Mr Barrow. I see Mike trying to get friendly with him, and I thought, good luck with that, because he don’t do friendly, the boss. Mike was kind of hanging round him, trying to get him talking, and I s’pose it musta got on his nerves or something, because suddenly one day when I go in Mike’s not there, and when I ask Ewan about it, he says “Paul’s let him go.” That’s Mr Barrow. And he like gives me a look as if to say, “Don’t ask.” So I don’t. It was awkward, though, ’cos we were halfway through a film, so it must have took a lot of editing with one of the main actors suddenly missing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Connolly thoughtfully. ‘I can see it would.’

  Tommy wiped his nose on his fingers, looked about vaguely, and then wiped them on his trouser leg. For the first time, curiosity dawned. ‘Why you asking all this about Mike, anyway? What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know. Well, thanks for your help, Tommy. I’ll leave you be now.’

  ‘No, no wait! You must be asking for some reason. Why d’you want to get hold of him?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re not in trouble, that’s all you need to know. But if you think of anything he said about his family or background or past life, the names of anyone he knew or any firm he worked for, you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

  She gave him a card, and for a moment the old Tommy reappeared on the last fizzing of the fine Bolivian in his brain stem.

  ‘Woah! This your private line? Bay-bee, you can bet yo’ sweet ass I will be looking you up! And any time you want a bit of fi–i–ine lovin’ you just call for the Flynnmeister, babe! Light blue touch paper and retire, know what I’m sayin’?’

  ‘You’d want to listen to yourself,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Love a God, y’ sound like a total gobshite. On second thoughts, give me me card back.’ She whipped it out from his nerveless fingers. ‘I don’t want you usin’ it if for choppin’ out lines. If you think of anything, ring Shepherd’s Bush nick and talk to anyone, they’ll pass it on.’

  She left him standing there, and as she turned out of the door towards the stairs she heard his forlorn little voice behind her still trying to be the big man. ‘Yeah,’ he called. ‘You an’ me, babe. We’re happening!’

  I may be happening, she retorted silently, but you’re just a big owl messy accident.

  ‘So you see, boss,’ she concluded her report to Slider, ‘there must have been a good reason for getting rid of him, to chuck him out in the middle of a film.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Slider. ‘But what reason? Flynn didn’t give any hint?’

  ‘No, boss. But I get the impression he spends most of his life jacked out of his gourd, so he probably wouldn’t notice if it was written on the wall in red paint. But wouldn’t you say it looks as though there’s something to investigate there? With Horden getting chucked out for nothing.’

  ‘The big boss, Paul Barrow, says he couldn’t act,’ Slider said.

  ‘Tommy Flynn says he could.’

  ‘Tommy Flynn doesn’t sound like the best judge of anything,’ Slider said. ‘But anyway, what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said in frustration.

  ‘Don’t know what?’ Atherton asked, coming in.

  ‘What there is to know about Ransom Publications,’ Connolly answered.

  ‘Another known unknown,’ he said.

  ‘But we’ve learned a few things about Horden-stroke-Williams,’ Slider said. ‘He claimed to have done film extra work, he knew a lot about music, he sought out Tommy Flynn, who didn’t previously know him, to get the introduction to Ransom’s, he smoked dope and may or may not have taken cocaine, and he was thrown out in the middle of a film, which suggests some urgency on the part of the thrower.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Atherton. ‘On that very topic, I’ve been looking into Paul Barrow.’

  ‘And?’ said Slider.

  ‘He’s not lily white, that’s for sure. His most recent bust is for speeding on the M40 near High Wycombe – doing a hundred and twenty in a Maserati at two in the morning. Those Buckinghamshire cops don’t take prisoners.’ He looked at Slider. ‘You know where the M40 leads?’

  Slider got it. ‘Birmingham. Ransom’s works in Solihull?’

