Dear Departed (24 page)

‘She told me she had always paid her own way in life,’ Slider said.

Mrs Cornfeld chuckled. ‘Yes, Stella would like everyone to believe she owed Henry nothing and he owed her everything. She’s a woman who lives in a world of make-believe. What she wants to be true, is true.’

It explained a lot, Slider thought. ‘And Chattie went to music college,’ he said.

‘Yes. That was a disappointment to Henry. He liked music but couldn’t see it as a career. But when she finished college she decided she didn’t have the talent to go to the top, and she didn’t want to be second-rate – which was an attitude he
could
understand. So she did an apprenticeship in the commercial side of the music business, thinking she might be an agent. And then she had the idea for her own business.’

‘Was he pleased about that?’

‘Oh, yes, on the whole. He didn’t see that it would ever amount to anything, but he thought the experience could be applied to some other field later on. He assumed she would not be content with a small business, though I think he may have misunderstood her there. Chattie cared about other things than money and success. Anyway, he encouraged her and believed in her. He was only sorry she wouldn’t let him give her money to set it up. She said, “You built up your business from nothing, and so will I.” I pointed out to her that in fact I had given Henry two thousand pounds to set up; and she said that he had given her a hundred thousand when she was seventeen, so it came to the same thing.’

‘Did he never give anything to the other girls?’

‘He gave Ruth a lump sum when she was married. And he gave Jassy money all the time. She’s a bad lot, that one. The
Lord knows how she gets through so much money. Apart from the car she ruined, I don’t know what she spends it on. Drugs, I suppose. After the car, Henry told her no more, enough is enough. But I suspect that cheques get posted off every week or so, after one of her impassioned phone calls. The difference from Chattie could not be greater. She invested the money Henry gave her in property and shares and turned it to good account. He was so proud of her.’

‘You mentioned drugs?’

The face became stern. ‘Jassy turned up here one day very much the worse for wear. I was shocked. Young people getting drunk now and then is natural, I can understand it, but not this other thing. Thank God Henry wasn’t here. I sent her away, told her never to come here like that again.’

‘Does Chattie take drugs?’

‘No,’ Mrs Cornfeld said, shocked. ‘She hates them as I do. She hardly even drinks, just wine with meals. She says she hates the feeling of not being in control.’

‘We found a large quantity of cocaine in her house. More than one person would take. The sort of quantity a person might have if they were supplying it to others.’

She stared a moment, and then laughed. ‘Oh, ludicrous! You thought my Chattie was a drug-dealer? No, no, put it out of your head. If there were drugs in the house, it was Jassy or one of her friends who put them there. I know Chattie’s mind on the subject. You see …’ she hesitated, and then went on in a low voice ‘… You see, there was a time when Stella was smoking marijuana. I think she may have tried other things as well. It was when Chattie was, oh, fourteen or fifteen, and away at school. Sometimes she came home and found Stella the worse for wear, and it shocked her very much. But she never told Henry, so please do not you, either. Poor child, so many secrets she had to keep, holding her tongue when her mother abused her father, keeping her mother’s exploits from her father. Chattie knew about the other men, you see, Stella’s other men, and if Henry had found out, he could have stopped her alimony. So Chattie was caught between two hard places, poor child.’

‘Did Chattie never want to get married?’

‘It was the thing that made me most sad, that Chattie would never fall in love. I suppose, after her mother’s behaviour, and
seeing how her father had gone on, one wife after another and then all the women he has had since, she felt that marriage could never work. And she loved Henry so much. When Henry asked her if there was anyone, she always said, “Only you, Papa.”
She couldn’t take young men seriously. They had to match up to her father and, of course, they never did. I think,’ she added, with a world of sadness, ‘she would have found someone one day, when she was older, maybe when Henry was dead. But now she never will have the chance. She was a girl with so much love to give, and no-one to give it to – not the right one, anyway. Maybe that’s why she was so patient with Jassy. Too much love to keep to herself.’ She turned her head away towards the garden, where birds were making cheerful noises in the bushes and trees. ‘Who could kill such a girl? So much life, so much love, all gone. Snuffed out. It shouldn’t be so easy.’

Slider left a small silence for her, and then said, ‘There is one more thing I’d like to ask you, if you don’t think it an impertinence.’

