Necrocrip (11 page)

Slider read in silence. A fair-haired man in a camel overcoat. Tallish, middle-aged. Looked left and right as he emerged and then hurried off towards Galloway Road. Mrs Stevens was very old and lived alone. She said she often wandered about the house at night as she was unable to
sleep, and she didn’t put the light on for fear of attracting burglars – as though they were some kind of moth. She had seen the man from her sitting-room window as she looked out to see if it was morning yet, and had watched in case he was a burglar. Once she knew he wasn’t coming to rob
her,
she lost interest in him and left the window.

‘That’s it?’ Slider asked in disbelief.

‘It could be Slaughter,’ McLaren prompted eagerly, his eyes fixed appealingly on Slider’s face. Slider felt he ought to be feeling in his pocket for the bag of Good Boy Choc Drops. ‘In the lamp light, and her being old and shortsighted, she might have taken his bald head for fair hair. It’s been known.’

‘It hardly makes her much good as a witness, though, does it? She’s not absolutely sure if it was Wednesday or Thursday morning, and she doesn’t know what time it was except that it was still dark. You put that in the witness box and watch defence counsel make knitting of it. Besides, Slaughter hasn’t got a camel overcoat.’

‘Not now he hasn’t,’ McLaren said significantly. ‘But suppose he had blood on it, and had to get rid of it—’

‘Along with the scalp and hands. I suppose he had them in his pockets? Or did Mrs Stevens say he was carrying a large shopping bag?’

‘It doesn’t say,’ he said, a little crestfallen. ‘But it’s worth following up, isn’t it? Ask if the bloke was carrying anything? And in any case, even if it wasn’t Slaughter, if whoever it was was up the alley at the right time, he might be a witness. If we could trace him—’

‘Yes, all right,’ Slider said. His not to look a gift witness in the mouth, even one as old and spavined as this. Check everything, however small, however unlikely. ‘You can go and talk to her. Take the photograph of Slaughter – and take it gently,’ he added warningly as McLaren shot to his feet, tipping over the empty noodle pot and flicking the sticky spoon onto the floor. ‘Don’t press her and put words into her mouth; these lonely old dears can be suggestible if it means company. Let her tell you, not vice versa. And you’d better take Jablowski with you, in case she’s scared of men and thinks
you’re
a burglar.’

‘Right, Guv. Softly softly does it,’ McLaren nodded, proving his grasp of the cliche even in a moment of high drama. I’ll handle her with kid gloves. Come on, Polish, get your skates on.’

‘Time and tide,’ Slider murmured as they passed him, ‘wait for no rolling stone in the bush.’

Mackay meanwhile was answering the phone. ‘Yes, sir. Yes, he’s here. Yes, right away sir. Guv?’ His expression was rigid, as though the phone had eyes. ‘Mr Barrington would like to see you right away.’

Slider managed a fair imitation of rigidity himself. It was not for him to undermine authority by allowing the others to know that a summons to the command centre nowadays filled him with a certain apprehension.

As well as saying ‘Come!’ instead of ‘Come in!’, Barrington had the habit – culled, presumably, from The Alphabetical Guide to Management Power Ploys (Volume Two, L to Z) – of continuing to write while whoever had been sent for stood before him wondering whether to cough meaningfully, or to stand in silent contemplation of his master’s framed certificates on the wall and absorb a proper sense of his own inferiority.

Slider said politely but firmly, in the manner of a man too busy for executive games, ‘You sent for me, sir?’

Barrington looked up and subjected Slider to a keen-eyed examination. ‘Ah yes,’ he said in his own good time. ‘I have noticed that some of your team are not very particular in their dress. I want every man under my command at all times to wear a suit and tie, with the tie done up properly, and the jacket on.’

Slider was puzzled. ‘That’s how they do dress.’

Barrington ‘s fingers drummed irritably. ‘When I passed the CID room earlier today, I saw collar-buttons undone, ties loosened, two men in shirt-sleeve order, and one wearing a
pullover:
From the way he said it, it might have been a leopardskin posing-pouch and high heels.