  ‘It’s an even bet. That was back in April this year. Before that, two years ago, he had a bust for possession of and driving under the influence of a class A substance, to whit cocaine. On the M25 near Staines. Going further back, there was an arrest for affray outside a club, Vanya’s, in Soho. That was ten years ago. He plastered two blokes all over the pavement – claimed they had picked his pocket. They were low life, but the magistrate decided the beating was out of proportion and gave him a six month suspended. The most serious bust was for sexual assault of a young woman at her flat. That was fifteen years ago. He ripped her clothes off, blacked her eye and broke her arm. A neighbour called the cops and they arrested him but the girl wouldn’t make a charge and in the end it was dropped.’

  ‘Nice class of feller,’ Connolly said.

  ‘A prince among men,’ said Atherton. ‘I spoke to a bloke at Central and apparently and unofficially it seems the girl was working for him and he accused her of stealing. He tore her clothes off to search her, not as a precursor to rape, hit her to stop her screaming, and broke her arm accidentally because he didn’t know his own strength.’

  ‘Stealing what?’

  ‘It didn’t emerge. Anyway, once she’d calmed down she refused to cooperate with any kind of charge, and before they could work on her she discharged herself from hospital and disappeared.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Connolly remarked.

  ‘Was he working for Ransom Publications all this time?’ Slider asked.

  ‘No, he was manager of Vanya’s when the affray incident happened. Lost his job, apparently, on account of it, but shortly was known to be managing another club, the Hot Box, also in Soho – Greek Street. He went to Ransom Publications ten years ago. Going way back it seems he did a course in film and photography in Holloway, so that’s how he had the qualification for it. Although I expect other qualities would also be needed for that particular job. Further back still he studied accountancy at Brunel University. That’s where he started. Moved on a long way.’

  ‘How was the girl he assaulted connected to him?’

  ‘According to my Central contact, they’ve long suspected him of running a string of girls on the side, but they haven’t been able to prove anything. They think she was one of them, and he suspected her of holding money back, but as she disappeared they couldn’t investigate any further.’

  ‘Private life?’ Slider queried.

  ‘Nothing much. He’s fifty-six, born in Bermondsey – south of the river and beyond the pale – father was a print worker. Lives in a luxury penthouse, Flat Twelve, Chiltern Mansions, Chiltern Street – just opposite Baker Street station. Was married in 1989 to a Mary Lynnette Scott, but according to the electoral register he lives alone, so presumably they’re separated or divo
rced. Has a red Maserati – as we have noted – and Chiltern Mansions has its own underground garage to keep it safe,’ he added, ‘so we needn’t be anxious on its behalf. It would be a crime if it got scratched.’

  ‘Well, what’s all this got to do with our body?’ Connolly asked in some frustration.

  Atherton looked at her blankly. ‘Search me. It does make him very, very tasty, however – especially the living alone. Creepy! The more I learn about him the more I fancy him for the job.’

  ‘Ye–es,’ said Slider thoughtfully. ‘As against which, we still don’t actually know who our body is. Michael Horden had no criminal record, the address he gave was false, and though we know he worked briefly as a porn movie actor, that’s all we do know.’

  ‘And he wasn’t even still doing it when he was killed, so why should your man Barrow have anything to do with it?’ Connolly finished for him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Atherton said, ‘but I just bet he has.’

  Late in the day, Bob Bailey appeared in Slider’s room, smelling of soap and the washing-powder halitus of a clean shirt. He was freshly shaved and his hair was in damp spikes at the front.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.

  Slider, feeling grubby and armpit-marshy from a hot day in the office, looked at him resentfully. ‘You look as though you’ve just come out of a car wash.’

  ‘I popped in to see you, give you the news, and had a go of your showers while I was at it,’ Bailey burbled shamelessly.

  ‘You never used to pop in. A phone call was the best I could hope for. Now suddenly this personal service?’

  Bailey grinned. ‘You didn’t use to have that cute new detective.’

  ‘Jerry Fathom? Well, he’s new, I grant you, but cute?’

