Dear Departed (22 page)

He looked round for approval at the end of this narrative, and Slider could see there was plenty of assent in the faces round the wall. It was the sort of simple tale they could all appreciate. They had seen it a dozen times before – fallings out among drug-dealers were about the commonest cause of death on the streets.

‘So, do you reckon his girlfriend was in on it?’ McLaren asked Mackay.

‘No, the way I reckon, he couldn’t have got her to go back there if she’d known anything about it. When he got home he must have realised she didn’t know her sister was dead yet, so it was worth a try to get the charlie back – especially if the reason he killed her was that she hadn’t paid him for it.’

‘But why wouldn’t he have gone straight round there after killing her?’ Hollis asked. ‘That would have been the safest time. He could have taken her door keys and let himself in.’

‘Maybe he had blood on him,’ Mackay said.

‘Or maybe he had to establish an alibi,’ McLaren put in.

‘Some alibi, that no-one knows about,’ someone at the back muttered.

‘Maybe he just didn’t think of it,’ Swilley said. ‘He doesn’t sound as if he was a practised killer. He probably couldn’t think of anything but putting as much distance as possible between him and the park.’

‘It’s a nice scenario,’ Slider said, ‘but you’re forgetting one thing.’

His eye caught that of Hart, and she continued for him, as if he had asked for suggestions. ‘She wasn’t stabbed to death.’

‘In Doc Cameron’s opinion,’ Atherton said.

‘And if she was drugged,’ Hart continued, unchecked, ‘then it was premeditated, not the result of a sudden quarrel.’

‘Right,’ said Slider.

‘But, boss,’ Hart went on, ‘even if it was premeditated, it don’t mean it couldn’t’ve been Darren. Maybe he didn’t trust her, or she was threatening to cut ’im out, or shop ’im. There could’ve been a stack o’ reasons why he’d want her dead. Maybe even Jassy was in on it. We know she was wicked jealous of Chattie, plus she thought she’d been hard done by. She could’ve got Darren to kill Chattie for her.’

‘Why would he agree?’

‘Because he’s on her side. And there’d be money to come, maybe.’

‘Why did he hit her, then?’ Swilley asked.

‘To make it look as if she wasn’t in on it,’ Hart suggested. ‘She’s staying put, and the police are bound to come and interview her. It takes the suspicion off her.’

‘And puts it smack on him. She was pretty quick to finger him, by all accounts,’ said Swilley.

‘Maybe she got scared,’ Hart said.

‘This is all very well,’ Slider said, ‘but if Darren did kill Chattie for whatever reason – and I admit he sounds stupid enough to try to fake the Park Killer MO and think it would fool us – where did he get the barbiturates from?’

They all seemed to think this was a foolish question. ‘He’s in the biz, boss,’ Hart answered for them, at last. ‘He’d know where to lay his hands on the right tackle. Blimey, you can get drugs, guns and explosives on the Internet wiv a credit card these days.’

‘Hmm,’ said Slider. ‘Well, I agree with you at least that Darren is the best suspect we’ve got, and that efforts should be put
into finding him.’ He looked across at Hollis. ‘Follow up the Manchester lead, and find out from Brixton who his associates were and get after them. I leave that to you. And the other thing we must keep on with,’ he addressed the room at large, ‘is identifying Running Man, and finding someone who saw the face of the man seen talking to Chattie by the shrubbery – we’ll call him Standing Man. Also, if Chattie really was selling drugs, she must have had customers. Find them, if they exist. Follow up on Toby Harkness. What else?’

‘Find out where Chattie was on Tuesday?’ Swilley suggested.

‘Yeah, and what this DC 10 malarkey is,’ said Hart. ‘That’s bugging me.’

‘Well, it may or may not be important where she was on Tuesday, but I agree we ought to know. Try her friends and contacts, see if it makes sense to any of them.’

‘If only the killer would use her mobile,’ Swilley said wistfully.

‘If the wooden horse of Troy had foaled, horses today would be cheaper to feed,’ Atherton said.

‘Eh?’ said Swilley.

‘It’s the epitome of pointless speculation.’

‘I wish you came with sub-titles,’ she complained.

As Slider was about to return to his own office, Porson appeared at its communicating door with the CID room, and beckoned. ‘A word,’ he said.

