Blood Never Dies

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Beyond these a corridor ran off to left and right, and straight ahead of him was a pair of part-glazed swing doors, from behind which came the grating thud of a piano being played with grim determination for rhythm rather than musicality. Atherton suppressed a smile and went in. A dozen skinny little girls in leotards, each with an exiguous frill round the middle, were lined up like so many frenched lamb cutlets, while the teacher in front of them put them through their paces, her back to the barre and mirror that covered the entire wall. The pianist was just inside the door on the left, and on the right was a bench all along the wall with coat hooks above, and a jumble of outdoor clothes, shoe bags, and a few mothers with nothing to do between chauffeuring duties.

  Atherton’s appearance brought all this worthy activity to a halt. The pianist, her attention on the music, whacked out a few more bars before she realized the little girls had sprawled to a halt, and eighteen pairs of eyes swivelled round to regard Atherton with enquiry not unmixed with horror. The teacher was the first to move. She hurried to place herself between her pupils and the invader, and said, ‘Can I help you?’ in the sort of tone that really said, I believe you to be the sort of pervert who likes looking at little girls and I’m on the brink of calling the police.

  ‘Are you Miss Lynn?’ he asked, reaching into his pocket for his brief. Her eyes followed the movement with alarm that was only slightly abated by the sight of what he brought out. ‘I’m a police officer. Detective Sergeant Atherton.’

  ‘No, I’m not her,’ she said. ‘Did you want to see her? What’s it about?’

  ‘Is she here today?’ Atherton asked instead of answering.

  ‘She’s taking a class,’ she said defensively. ‘It’s her day for private pupils.’

  ‘Would you take me to her? It is rather urgent,’ Atherton said, and tried a reassuring smile.

  She stared a moment longer, then shook herself into action. Turning back to her class, whose eyes were out on stalks, she clapped her hands briskly, and said, ‘Girls, to the barre. Twenty-four ronds de jambe with the left leg, turn and repeat with the right. And if I’m not back, continue with twenty-four demi-pliés.’

  She ushered Atherton out into the hall. Just round the left-hand corner was a door with a sign saying WAITING ROOM on it, and she almost shoved him in. ‘Stay here. I’ll fetch her,’ she said, and was gone, closing the door hard behind her as if to emphasize that he must not stir. It was a municipally dismal room, about ten by twelve, painted in pale green gloss to half way up and matt cream above, with a row of hard wooden chairs down either side and a low table at the far end with some desperately geriatric magazines on it. Miss M Lynn with an alphabet soup of letters after her name needed to work on her PR skills, he thought. Or perhaps it was intended to deter visitors. Repelling boarders, the phrase wandered through his mind and out again. The only window was high up and had frosted glass in it. The reading matter, he discovered, was old copies of the National Trust magazine and the supplements from various Sunday papers. Nice touch, he thought.

  Fortunately, the threat of his unfettered presence about the hallowed precincts of this temple to Terpsichore evidently got them motivated, for in quite a short time the door opened, and a woman came in. She was wearing a black practice tunic with a grey crossover cardigan on top, footless grey tights and ballet slippers. Her hair was short and fair, and formed natural feathery curls in a halo round her head. ‘I’m Miss Lynn,’ she said.

  So far so good; but what had come in the door with her was such a powerful aura of physical attractiveness it made Atherton’s scalp tingle. It was something a few, rare women had – he had met perhaps two before – and it was nothing they did or said and not even really to do with the way they looked. They just had it, a magnetism that made every man’s eye turn to them when they came into a room or walked down the street. She was tall, about five foot eight, and slim of course, in the muscular, dancer’s way, and she was probably in her early forties, though it was hard to tell; likewise it was hard to tell anything about her features, except that she had fine eyes and a sensationally beautiful mouth, because what she had was not looks but this – this thing that threatened to turn his knees to water and his brain to mush.