She sighed, and turned her head back, ready to do her duty. ‘What is it? About money, I suppose?’

‘Why do you think that?’ Slider was intrigued.

‘It is the obvious thing. Henry is a rich man. You want to know how he leaves his estate.’

‘Well, yes. In case there might be a motive that way for removing Chattie.’

‘Removing! Such a word! But Henry has never told anyone, not even me, who he means to leave things to. He says he doesn’t want anyone to have reason to wish him dead.’

‘Has he made a will?’

‘I don’t know. If he has, he keeps it secret.’ She gave a snort of laughter. ‘Perhaps all will go to Kylie.’

‘I believe Cornfeld Chemicals is a public company. Do any of the family hold shares?’

‘Oh, yes. When we floated, I and each of the children had ten per cent, and Henry kept twenty. That way the family kept overall control. That was before David left to join GCC, of course, otherwise he would never have given Ruth any. When that happened Henry bought another share, just to be on the safe side. Of course, I always let Henry exercise my vote. He
knows what’s best for the company. I would not think of anything else – unless it was a matter of principle, but since I brought him up, I should hope his principles are the same as mine.’

Slider smiled at her little joke, and at that moment the willowy Kylie reappeared, with a professional smile that was at war with her attempt to convey heartfelt regret.

‘Oh, Inspector Slider, Mr Cornfeld is very sorry, but his call has taken longer than he expected, and now he has to go straight out to a meeting. He sends his regrets, and his thanks for your time in coming here.’

‘Oh, really, how deplorable not to come himself. And I was just saying that I brought him up!’ Mrs Cornfeld said lightly. ‘Kylie dear, you must tell him when you see him that I am very cross with him. Now, Inspector, won’t you stay for lunch with me, to make your long journey worthwhile?’

Slider was already on his feet. ‘You are most kind, ma’am, but I really have to get back.’

‘Yes, of course, what was I thinking? I have enjoyed so much talking to you that I was forgetting.’ The light went out of her face and her eyes became bleak. ‘You have important work to do. You must find who did this thing. I only wish that there was still capital punishment in this country. I am not a vindictive person, but I would like whoever did this to Chattie to die,’ she said seriously. ‘I would like very much that they should die.’

‘Exciting things have happened here while you’ve been away,’ Atherton said, sitting catty-corner to Slider at the canteen table, his legs elegantly crossed, his fingers drumming lightly on the table top in a way that told Slider it was not random but the accompaniment to some music going on inside his head. Joanna did it too, on the dashboard, when he was driving. Atherton was one of those rare individuals blessed with perfect pitch. Joanna said perfect pitch was when you got the viola into the skip first throw.

Slider had given Atherton the précis of Mrs Cornfeld’s exposition. Now he was forking in a hasty shepherd’s pie and beans (no chips, no gravy) by way of lunch, and wondering what he would have got at the Cornfeld house. A delicate consommé,
foie gras,
roast duck and green peas? He sighed and swallowed. The meat in the shepherd’s pie tasted of gravy browning and the potato had that slippery, embarrassed texture of instant mash that knows it isn’t fooling anybody.

‘Exciting things always happen in places where I’m not,’ he said. ‘I ought to hire myself out to bored people not to be anywhere near them.’

‘I’m sure there’s a flaw in your reasoning somewhere,’ Atherton said. And how can you eat that stuff?’

‘I’ve seen the alternatives. Get on with it – what happened?’

‘Oh, right. A bloke came in, who not only had seen Running Man but had seen his face. Name of Alan Maltby. He was just about to turn in at the park gates on his way to the station – his usual route going to work – when Running Man shot out and he had to sidestep sharply not to get knocked down.’

‘Why hasn’t he come forward before?’ Slider asked.

‘I asked him that. He seemed quite indignant. Said he works on weekdays. Now it’s Saturday he’s come straight in to tell us and all he gets is abuse. He’s got a good mind to turn round and walk right out again – which is about all the good mind he’s got in my opinion.’

‘You didn’t tell him that?’

‘What do you take me for? Anyway, for a brief but telling moment, Running Man’s face is inches from his and he gets a really good goosy at the famous phizog – so good that he’s prepared to sit in on a photofit.’

‘Blimey, our luck has changed,’ Slider said, pushing his plate aside. ‘Shove my pud over, will you?’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘What? I like jelly and blancmange.’