Slider gave him one. ‘Sir.’ Obedient to Porson’s gesture, he shut the door behind him.

‘I’ve had one Henry Cornfeld on the dog. The
grand fromage
of Cornfeld Chemicals. Business typhoon, baron of industry, what you will. VIP.’

‘Ah,’ said Slider.

‘You didn’t tell me the victim was one of
those
Cornfelds.’

‘We’ve only just worked that out, sir. The mother was not entirely frank with us. She didn’t let on who he was, and told us Chattie had nothing to do with her father. She said she didn’t know where he was living.’

Porson waved all that away. ‘He wasn’t best pleased we hadn’t told him.’

‘
I
’m surprised he didn’t contact us himself. He must have seen it on the news,’ Slider countered.

‘Ah, well, he’s been out of the country for a week. Just back from the States this morning on the red-eye, and various members of his staff all thought one of the others had told him. Carpetings all round.’

‘It’s a bit much blaming us, then,’ Slider complained.

‘Oh, don’t worry, I told him the circs, identification-wise, and he understood. He’s not a raging ecomaniac out to see heads roll. Upset, more than anything, that he was out of the country. Says if he’d had any inclination anything would happen to her blah-di-blah. As if he could have stopped it – but that’s a father’s
paternal feelings for you. Anyway, he wants someone to go and talk to him, and you’re it.’

‘Has he got anything useful to tell us?’

Porson rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t give him the first degree over the phone.’

‘It’s just that there’s a lot to do and I don’t want to waste time hand-holding. If that’s all he wants, we can send him a PC. Preferably a female one.’

‘No
bon,
Slider. You’re the persona gratis,’ Porson said. ‘You don’t have to be all day about it. Look on it as thinking time. Little trip out into the country, lovely weather for it. And you never know, he might have a tale to tell.’

Slider thought, on the contrary, that he did know. Henry Cornfeld didn’t need to have a tale to tell. Like the congenial dustman, he had friends in high places.

It certainly was a lovely day, and as he headed out on the A41 Slider thought what a pity it was that Joanna was working. Her company in the car and a pub lunch – even if a snatched one – would make it all worth while. The Cornfeld mansion was in a village called Frithsden, not far from Hemel Hempstead. So Henry had returned to Stella Smart country in his ripe years, Slider thought.

He wondered at the magnate’s coming down to the country after an absence of a week rather than powering his way through his office finding dereliction on all sides. And, Slider reflected, he hadn’t threatened Porson or thrown his weight around. He obviously hadn’t been to the right school of tycoon paranoia.

The country round Frithsden was lovely: rolling hills, deep lanes, trees, hedges, beech woods. There were fields of green wheat and fields of brown cows – it somehow comforted Slider to see that farming still went on, even so close to London – and the froth of elder dripped petals onto the kex and moon daisies in the lush verges. God, England was beautiful! he thought. It took him three passes through the village (with a longing look at an ancient village pub with chairs and tables set outside)
before he found the almost hidden entrance, because trailers of traveller’s joy had hung down and roadside grasses, bartsia and mallow had grown up to cover the nameplate. But
apart from this obscurity, there were no other security measures, no cameras and electronic gates but just an open, if narrow, driveway bending round some mature rhododendrons to the out-of-sight house.

The house turned out to be mid-Victorian church gothic, and charmingly appropriate, Slider thought, for a self-made mogul, given that it had probably originally been built for one such. An ancient yellow Labrador was lying in the sun outside the arched oak front door, and banged its tail on the gravel in welcome as Slider got out of the car, but indicated that it was far too fat and old to get up. Slider stooped and scratched its head, noting that the front door stood open, and wondering again at the lack of security. No-one was in sight, so he lifted and dropped the cast-iron knocker, which must have weighed ten pounds, then spotted a bell almost hidden by the wisteria and rang that.

A young woman appeared, clacking down the decorated tiles of the hall on impractical high heels. She had a fine figure well displayed by her tight toreador pants and sleeveless, low-cut top, dyed blonde hair and a lot of gold jewellery.

‘Detective Inspector Slider?’ she said. ‘I’m Kylie, Mr Cornfeld’s companion.’