  He heard himself introducing himself, and without meaning to he extended his hand. Hers was smooth and warm and strong, and the handshake was brief. He was glad she disengaged herself because he wasn’t sure he could have, or not in time to avoid embarrassing himself.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ she said, to help him along. ‘You said it was urgent?’

  Her voice was warm, too, and full of suppressed amusement, and made you think that uniquely among womankind, she would really understand you. He shook himself mentally.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Jesse Guthrie,’ he said. ‘He was a pupil here – a star pupil, I believe.’

  She looked sad. ‘Yes, he was. Poor Jesse. It was a dreadful thing, his dying so young. Drugs take a terrible toll on our young people, and tragically it’s so often the really talented ones that are the most vulnerable. I don’t know why. Perhaps the strain of brilliance – we are meant to be ordinary, don’t you think?’ she said with a small smile that was anything but. ‘And when we’re not . . . Humankind cannot bear very much reality.’

  ‘Eliot,’ he said, out of his dream. So she was educated, too.

  ‘But, forgive me, poor Jesse’s death was some time ago,’ she went on, ‘and you said the matter was urgent?’

  ‘Some aspects of the case relate to another murder we’re investigating,’ he said.

  A small start of surprise. ‘But Jesse’s death was an accident, surely?’

  ‘It may have been. Things have come up recently – I’m not at liberty to tell you all the details, I’m afraid. But please tell me about Jesse. How and when did he first come here?’

  She had been thinking; now the slight frown smoothed out and she said, ‘Perhaps we’d better sit down.’ He took a chair, and she sat opposite in that disjointed, dancer’s manner, perching well forward on the seat, her knees fallen apart, her hands linked together between them. The room was so narrow – and they were both on the tall side – that his knees were almost touching hers. He felt her closeness almost like the heat from a fire.

  ‘Jesse came to us when he was twelve for two classes a week, and full-time from the age of sixteen. He came from a disadvantaged background – his father had walked out on the family and his mother was not much of a coper. By all the rules Jesse should have gone to the bad, but the dance saved him. He came for an audition for a bursary, and I saw straight away he had something I could work with. We took him on, and – all credit to him – he worked hard, though it can’t have been easy for him at home, and facing up to the teasing of other boys. There were times when he wanted to give up, but we wouldn’t let him. When he came full-time, I taught him myself, and I was glad afterwards to be able to get him started with a professional company.’

  ‘I suppose you have lots of contacts in that world,’ Atherton offered. ‘Producers and directors and so on.’ She assented with a slight nod. ‘And the backers of shows – what do they call them – angels?’

  ‘It’s a rather old-fashioned term – mostly they’re just called backers these days.’

  ‘But they must be important people to know. Nothing can happen without the money.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she said, as if she wondered where this was going.

  ‘David Regal – do you know him? He’s quite a keen backer, I believe.’

  Was there the tiniest hesitation? ‘I’ve heard of him. I don’t remember if I’ve actually met him. There are quite a number of them, you know,’ she added with a smile.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Go on about Jesse. You got him several jobs, I believe.’

  ‘I was glad to put him in the way of work. He was very good.’

  ‘But then he gave it up – why was that?’

  She sighed and looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly. The
y looked very knuckly that way – not very feminine. ‘I don’t know. It was a great disappointment to me. I suspect it was the drugs. I think he must have started using by then. He got a very menial job with a pop band, and I didn’t see him again. The next thing I heard, the poor boy was dead. I understood it was an accidental overdose.’

  Now she looked up, and he had to withstand the full force of meeting her eyes. Hazel, they were hazel, he discovered; and they almost glowed.

  He had to ask something to distract her. ‘Have you had the school long?’ he managed to make it sound conversational.

  ‘It will be twenty years this autumn,’ she said. She didn’t seem to mind the change of direction. ‘We’re planning a Gala Day for parents and ex-pupils, and a special entertainment – a performance of Alice In Wonderland. Lots of animal parts for the younger ones. Parents do like to see their offspring on stage before they write a cheque.’ She made a comical moue. ‘Roof repairs, and the plumbing is not what it ought to be,’ she explained. ‘Sadly, as school principal one has to attend to the practical side as well as the artistic.’

