Body Line (33 page)

‘Smuggling, eh?’ he said thoughtfully, when they had told the whole story of the boat.

‘Windhover being the name of the organization that was paying his salary, unless Rogers was just being clever about it, it’s tempting to think they also bought him the boat, or owned it and lent it to him for the purpose,’ Slider said.

‘That would make it a criminal organization,’ Hollis said. ‘A diamond smuggling ring. They paid him a retainer through his bank and then a cash bonus on top whenever he did a job.’

‘That works all right,’ Mackay said. ‘Explains why he had all the cash, and not too much on his credit card. But who were the jokers he was wining and dining?’

‘Customers for the diamonds,’ Hollis said. ‘Rich Arabs and Indians and suchlike – the kind of people that
do
buy diamonds.’

‘It explains Southwold and it explains the secrecy,’ Atherton said. ‘He’s not going to tell his female conquests that he’s a smuggler. Important secret work sounds much better for wifey, and consultant will do for anyone he’s not going to know for long.’

‘Talking of consultants, why did Sir Bernard Webber say he hadn’t seen Rogers in years?’ Slider said. ‘Helen Aldous says Rogers dropped in from time to time at Cloisterwood to see Webber.’

Porson said, ‘Aldous left Cloisterwood in – what was it, ’04? You don’t know that Rogers went there after that. That’s years.’

‘True,’ Slider said. ‘It’s just that Webber seemed keen to dissociate himself.’

‘If he thought Rogers was a bad hat,’ Hollis said, ‘that’s not surprising, is it, guv? He’d want to keep the reputation of his hospital spotless. And he
did
get him a job.’

‘And he got one for Aldous,’ Porson remarked. ‘Bit of a night of shining ardour, if you ask me.’

‘The consultant with the heart of gold. Can’t be many of them around,’ Atherton said.

‘Don’t be cynical,’ Slider berated him.

‘I wasn’t really,’ Atherton said. ‘But what with Aldous saying Rogers was a fluffy white bunny rabbit, I’m just longing for a real baddy to turn up.’

‘Sturgess,’ Mackay said. ‘Pin your hopes on her, Jimbo.’

‘Ah yes, the Rosa Klebb of our story. But how do we tie her in with diamond smuggling? Can you see her as the Moriarty, squatting at the centre of a vast criminal web?’

‘Not exactly living in the lap, is she?’ Porson said.

‘We do know she lied to us, that she had recent contact with Rogers,’ Slider said. ‘And that she had more money than we can account for – investing in the stables and the agency. And just because she isn’t smothered in furs, it doesn’t mean she’s not spending. She could be using it for the benefit of others.’

‘Giving it all to charity?’ Porson barked, as though it was a ludicrous idea. Then he modified it. ‘Well, maybe. Alterism can turn into an obsession. Doesn’t do to misunderestimate these do-gooders.’

‘The Bob Geldof syndrome,’ Atherton said.

Porson nodded. ‘They can be as capacious as anyone spending it on themselves.’ He lapsed into thought, bending the biro now between his large, strong hands.

‘Just have to wait and see what Norma comes up with,’ Hollis said.

‘Angela Fraser did say Sturgess is out networking all the time,’ Atherton remembered. ‘Supposed to be fund-raising, but who knows? Could be fund-spending. Or Moriartying.’

‘Smuggling,’ Porson pondered again, staring at nothing. The biro gave up and snapped in two with a sharp sound. He put the pieces down absently and said, looking at Slider, ‘Diamonds are all very well, diamonds makes sense up to a point, but week in week out, year after year? That sounds more like something perishable. Something that gets used up so you need more of it. Get me?’

Slider nodded. ‘I did wonder about that. There is something else Holland is famous for.’

‘Drugs.’ Mackay got there. ‘And he worked for a drug company, didn’t he?’

‘Not the same kind of drugs,’ Atherton said, as to an idiot.

Mackay looked indignant. ‘I know that, but pharmaceutical drugs can get smuggled as well, can’t they, new ones, or expensive ones not available on the NHS?’

‘Recreational drugs make more sense,’ Atherton said.