At last, thought Slider, a cliché I can recognise. She even said, ‘Would you like to come this way?’ and walked off with a wiggling rump. Slider repressed the Carry On response and followed her into the cool, lofty hall.

‘He’s in the morning room,’ she said, showing Slider through an open door. The room was large and light and airy, with a twelve-foot-high ceiling and fine pieces of furniture thoughtfully placed and gleaming with care. There was a vast Victorian-mediaeval stone fireplace, and in the hearth an arrangement of blue and white delphiniums in a Chinese vase was spitting petals onto the glazed tiles. Cornfeld was sitting at a small table by open French windows onto a garden, reading one of a stack of newspapers.

‘Can I get you coffee or anything?’ Kylie asked.

‘No, thank you very much,’ Slider said.

She beamed and withdrew, and Cornfeld stood up and came across to shake his hand. He was not a tall man, and though not fat he had an elderly thickness through his body – Slider
had worked out that he was sixty-eight – but his movements were easy and alert, and there was firmness in the lines of his face and the grip of his hand. This was a man in his power, not ready yet to babble of green fields, even if he liked inhabiting them. His face was tanned, his white hair thick and elegantly cut. Despite being at home he was dressed in a suit of admirable cut and beautiful cloth, the style a nicely judged balance of modernity and dignity; but his tie was black, and he did not smile, though Slider guessed that charm would always have been one of his tools in securing his advantage in the world. And there was something in his eyes that Slider recognised, the blankness, the almost wandering look of shock.

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Cornfeld. ‘I suppose you think it’s a great nuisance, when you are so busy, to trek all the way out here just to see me. But I had to see you myself, and hear for myself what’s been happening.’ His voice was strong, the accent neutral, the delivery rather clipped, as though he expected words to do an efficient job like everyone else. But as he said the next word, his voice thickened and wavered, and Slider saw that he was close to tears. ‘Chattie – was my favourite child. I know one isn’t supposed to have favourites, but she was always the pick of the bunch. So bright, so quick, so clever. I need to know – I need very badly to know – who has done this thing.’

He drew Slider to a chair at the table, and sat himself, folding his hands and pointing his face and his attention straight at him. So, Slider thought resignedly, it is just hand-holding. There was a strong resemblance between Chattie and her father. He had only seen Chattie dead, of course, but the shape of the face was the same, the nose, the chin; there were the blue eyes, too, and he could imagine that the thick wavy hair had once been gold. In Cornfeld
père
he could see what Chattie might have had in life, the sharp intelligence, the firm resolve. He wished again, strongly, that he had known her, and resented less the time he was being forced to give to her progenitor.

Assembling his thoughts into order, he told Cornfeld about the manner of Chattie’s death, and what they had found out so far. Only once did Cornfeld turn his face away and pass his hand over his eyes; otherwise he listened with an almost audible whirring of the mental motor. At the end of his exposition,
Slider asked the usual question, ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your daughter?’

‘No,’ he said at once. ‘I think she was universally beloved, or as nearly so as anyone ever is. She was a happy, friendly, funny girl, warm-hearted and generous. Too generous, at times. I can’t think what grudge anyone could have against her. If it had been the work of a madman, a serial killer, it would have made more sense to me.’

‘I’m sorry to ask this, but what about your business – rivals and so on? Could somebody have been striking at you through her?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Naturally, I’ve been thinking about that.’ The idea seemed to agitate him and he became less coherent than before. ‘But there’s nothing – I can’t imagine – there’s no situation I can think of where this would make sense. And surely, if I were the real target, something would have been said – some note, phone call, threat? Why kill her to get at me, and then not be sure I knew? No, it doesn’t make sense.’ He passed his hand over his eyes again, and said, ‘It is something I have thought about over the years. Not in terms of business rivalry, but simply money – kidnap, you know. But I am not so fabulously wealthy, and I’ve never indulged any of the children, or encouraged them to think they had expectations. I don’t believe the younger two even spoke about being my daughters. The parting with their respective mothers,’ he added, ‘was not friendly. I suppose by now you know things like that?’

Slider nodded.

‘Marriage has always been a toll on my time and energy, which I could ill spare from my business,’ Cornfeld said. ‘Thank God for modern times! Now I don’t need to marry them. I can have all the female company I want without repercussions.’