‘Only in the office, sir. When they go outside or even down to the front shop—’

‘I expect proper dress
at all times:

Only the knowledge of what the team would say when he passed that on drove Slider to protest further. ‘But surely, sir, where members of the public can’t see them—’

Barrington leaned forward sharply, tilting the moonscape aggressively at Slider. ‘You don’t know, and I don’t know – no-one knows – who might walk into that room at any time; and then what sort of confidence would they have in our abilities?’ He sat back. ‘Besides, a sloppy appearance goes with sloppy thinking and inefficient methods. Do you think they let executives walk about looking like that at ICI or Marks and Spencer’s?’

Slider confessed his ignorance on that point.

‘We are a service industry. We have customers. Don’t ever forget that.’

Slider remained silent.

‘You’ve got into some bad habits in this department,’ Barrington said kindly. ‘Well, a unit takes the character of its commanding officer, so perhaps it’s understandable. But things are going to change around here. I’ve already told you that, Slider. I hope you believe it now.’

Slider indicated that he did.

‘And another thing,’ Barrington said just as Slider had decided that was that and began to turn away. He turned back. ‘You haven’t chosen the colour for your office yet.’

‘Sir?’

‘You’ve had the colour chart on your desk for two days. Others must have a chance to look at it.’

‘I’ll see to it right away,’ Slider said.

‘In some stations there’s just a uniform decoration scheme imposed from the top, whether you like it or not. But I like my officers to have a working environment they feel at home with. Be sure you don’t abuse your privileges.’

‘I won’t, sir,’ Slider said gratefully. The man was as sane as a sardine in a thicket. He wondered if he could get out of the office before he started foaming. Fortunately there was a knock at the door.

‘Come!’ Barrington barked.

Norma put her head round the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a woman downstairs asking for Mr
Slider. Says it’s very important, and won’t speak to anyone else.’

Barrington nodded his release, and Slider took his grateful departure.

‘Who says there’s no God?’ he murmured to Norma when he got outside.

He recognised the woman at once as the female in the photograph with Peter Leman. She was mid-twenties, pretty and very smart, dressed in a coffee-coloured linen suit, with short fair hair, very professional-looking makeup, and expensive shoes. There was nothing about her that was appropriate to the flat in Acton.

As he approached, she watched him nervously but hopefully. ‘Are you Mr Slider?’ she asked.

‘Detective Inspector Slider. You must be Suzanne,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your other name.’

‘Edrich.’

‘Ah, another cricketer.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘No, nothing. You want to speak to me about Peter Leman, I understand? Who gave you my name?’

‘Oh, that lady and man who live downstairs at the flat –I don’t know their names. They said you were there asking questions about Peter, so I thought – well,
she
said you seemed nice, so – only I’m so worried about him, you see. Oh please tell me, what’s he done? Where is he?’

Slider put a hand under her elbow. ‘I think we’d better go somewhere a bit more private, and have a chat.’

Interview Room 2 was free. Slider sat her at one side of the desk, sat himself at the other and tried to look unthreatening. Her brow was furrowed and she fiddled with the clasp of her handbag, but she seemed well in control. Her eyes were large and blue, and their gaze was level and intelligent.

‘Now, Miss Edrich – you’re Peter Leman’s girlfriend, are you?’

‘Yes. Well, I suppose so. I haven’t known him very long, but – yes, I suppose I am.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘He moved into a flat in my road about six months ago. I used to see him around. Then I got chatting to him at die station on my way to work one day and, well, he asked me out.’

‘Your road? You mean Acton Lane?’ Slider asked.

‘Oh no, I live in Casdenau. Boileau Road. You know, just the other side of Hammersmith Bridge.’

Posh, Slider thought.

‘The flat in Acton Lane isn’t Peter’s,’ she explained. ‘He’s just minding it for a friend.’

‘What friend is that? Do you know his name?’

She shook her head. ‘Peter never said. Only that this friend’s gone abroad for six months or something. Peter just goes over sometimes to see if everything’s all right.’

Double life, thought Slider – and this was the Bird in the Strand, of course, somewhat out of her place. ‘The people downstairs you mentioned – Mr and Mrs Abbott – say that Peter led them to believe he lived there,’ he said. ‘They’ve seen him coming and going – going out to work and coming in late at night.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ She shook her head, plainly bewildered. ‘He lives in Boileau Road, the house opposite mine.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Of course. I’ve been in his flat and everything, with all his things in it. In any case, Acton Lane – well, it’s a dump. He wouldn’t live in a place like that.’