  ‘Don’t be a git. You know I’m talking about the lovely Rita, the green-eyed goddess from Oiled Oiland.’

  ‘In the first place Detective Constable Connolly is from Dublin and they don’t talk like that,’ Slider said sternly. ‘In the second place if you upset any of my firm I’ll personally remove your intestines, dry them in the sun, and string you up by them.’

  Bailey lifted his hands in wide-eyed innocence, though still grinning, which spoiled the sincerity of the gesture. ‘Who said anything about upsetting? Window shopping, that’s all. My Mastercard won’t run to that sort of luxury.’

  ‘Not with two expensive divorces behind you,’ Slider said brutally.

  ‘Two divorces only means I’ve got a vacancy to fill. It can’t hurt to ask her out, can it? She can always say no. She’s a big girl.’

  ‘That’s what worries me. Anyway, you can wait outside and ask her on your own time.’

  ‘You’re a miserable bastard. Case getting you down?’

  ‘A little help from you would go a long way,’ Slider said. ‘What’s this “thing” you had for me – or was it just an excuse?’

  ‘No, no, it’s a real “thing” all right. There was a bottle of vodka in the fridge, about three quarters empty, and in the fullness of process we’ve just got round to dusting it. Very nice palm and fingers gripping the bottle, a lot of fingers on the screw cap – a bit muddled, those, not sure if we’ll be able to unscramble ’em. But you see –’ he demonstrated with an imaginary bottle – ‘she holds the bottle in her left hand while she unscrews the cap, then switches it to her right hand while she pours the drinks. Something you do so often you never even think about it, completely automatic, then you slam the bottle back in the fridge, also automatic – which is why, when you’ve gone round the room wiping every surface you’ve touched, it’s easy to forget old Mr Stolly sitting in the fridge door.’

  ‘She?’ Slider queried.

  ‘It’s a woman’s prints,’ Bailey said, pleased with himself.

  ‘It couldn’t be the shop assistant who sold it to Williams?’

  ‘They aren’t the only marks – there are a lot of old smudges, and we’ve picked out a couple of dabs from Williams, but these are over the top, the last lot of marks made. “You hop in the bath, darlin’, I’ll knock us out a couple of drinks,” he offered in a ludicrous falsetto. Slider winced. ‘Now,’ Bailey continued, ‘it may well be that this Mata Hari doesn’t have a record, but with two full hands, plus you’d expect a certain degree of nervousness in the circs, it’s just about possible they can get enough DNA off the bottle to work up a profile. I’ve sent it off to Tufty, anyway.’ He looked at Slider hopefully. ‘So now am I back on your cake list?’

  ‘I like it,’ Slider said. ‘Some solid DNA evidence would be wonderful. Good boy. Have a biscuit.’

  ‘Can I go and talk to Rita, then?’

  Slider gave him a look so hard you could have knocked nails in with it. ‘No. Wait till after work. Sexual thoughts ruin the concentration.’

  ‘I’ll sit outside your door and whimper,’ said Bailey, completely unabashed.

  That was the trouble with civilian experts, Slider thought when he had gone. You had no authority over them.

  Of course, Williams might have had a woman up there some other time, and it might have nothing to do with the murder. And if the prints did not match anything on record, they’d have to hope Tufty at the forensic lab could get enough for a profile, and then they’d have to have a suspect to match it against . . . but even so, it was evidence, and there was precious little of that so far.

  SIX

  Unlimited Company

  A bunch of them ended up going for a curry after work. Swilley had gone home to her husband and child, and McLaren had gone off, wistful but still doggedly in love, to his beloved, presumably to have a salad and perhaps a workout at the gym followed by a nice drink of water. Slider just hoped the sex was amazing afterwards, or poor old McLaren was suffering for nothing.

  The respite of earlier in the day had ended, and the evening outside was stifling, the air warm, damp and faintly unpleasant like dog’s lick. The leaves hung limp from the trees as if thinking they might as well get it over with and fall now. The traffic ground homewards along Uxbridge Road towards a swollen pink west, and there was a fin-de-siècle feeling of the dog days of school summer break.