‘You’ve got retarded tastebuds, that’s your trouble. Anyway, you might not say that when you’ve heard all.’

‘Might not say what?’

‘That our luck has changed.’

‘Oh, Nora, what now?’

‘Well, friend Maltby had a good look at chummy’s face, as I said. Said he was sweating, eyes popping, every sign of agitation, so we all got terribly excited. And he was holding a mobile phone, the same sort of Motorola as Chattie’s, though Maltby didn’t see any blood or a knife. But when he had okayed the photofit, we compared it with the photo of Darren we got from Jassy, and there was no resemblance. And when we showed the photo of Darren to Maltby, he was confident it wasn’t the same man.’

‘You had to tell me that. You had to spoil my afters. And it was pink blancmange as well – my favourite.’

‘Look, it needn’t be as bad as that. After all, Darren could still be the murderer. It could still have been him who was standing talking to Chattie. We don’t know that that person and Running Man were the same.’

‘I’ve been telling everyone that from the beginning,’ Slider said, frustrated. ‘Now you
want
them to be different?’

Atherton waved a large hand blandly. ‘Or they could be the same and Running Man is the murderer and Darren’s a red herring.’

‘No luck with finding Darren yet, I suppose?’

‘No. We’re trawling around his usual haunts and associates, but no-one’s admitting seeing him. Manchester actually sent someone round to the mate’s house, Dave O’Brien—’

‘That was quick.’

‘But Darren wasn’t there and they think he hasn’t been. They believed O’Brien, and I suppose they ought to know,’ Atherton said, with deep scepticism. ‘They’ve promised to keep an eye out for him, but they didn’t think we had a good enough case against him for them to make it a priority.’

‘Nor have we,’ Slider said. ‘Oh, well, at least we’ve got a photofit of Running Man to work with. Get that circulated, will you, and I’ll see what Porson says about banging it on the telly tonight.’

Hart appeared, weaving between the tables towards them.

‘Boss, they’ve just rung from the house. The man’s turned up to open the safe.’

‘At last,’ Atherton said. ‘I’m sure we could have got someone out of the Scrubs to blow it for us quicker than this.’

‘You live in a dream world,’ Slider told him, getting to his feet. His lunch slipped about in his stomach, threatening to cause trouble.

‘You’re going over there?’ Atherton asked.

‘I wouldn’t miss it. You coming?’

‘Can I come, boss?’ Hart asked.

‘It’s not a party. Go and get on with your work,’ Slider said sternly, but she only grinned and shrugged.

‘Wurf a try,’ she said.

‘You just can’t intimidate some people,’ Slider complained to Atherton as all three headed for the exit.

‘When you’ve worked on the DAFT squad for three months, there’s nuffing more they can do to you,’ Hart chirped.

The man from Acme Safes (‘How traditional,’ Atherton had murmured) was waiting for them at the house, and fidgeting about being kept waiting.

‘You kept us waiting long enough,’ Atherton reminded him.

‘There’s a lot of calls on my time,’ he said, with imperishable dignity. He was a small, rounded sort of man in very clean overalls with
ACME
over the pocket and very shiny shoes on his rather small feet, on which he teetered a little like a teacher at
a 1950s prep school. His hair was so neat and shiny it looked painted on. ‘By rights I shouldn’t be here now,’ he said sternly. ‘This is supposed to be my Saturday off.’

‘We are rather a special case,’ Atherton said, though Slider had flung him a look that said leave it alone.

‘Oh, I know, I know,’ Acme man sneered. ‘You people think you’re so important just because you go around investigating murders. Well, other people have important jobs too, you know. Opening safes is skilled work.’

Slider gave Atherton a slight kick to stop him retorting, and said, ‘Please carry on, Mr – er.’

‘Pickett’s my name,’ said the Acme man, and Slider could see now why he had need of so much dignity. PC Gallon, who was in attendance, made a snorting noise, but when they all looked at him his face was rigid and his eyes fixed on the distance, though his cheeks looked suspiciously hollow.

The safe contained one or two pieces of jewellery, chequebooks, birth certificate, house deeds and other documents, and a great quantity of share certificates. Atherton sat down at her desk with them and leafed through, his eyebrows going up and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.