‘You’ve been there with him, I understand.’

She looked embarrassed. ‘Well, you see, the fact is I live with my mum and dad, and Peter’s flat being right opposite – well, there’d be no privacy. So we use his friend’s place sometimes.’

‘Your mother and father wouldn’t approve of you going out with Peter?’

She made a face. ‘They think there’s something funny about him, just because he isn’t an accountant or a banker or something boring and respectable like that. Mum keeps on about where his money comes from. She thinks anyone who doesn’t work in an office must be a crook.’

‘Does he have a lot of money?’

‘Enough,’ she said with a shrug. ‘He has nice clothes and takes me out to nice places, and he has a BMW. He parks it outside, so of course Mum and Dad can’t help seeing it.’

‘I see. So where does his money come from?’

She stuck her chin up. ‘It’s none of my business to ask.’

Slider smiled encouragingly. ‘All the same, I can’t believe an intelligent person like you hasn’t wondered about it. If he doesn’t appear to have a conventional office job and he isn’t short of money—’

‘It doesn’t mean he’s a criminal! There are lots of ways of making money. He has investments. He speculates – you know, on the stock market and things. At least, that’s what I think. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Slider said politely.

‘Even Dad has stocks and shares,’ she said triumphantly, ‘though he doesn’t do anything with them. But I bet he would if he had the know-how. And Peter buys and sells things – not out of a suitcase,’ she added hastily, with a quick smile, ‘on commission. Commodities or futures or whatever they’re called. He goes abroad quite a bit.’

‘On business?’

‘I don’t ask,’ she said with a stubborn look. Slider could see the parental disapproval and the family quarrel it caused looming through her statements. ‘It isn’t my business. I shouldn’t expect anyone to question
me
about where I was going and what I was doing.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘Only now he’s missing—’

‘Missing?’

‘We were supposed to be going out on Wednesday night. He was going to meet me from work, but he didn’t turn up. And he hasn’t phoned me or anything since, and he doesn’t answer his phone.’

‘But how do you know he’s missing?’

‘He hasn’t been home.’ She looked a little defiant. ‘I’ve got a key to his place. I’ve been in there. His mail hasn’t been picked up off the mat, and the last lot of washing-up hasn’t been done. Peter’s always very clean and tidy. Besides, he would never let me down like that, without
saying something.’

‘Perhaps he went abroad – on business – at short notice?’ Slider suggested.

She shook her head. ‘He’d have told me if it was that. And his suitcases are still there, so he can’t have packed anything. That’s why I got worried. I went round to the flat in Acton Lane to see if he was there – I didn’t know what else to do – and they said the police had been round asking for him. Oh please tell me what’s happened. Do you know where he is?’

Slider weighed her up carefully, and decided that she would do better and be more forthcoming on the truth. ‘I’m rather afraid,’ he said slowly, ‘that he may be dead.’

She stared, her mind working. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘We have a body which we believe is that of Peter Leman, but we haven’t been able to identify it for certain.’

She licked her lips. ‘Because – because he didn’t have any next of kin, you mean? Do you want me – should I—?’

‘It isn’t that,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid the body’s been knocked about rather badly. Even you wouldn’t be able to recognise him.’

She closed her lips tightly, and he could see her jaw muscles working with distress. At last she said, ‘So it may not be him?’

‘It may not,’ Slider says, ‘but it seems most likely that it is. And now you’ve confirmed that he is missing’

‘Yes,’ she said blankly. She was thinking hard. ‘Can you tell me about it?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Slider said. He gauged her fitness once more, but she seemed more thoughtful than distressed. ‘Would you be surprised if someone told you that Peter Leman was bisexual?’

‘Bisexual? You mean – that he goes with men? But he doesn’t. He isn’t.’ She seemed astonished at first, and then indignant. ‘I don’t believe you! Who said he was? You couldn’t get a more normal man than Peter, as far as
that’s
concerned. Someone’s putting you on.’

‘I think,’ said Slider, ‘that you and I have rather a lot to tell each other.’

PETER LEMAN’S CASTLENAU FLAT WAS
a world away from the Acton one. It was also a conversion, but of a nice, bay-windowed, red-and-white Edwardian villa in a wide, tree-lined road, where every front garden sported nice rose bushes, and either a lilac or a laburnum.