Necrocrip (29 page)

As to Peter Ling, she remembered that he had left the house about two years ago because he was leaving Compucate to open a shop of his own in the same line of business. She didn’t know where the shop was, except that she thought it was somewhere in Fulham, or what had become of him. Why did he have to leave the house? Because the accommodation was dependent on the job. Had Ling been resentful about that? Well, towards the end he and his boss hadn’t seen eye to eye about things, so he’d pretty well had to go anyway, new business or no new business. What things were those? Mrs Sullivan couldn’t say.

Wouldn’t say, more likely, Slider thought. He also doubted that if it ever came to a court of law he could bring her to swear to anything very much. She seemed to be a very loyal employee. She also had a healthy fear of Cate’s disapproval, which said a lot both for her common sense and for Slider’s case.

He went back to his car, and after a moment’s thought, drove round to the offices of the
Hammersmith Gazette.
He looked up his little friend in the photographic department, and she obligingly looked up Cate in the morgue and found
a good deal on him, including a decent
Gazette
photograph of him arriving at the Town Hall for the Mayor’s New Year Ball. While she was making him a couple of prints of it, he went across the road to a, telephone box and rang the factory.

He got Jablowski. ‘I want you to do something for me.’

‘Yes, Guv?’

‘Ring Pauline Smithers at Fulham Road nick – she’s the DCI – and ask her, as a favour to me, to find out about a Peter Ling who opened a computer supply shop somewhere in Fulham about two years ago. I need to get in touch with him. And ask her not to tell anyone I’ve been asking. Tell her I’ll ring her later and see if she’s got anything.’

‘Righto. Anything else?’

‘Did you find out who owns those two flats?’

‘It’s a property company called Shax—’

‘Shacks? Hovels would be more appropriate.’

She spelt it. ‘Address in Northfields. Do you want it?’

‘Yes please.’ He wrote it down. ‘Any more news?’

‘Norma’s drawn a blank with Suzanne Edrich. Leman didn’t tell her anything about his trip, wouldn’t even let her see him off. The only interesting thing she said was that when Leman phoned her from hiding, he said that when the job he was involved in was over, he’d be so rich he’d never have to work again.’

‘That big, eh? Anything else happened?’

‘Only that you’ve been asked for – but I take it I don’t know where you are?’

‘You don’t. I haven’t told you.’

‘Oh – no more you have.’

‘I haven’t rung you, either,’ he warned.

‘Are you kidding? I value my skin.’

‘Good girl. I’ll be in later.’

He collected his prints and, on the principle of clear as you go, headed down King Street, Chiswick High Road, along the A4 and up South Ealing Road. He missed Lawrence Road the first time because it was so narrow and almost entirely obscured with motorcycles which had spilled over from the display window of the dealership on the corner. He went round the block and found that there was
nowhere to park in Lawrence Road, went round again, left the wheels on Junction Road and walked down, and discovered that the registered office of Shax appeared to be the upstairs portion of a Victorian two-pony stable across a yard from the motorcycle shop, the lower half of which was dragging out a dishonourable existence as a shelter for bits of rusty bike nobody wanted any more. Whoever had named the company Shax had a sense of humour.

To Slider’s entire and unconcealed surprise, he found the office open, and manned. It contained a battered but once handsome desk supporting a white sea of paper which he guessed, like a glacier, probably only moved at the rate of an inch a year; a green filing cabinet with a telephone on top of it; a rickety enamel-topped table containing tea-making equipment and two chipped mugs liberally smeared with heavy-duty oil. It also contained a tall, well-built young man in spectacularly dirty overalls. His hands were black to the wrist, his face smudged and smeared with grease, his hair long, straight, blond, and tied in a pony-tail at the back, and his left ear pierced and dangling a cute single earring in the shape of a skull.

He was holding in his hands an oily cylindrical piece of metal of unimaginable but evidently motor-mechanical purpose, and he turned when Slider entered and fixed him with a pair of china-blue eyes.

‘Help you?’ he said shortly.

‘This is the office of Shax Limited, isn’t it?’ Slider asked with his most boyish smile.