‘Well,’ Porson said, apparently coming to a decision and climbing off the desk, ‘there’s nothing more for you lot to do until I’ve spoken to Mr Wetherspoon and we’ve had a chat with the Excise boys. Their counterpoints in Holland might have something on this
Havik
boat. If they don’t, we’ll have to think again. Because –’ with a sharp look at Slider – ‘you only know Rogers met it once, and that was supposed to be an accident, which it could well have been. There’s been a lot of leaping to conclusions going on, when for all you or I or the man on the Clapham omnibus knows, Rogers could have been out sport fishing after all.’

Slider’s unhappy look said he knew that.

Atherton felt compelled to rescue his boss. ‘Except that he was murdered, sir,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes, well,’ Porson allowed graciously, ‘except for that.’

Joanna came down to the kitchen early on Monday morning with George in her arms. A thin sunshine was mucking about with the stainless steel pots on the high shelf by the stove, and her missing husband was standing staring at nothing while the kettle emptied itself in steam over the ceiling.

‘We need to get an electric one,’ she said, reaching over and turning off the gas.

‘Uh?’ Slider said, jerking back to reality.

‘Blue!’ said George, holding out his arms with a beam of delight. It was a great thing in any life, Slider thought, accepting the surprisingly solid bulk into his own arms, to have someone who was always so unequivocally glad to see you. He looked at Joanna. ‘I’m sorry I woke you up. I tried to get out of bed carefully.’

‘I know you did. But I always know when you’ve gone. You having tea?’

‘Please.’

‘Peas,’ George said. He took a good grip on Slider’s ear so he could lean over his shoulder and watch his mother getting out mugs and tea bags. ‘More!’ he said urgently, pointing with his other hand, moist pink forefinger energetically poking from the dimpled fist. He had recently discovered the joys of pointing and did it assiduously.

Joanna held up his feeder cup. ‘Do you want some milk, George?’

‘Mum-mum-mum-mum-mum,’ George said.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ She set about the twin tasks of tea and milk and said gently to her spouse, ‘Didn’t sleep well?’

‘Not much. Sorry. Was I restless? I tried to keep still.’

‘I could feel you trying. The case, is it?’

‘Yes. There are things I can’t quite get to grips with.’

‘You will, Oscar,’ Joanna said with calm certainty. ‘You look tired, though. Why don’t you go back to bed for a bit? Maybe you’ll sleep.’

Slider smiled. ‘Not a chance. My brain’s spinning like a teetotal, as Porson would say. I might as well use it to good purpose and go in early. If I read back over all the notes something might click.’

Joanna tested a spot of milk on her hand, licked it off and held out the cup to George, who became urgent with morning hunger.

‘Orbal! Blue! Ahmah!’ he cried.

‘This child has a remarkable vocabulary,’ Slider remarked.

‘Thank you,’ Joanna said as she relinquished the cup – no harm in trying early for manners.

‘Fank,’ George said, beamed at his accomplishment, and rammed the spout into his mouth, sucking greedily.

‘Did he just say thanks?’ Slider asked, turning to look at Joanna.

‘He does copy sounds,’ she said. ‘He said “door” the other day. And “ball”.’

‘Stone me, the child’s a genius.’ Slider gaped. ‘He’s barely more than a year old!’

‘He’s sixteen months,’ Joanna said, amused. ‘And that’s what children of that age do. You just don’t remember. Here’s your tea. Give him to me while you drink it.’

He passed George over, started sipping his tea, and noted that Joanna, having hitched the baby on to her left side, was not only drinking her own tea, but was actually starting to make toast as well. So, she could do other things while holding a baby, but a poor imbecile man couldn’t, was that it?

‘Do you want a boiled egg?’ she asked.

‘I take it back. It’s not the child that’s a genius, it’s you,’ Slider said. ‘The domestic octopus. If I could patent you I’d make a fortune.’

‘One egg or two?’ she asked, turning her head with a smile that melted his loins.

‘Voluptuous siren,’ Slider said. And to George, ‘Let’s hear you repeat that, boy.’

George unplugged himself from the cup, fixed his father with his blue gaze and said, ‘Boy!’

‘Close enough for jazz,’ said Slider.