  ‘Will you be taking a part?’

  ‘In Alice? Good heavens, no. It’s for the pupils.’

  ‘But I can see you were a dancer.’

  ‘I was ballet trained,’ she said. ‘I was a ballet-mad little girl, and my sole ambition was to dance professionally, but in my teens I grew too tall. When I realized I could never go as far as I wanted – and my ambition in those days was limitless – I had to swallow the pill. So I started to teach. Vicarious fame, you see,’ she said with another smile to show she wasn’t bitter. ‘Then I met a generous backer who enabled me to buy this school, and – here we are. It isn’t dancing on stage, but I find there are compensations to running a school like this.’

  ‘You take the older pupils, I suppose?’

  ‘A few special ones, but my time is mostly taken up with administration now. Though I do find time for some of my ex-pupils, those who are out in the world, dancing professionally. They come to me for private coaching. As a dancer you never stop taking class, you know. It’s the bedrock of all dance – class every day.’

  ‘The school takes boys as well as girls?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re lucky to be popular with boys. Statistically there are always fewer of them so we have to cherish every one we get. They’re so much more fragile and easily put off.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Forgive me, I’ve enjoyed talking to you but I do have a pupil waiting for me. What was it in particular you wanted to ask me?’

  He brought out the mugshot of Corley and handed it to her. ‘I believe you were approached for lessons recently by this young man.’

  She looked at the photo for a long time – or perhaps it only seemed like a long time in this quiet room with his intense awareness of the woman in front of him. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I don’t know this face. What’s his name?’

  ‘Robin Williams,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t know him,’ she said, and tried to hand it back.

  He didn’t take it. ‘He knew Jesse Guthrie, and we have a very strong suggestion that he came here to ask for lessons.’

  ‘I don’t know him,’ she said again, still holding out the picture.

  ‘Perhaps he might have approached another member of your staff?’

  She met his eyes, and they were so bright he had to look at her mouth, which was a mistake. ‘It’s possible he approached someone else. Leave this with me, and I’ll ask the others, and let you know. Do you have a card?’

  He gave her one, and they both stood up. She examined the card, and ran a finger over his name. ‘Atherton,’ she said. Her voice felt like velvet. ‘What an interesting name. Is it Danish in origin?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  She smiled at him. ‘With your colouring, I can see you marauding in a long-ship. I’m sorry I have to dash away. But I’ll ask about your – what was his name again?’

  ‘Robin Williams.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll ask everyone, and let you know what they say, either way.’

  She escorted him to the front hall and shook his hand again, looking up into his face with a warm and quizzical expression. ‘I’ve so enjoyed talking to you,’ she said, with a little hesitation. ‘You’re not at all what I would have expected in a policeman.’

  ‘I was just thinking the same about you,’ Atherton said, and the moment extended itself perilously until again she broke contact and he was able to extricate himself. She stood where she was, with a dancer’s poised stillness, until he was out of the door, and he felt her eyes like heat on the back of his neck until he finally turned out of sight. It was like leaving a warm fireside for a cold world. He crossed the road and leaned against a wall for a while to get his strength back. After a bit another young man with a shoe bag slung casually over his shoulder came out of the seniors’ door and sloped off towards the tube station. He imagined her teaching this highly-hormoned and fit young athlete one-to-one. Lucky bugger, he thought, though he was not entirely clear whether he meant her or him.

  SEVENTEEN

  Care in the Community

  ‘You missed all the excitement,’ McLaren said as Atherton came in through the door. He was hunched over his desk still labouring through the task of collecting and cross-referencing hundreds of car registration numbers. It was thankless work, but the new model McLaren didn’t seem to think he deserved any better, which was rather sad.

  ‘What excitement?’ Atherton said. ‘Where’s the guv?’

  ‘Gone,’ said McLaren cryptically, before Atherton could find a blunt instrument with which to swat him, Hollis came in through the other door.