The young man didn’t answer, but as if the question had necessitated the action he turned away and rummaged in the overflowing waste-paper basket, pulled out a sheet of crumpled paper, spread it over one part of the lava flow on the desk, and placed the cylindrical object tenderly on top of it.

‘What do you want?’ he asked without noticeable friendliness.

‘You own two properties I’m interested in.’ He gave the Acton Lane and Hanwell addresses.

‘They’re not for thale,’ the young man said. A spot of pink appeared over each cheekbone, which was really not unbecoming.

‘But you do own them?’ The man didn’t answer. Slider thought he probably didn’t much like saying the word yes. It must be a hard cross to bear in the land of the bikers, to have both a lisp and heavenly blue eyes. ‘I wasn’t thinking of buying them, anyway,’ he went on. ‘What I’m really interested in is who lets them out.’

‘What do you want to know for?’ the man asked after a short internal struggle.

Slider got out his ID card, and the young man, after a glance at it, raised his eyes apprehensively to Slider’s. ‘What’s your name, son?’ Slider asked gently.

‘Peter,’ he said. Then, ‘Peter Davey.’ He seemed frozen with apprehension, and in spite of his size made Slider feel quite fatherly towards him.

‘All right Peter. I’m not here to make any trouble for you, I just want you to answer a few questions.’

‘I don’t have to. I haven’t done anything,’ he said defensively.

‘I know you haven’t. Just tell me who lets out those two houses I’m interested in. Who has the say-so on who goes into them?’

‘I do. It’th my job. They’re my houtheth. Thith ith my company.’

‘Come on, now. I know that isn’t true. I know that you are working for someone, and that he wants you to keep his name secret. He’s told you never to tell anyone about him, hasn’t he?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Davey said, turning his head away like a naughty child. Slider noticed that his right ear looked very sore, with a ragged tear right down the lobe which, from the surrounding swelling, must have been done within the last couple of days.

‘The thing is, Peter,’ Slider said comfortably, ‘that this man is in big trouble, and the time has come when you have got to stop protecting him. Because believe me, he won’t protect you when we come to take him away. He’ll drop you in it good and hard, so unless you help me now, you’ll go down with him.’

The pink had spread all over the cheeks now. Davey’s lips were set in a hard line, and he stared resolutely at the wall.

‘You don’t want to go to prison, do you?’ Slider said softly. ‘It isn’t very nice in prison for people like you.’

He turned his head now, his eyes flashing. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Good-looking young men, particularly blue-eyed good-looking young men, have a rotten time in prison. They get waylaid in the showers by gangs of the meaty boys, and—’

‘You bugger off!’ he shouted suddenly and surprisingly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t threaten me! I haven’t done anything, and I’m not telling you anything, and you can’t make me!’

Slider, marvelling at what a long sentence could be constructed impromptu entirely without the letter
s,
sighed inwardly and tried again.

‘Look, son, I’m trying to help you, that’s all. Just tell me who the real owner is, and I’ll go away. All right? And I won’t tell him you said anything, I promise.’

‘I haven’t thaid anything!’ Davey snapped.

Slider drew forth one of the prints. Pray tell me, sweet prince, if this print’s of your prince. ‘Is this the man?’ he asked. He held it out towards Davey, who had turned his face away again and was staring in front of him. Slider could see his chest rise and fall with his rapid breaths, and a sort of anger stirred in him against whoever was using him. This boy was like a frightened rabbit. He thought of the slight Leman, another Peter, head dangling like something in the butcher’s shop and his brown hare’s eyes glassy with untimely death.

‘Just look at it, Peter,’ he said kindly. ‘There’s no harm in just looking, is there?’

He held the print out steadily, and after a long moment the pale blue eyes swivelled irresistibly, and then the head followed a half turn.

‘I’ve never theen him before in my life,’ Davey said, turning his face away again.

But it was too late. He had looked, and a look told everything. Slider put the picture away and quietly took his leave.