Connolly, first in, poked her head round Slider’s door and said, ‘Oh. I thought I heard someone. Morning, boss.’

‘Must be telepathy,’ he said.

‘Is that right? What?’

‘It was you I wanted,’ Slider said. ‘I have a job for you, but I don’t know how you’ll do it.’ He explained. ‘I thought of you because you’re good at getting people to talk to you.’

She nodded, her eyes far away. ‘I think I can see me way. Don’t worry, boss. It’ll be grand.’

‘And of course – as quickly as possible,’ he added.

Angela Fraser was what Swilley described to herself as ‘wired’ – tense, excited, but elated with it. She met her in Café Rouge, sufficiently far down the parade from the office to avoid being spotted if Amanda should happen to come back.

‘She’s been in a filthy mood since your blokes came in,’ Angela confided, sitting beside Swilley on a banquette, at the back of the restaurant and facing the door. It was part of her new persona as a secret agent: she reckoned she could see anyone coming in before they saw her, and nip into the ladies, which was back here, if necessary. ‘Snapping at everyone, complaining about the coffee. Can’t get anything right for her. She sent back a letter because there was the tiniest little crease in the paper. She even bitched about one of the clients, and they’re like gods to her, normally.’

‘Has she given you any idea why she’s in a bad mood?’ Swilley asked.

‘I’d have said it was grief over David dying if she was anyone else, but I don’t think that woman’s got a heart. I think she’s worried, but I don’t know what about. Unless—’ The wide open eyes searched Norma’s face. ‘You think she had something to do with it, don’t you? The murder.’

‘I don’t think anything,’ Swilley said blandly. ‘I just do as I’m told, and leave the thinking to my boss. He’s good at it.’

‘I liked him,’ Angela said, settling down. ‘He reminded me of this teacher I had at school, Mr Maltby. Maths. He was nice. I was rubbish at maths, but he always made you feel you could do stuff, you know?’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Swilley said. ‘So what have you found out?’

‘Well, there’s a lot of stuff in Amanda’s room, and she leaves it all locked up when she goes out.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never known an office where so much is locked away. I mean, salaries, yes, and staff files, but not anything else. What could she have to keep secret? We all know all the clients and their backgrounds. But I did get to look at the accounts. Some of it’s in books that Nora keeps, and there’s a lot more on her computer. It’s security locked, but I know her access code.’

Norma was amused. ‘How come?’

‘She’s a dipstick,’ Angela said simply. ‘She wrote it on a sticky label and stuck it on the side of her top right-hand drawer. Thinks no one’ll ever find it there, but I’ve seen her checking it before she logs on. Anyway, I found out the main things you wanted to know. The first thing is that we don’t get a government grant, which really surprised me. I’d have thought that’d be the first thing Amanda would go for, because the government’s dead keen on getting disabled people back to work.’

‘So where does the income come from?’

‘Well, the companies pay a fee. The big ones have to employ so many disabled by law, so they pay us a retainer to find the right person whenever they need one, and the smaller companies pay on a case by case basis. And then there are donations. I guess that’s what Amanda spends her time doing. It’s mostly from private individuals, and one or two companies – manufacturers of mobility equipment and disability aids mostly – but the biggest donor is the Windhover Trust.’

Swilley looked enquiring. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, to see if Fraser knew.

‘Oh, they’ve been paying us a monthly donation since the beginning,’ Angela said. ‘It’s a medical charity. I asked Nora about it once. Medical research and support, she said. I think they’re something to do with one of the drugs companies,’ she concluded vaguely.

‘What would they get out of it – making such a big donation to you, I mean?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s good for their image,’ Angela hazarded. ‘And don’t they get tax relief or something? I think Nora said companies get their tax reduced for charity donations. And maybe Amanda collects data for them, or sends them customers. I don’t know. That sort of thing would be what’s in her private files, I suppose. Anyway, the Windhover’s a big supporter – we could about survive on what they pay us alone. Oh, and I asked Nora about setting up the agency in the first place, like you asked me, and she said that was Windhover as well – gave Amanda a big lump sum to get the office building adapted and get the whole thing going.’