  At the suggestion of curry, Fathom groaned, fanned himself ostentatiously, and said, ‘In this heat? You must be mad!’

  But Connolly said, sweetly ‘It’s not fearsome cold in India, y’ know, Jerry.’

  And Atherton said, ‘Indians eat hot curries to cool themselves down. It’s a well-known physiological fact that—’

  Connolly interrupted him with an abrasive look that said I’ll do me own arguments, thank you, and said, ‘It’s a well-known physiological fact that if I don’t get a murgh makhani and a gobhi aloo down me neck in the next half hour, I won’t answer for the consequences.’

  Slider went with them because Joanna was out that evening, playing at the Festival Hall, and it was already too late to see George before he went to bed. He rang his father, who said serenely that he shouldn’t worry, he’d hold the fort, and it was only cold lamb and salad anyway so nothing was spoiling – which settled it for Slider, who hated cold lamb and salad. Atherton went because Emily was away again, in Paris this time covering the EU budget emergency talks. ‘If I didn’t have a photo of her on my bedside table I’d start to think I imagined her,’ he’d complained to Slider earlier.

  What luck Bailey had had with Connolly Slider didn’t know, but it certainly hadn’t resulted in a date for this evening; and Bailey hadn’t still been hanging around when they all walked out, so perhaps she had sent him off with his tail between his legs.

  They strolled down to the provocatively named Anglabangla, their haunt of old. It had changed hands recently, and the new owner had brought in a chef who could actually cook, so the food was now dangerously tasty. Previously it had been rumoured that in the back they kept three vats of sauce labelled hot, medium and mild and three buckets of lumps labelled meat, chicken and prawns, so a mere two scoops could assemble anything on the menu. Now, the smell of the fresh spices as yo
u came in the door had your jaws watering helplessly.

  But policemen being conservative creatures, they were all secretly hoping the new broom would not sweep away the 1970’s décor – swirly orange carpet, flock wallpaper, faded plastic flowers and all. It was not retro and witty, it was original, naff and therefore priceless.

  They settled down among the dim, red-shaded lamps and twangy music and, salivating, read the menus.

  Mackay leaned forward. ‘Here, I was in this Indian restaurant the other day. The waiter comes over and says, “Curry OK?” I says to him, “Go on then, just the one song.”’

  Several people groaned, and Fathom said, ‘Heard it!’

  ‘Just for that, you can get ’em in, Andy,’ said Hollis. ‘Pints all round.’

  ‘Janey Mack, I’m starvin’!’ said Connolly. ‘I could eat a nun’s arse through the convent gates.’

  ‘In the old days, you might have had to,’ Atherton said. ‘Now at least it’s cuisine, if not exactly haute. But there’s still a touch of nostalgia somewhere deep in my heart for the old ptomaine regime.’

  Connolly looked at him with bright, analytical interest. ‘Jayz, I never knew anyone the cut of you at all. There’s a word describes you, could I think of it.’

  ‘I can think of several,’ Atherton said. ‘Hip, stylish, dangerously cool – a little bit post-modern-ironic. Sort of Emin-meets-Eminem, but in a good way. Wouldn’t you say, guv?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Slider nodded wisely. ‘You do realize I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about?’

  ‘That’s all right, neither have I,’ said Atherton.

  ‘Oh good. I was afraid one of us had lost the plot there for a minute.’

  Two smiling waiters arrived with trays of pints. Being an Indian restaurant it was only basic lager, but traditions have to be upheld. Drinking anything but cheap lager with a curry would be as unthinkable as drinking a cocktail with a ploughman’s, or a pint of Boddie’s with a Devon cream tea.

  Conversation was fragmented and wide-ranging at first, but as the curry settled the day-long cravings and calm spread over the table, they came at last, inevitably, to discussing the case.