MRS LAM TURNED OUT TO
speak English, once she was away from the restaurant. Atherton was lucky, and managed to waylay her as she wheeled her baby out from the alley in a very smart new pram. She was nervous and reluctant to talk to him, but her anxiety for her husband was now great enough to make her risk it. She told him she was taking the baby for an airing in Wormholt Park, and consented to his accompanying her. So it was there, on a bench with the pram before them, looking like a very mismatched married couple, that they conducted their interview.

She had first met Michael through some relatives of her father’s who ran a fish and chip shop. Atherton had already learnt from the late lamented Ronnie Slaughter that fish and chip shops, like pre-Norman England, suffered invaders in waves: first the Italians, then the Greeks, and lately the Chinese had all taken the national dish to their bosoms and made a go of the business. Micky had been employed by the relatives concerned to help in the shop, and had been brought along by them to a large family party. There Mrs Lam – her name was An-mei, which she had already Anglicised effortlessly to Amy – met him and fell in love.

He was a lively young man with a great gift of the gab. Reading between the lines Atherton saw him as one of those slick, showy creatures, given to gold jewellery and unsubtle chat-up lines; but to Amy, strictly brought up by a
tyrannical father, he seemed like a breath of fresh air. Her father must have seen some potential use in him, for he allowed the marriage, but Amy’s vision of freedom dislimned on the day of her betrothal when it was announced by the patriarah that she and Michael would live with the family and work in the restaurant.

It had been all right at first. Micky played up to his father-in-law, worked hard and minded his tongue. It did not last, though, for Micky was not used to hierarchical living, and spoke his mind too freely, getting into arguments with the old man. He wanted too much time off, as well, for himself and for Amy; and when Amy showed herself incapable of defying her father, Micky had taken the time off himself and left her to endure the storms alone.

‘But he was doing it for me, you understand,’ she explained anxiously to Atherton. ‘I did not realise at first, and was not kind to him, but he told me that he was doing jobs for another man and putting the money aside for me and the baby, so that we could leave my father’s house and set up in business of our own. But my father discover this, and he was very angry. He took away the money Micky had made, and make him work very hard. So after that Micky was more careful, and pretended to do everything my father wanted. But still he worked for this other man, and he put the money where he said my father could never find it.’

‘Who was the other man, do you know?’

‘Micky never told me his name. He said he was a very important man with many businesses, and that he would be a good friend to us and make us rich.’

‘What sort of jobs was your husband doing for him?’

‘I don’t know. Micky didn’t tell me and I would not ask. It meant being away, sometimes just one night, sometimes two or three, and Micky had to be very clever to get my father to agree. Usually he made some business for my father at the same time so that he would not suspect – buying things for the restaurant and so on.’

‘How often was Micky away, then?’

‘It was not very often. Only twice last year, but the man
paid him very well. Micky put the money into a savings account and hid the book in a very safe place where my father would never find it.’ She glanced shyly at Atherton and smiled. ‘You will not tell? It is inside the baby’s nappy. No man would ever look in such a place. That is why Micky thought of it. He is very clever. We have twenty thousand pounds saved now. Soon it will be enough for us to leave my father’s house completely.’

‘The trip your husband was making to Hong Kong last week for your father – was that to be combined with a job for this other man?’

Her cheeks went pink. ‘He told me not to speak of it.’

‘I understand. But now that Micky is missing, you must tell me everything, or I cannot help you. You want to find out what has happened to him, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. But—’

‘I won’t let your father know anything about it, if it can be helped,’ Atherton assured her. ‘Please, tell me all you know.’

She nodded gravely, and was quiet a moment, assembling her thoughts, or perhaps debating with herself over what was the right thing to do. Then she said, ‘Micky was very excited about the trip. He said that it would be the last he did for this man, because it was so important and would pay him so much money that he would never have to work again. He said that he and I and the baby would be able to go away on our own and be rich and happy far from my father.’

‘Did he say what the job was?’

‘No.’

‘But it was to be done in Hong Kong?’

‘Yes. I think so. It was Micky who suggested the trip to my father, not the other way around, so I think it must have been on this other man’s business that he was going.’