  ‘So much for Regal being the big boss,’ he said perkily, seeing Atherton.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘He’s dead. The guv’s gone to ’ave a look.’

  It was DI John – or Jonny – Care who had come through from Islington asking to speak to Slider.

  ‘Your Sergeant Hollis put in an enquiry about David Regal yesterday,’ he opened.

  ‘That’s right,’ Slider said. ‘It’s part of that enquiry I came to you about before.’

  ‘What, the Guthrie case?’

  ‘Yes. We found a connection between Guthrie and Regal.’

  ‘I see,’ said Care, suddenly sounding interested. ‘But as I remember, you only wanted to know about Guthrie because he was connected to another case of yours.’

  ‘The murder of a young man called Ben Corley. Corley had a connection to both Guthrie and Regal.’

  ‘Have you interviewed Regal?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re still getting our ducks in a row. Your super wasn’t keen on our upsetting Mr Regal unless we were sure of our ground.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like our super,’ he said, with a hint of sympathy. ‘Well, I’m sorry to say you’ve missed your chance. David Regal was found dead this morning.’

  ‘Found dead? Where? Who by?’

  ‘At home. His wife was away for the night. She got back this morning and found him dead on the floor in the downstairs loo. It looks as though he committed suicide.’

  Slider left Mr Porson to apply to the Islington Super, one Bob Keyes, for retrospective planning permission for him to attend the scene of the crime. Jonny Care, as behoved the copper at the coalface, was amenable and friendly to his opposite number from Shepherd’s Bush, especially when it turned out the forensic surgeon in attendance was Freddie Cameron, who claimed Slider with warmth and eagerness as an old friend.

  The house was a 1930s cod-Georgian villa of the sort that abounded around Hampstead and Highgate, of red brick, with eight-paned windows complete with fake green shutters and unnecessarily tall chimneys. It had a gravelled yard in front and a manicured garden behind, the whole surrounded by a high wall, and the yard was shut off by nine-foot wrought-iron security gates with a keypad, camera and intercom with the house. The gates were open now, though guarded by blue-and-white
tape and two policemen, and inside the yard, among the official vehicles, Slider could see a silver Mercedes S class. The constable allowed him under the tape, while the press pressed forward out of sheer instinct, like greyhounds in the slips, and asked each other who he was.

  Care met him in front of the door. ‘Just to get you up to speed,’ he said as they walked in, ‘Mrs Regal went to an opening night of a play she did the costumes for. Did you know she’s a theatre costume designer?’

  ‘Yes, under the name of Sylvia Scott.’

  ‘That’s right. You have done your homework.’

  Slider was afraid he thought his toes were being trodden on. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her,’ he confessed chummily.

  Care shrugged and smiled. ‘Me neither. But I gather it’s a bit of an arcane world. Anyway, she went to this opening night in York – it’s a pre-season try-out, I think that’s what they call it, of an Antony and Cleopatra production that’s coming to London in the autumn. And there was a party afterwards so she stayed the night at the Royal York Hotel, and drove down this morning.’

  ‘A pretty good alibi, then?’

  He looked at him oddly. ‘She apparently went up on stage with the producer to take a bow at the end of the show. And she was interviewed at the party afterwards by the Yorkshire Post.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be smart,’ Slider said humbly. ‘It’s just that on my last case we had a man who claimed to have been at a wedding, and we almost didn’t check it out.’

  Care nodded. ‘You can’t be too careful. But the Yorkshire Post online’s already got a photo of her up on the stage with the producer and cast, and the hotel confirms they brought her car up from the garage this morning, so barring the supernatural I think she’s covered.’

  ‘You have done your homework,’ Slider offered him his words back.

  He quirked his lips by way of a smile in response. ‘With this sort of resident it’s important to make sure you’ve covered the bases. Regal’s a golfer: he’s in very big with the commander. Was, I mean. Anyway, she got here about eleven and found him dead and cold. Do you want to come in and see?’