Dear Departed (32 page)

‘Takeover by whom?’ Slider asked. Jenkins was having a good effect on his grammar.

‘As I remember, GCC was sniffing around them – Global Chemicals – but I don’t think it ever got as far as an offer. Just speculative stuff.’

‘Why would they want them?’

‘Well, Global’s about number three in the pecking order, after Astra and Glaxo, so the thinking would be that an acquisition or two would allow them to punch the same weight,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s the main preoccupation of these very large companies. Rather like the eighteenth-century obsession with the balance of power. If France has Austria, Britain has to have Russia, you know the sort of thing.’

‘I see. So there wasn’t anything …’ Slider paused, feeling for the right words … ‘Contentious about it? Anything odd or underhand?’

‘Not that I know of. Look here, would you like me to do a little sleuthing and come back to you? I’m speaking at present without the full facts.’

‘Would you do that? I’d be most grateful.’

‘No trouble at all. Anyone in particular you have your eye on?’

‘No,’ said Slider, frowning. ‘I don’t think so. I’m just grasping at shadows, really.’

‘This is to do with Cornfeld’s daughter being killed, is it?’ Jenkins asked, with an air of lowering his voice and speaking without moving his lips.

‘Yes,’ Slider said, ‘but I’d be obliged if—’

‘Oh, quite, quite. Consider it under the hat. Keeping secrets is second nature in my line of business.’

‘So Tufty told me,’ Slider smiled, ‘only he said it was a secret.’

*   *  *

Hart came back from her interview with Jasper a little less gung-ho than she had left for it. ‘I’m beginning to think you could be right, guv,’ she said, leaning on his door jamb and folding her arms under her bust to disturbing effect.

‘Wonders will never cease,’ Slider said, keeping his eyes elsewhere. ‘Right about anything in particular, or just in general?’

‘Particular. Well, you know I already think you’re a total planet-brain,’ she grinned. ‘That’s not a secret.’

‘Is that a compliment or not?’

‘Yeah. Brain the size of a planet.’

‘I see. Well, what’s the particular?’

‘I talked to old Jasper. He’s flat on his back and weak as water, but he was quite clear about what happened. I fought it would upset him to talk about it, but he seemed to want to, so I let him go on about it for as long as he liked. Anyway, he was quite clear old Tobes said he killed Chattie but – this is the duff bit – he said he stabbed her to death. He didn’t say anything about any drugging first. Just went on about plunging the knife in and seeing her blood. So I’m thinking maybe you’re right.’

Slider, with his often unwelcome trait of seeing both sides of everything, now found himself playing devil’s advocate. ‘Toby was very disturbed by then. A raving man doesn’t give detailed accounts. And the plunging-and-blood bit would have been the part he really cared about, and so the only part worth talking about.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, somewhat comforted. ‘I can see that. He wants to come out king of the jungle, the stalking tiger, not the weak-kneed wally who can’t stab a girl unless she’s unconscious.’

‘Still,’ said Slider, ‘it doesn’t help the case against him. And it’s just what a man
would
say, making a false confession on the basis of what he’s read in the papers.’

Hart opened her mouth and shut it again, then gave him a bright smile and took herself away. Now she thinks you’re irrational, Slider told himself.

Jenkins was evidently enough intrigued to make Slider’s enquiry his first priority, for he telephoned again later in the afternoon.

‘Good of you to call back so soon,’ he said.

‘Oh, not at all. I assumed it was a matter of some urgency. Well, the
Telegraph
article was a piece of speculation, based on a rumour that Cornfeld himself was thinking of retiring. He
is
nearly seventy, and though he seems hale enough there was some talk, or rumour, of a heart condition, and a desire on his part to enjoy the sunsets or take up watercolours or something of the sort, before it was too late. Of course, if he did retire, it would mean a big change in the company, seeing as he really does run everything himself – and the old boy’s very autocratic. Iron hand in the iron glove, so to speak.’

‘Would his retirement mean the company failing?’ Slider asked, on the tail of an idea.

‘Oh, no. The business itself is pretty sound. But there would be an upheaval and inevitably some reorganisation. And given that GCC was thought to be looking for acquisitions, the article speculated that Cornfeld might be a suitable target.’ Jenkins hesitated, and added, ‘My chum on the
Telegraph
said that he heard a definite rumour that GCC
was
looking at Cornfeld, but it was all hush-hush, of course, and he couldn’t reveal his source, but he says to tell you that you can take it as read that there was something in it. But he hasn’t heard anything since, so he’s assuming that the idea has gone away or been shelved.’

‘Why would they go off the idea?’

‘Oh, any number of reasons. I don’t think it’s because there’s anything wrong with Cornfeld itself. It may be that Global is thinking, given Henry C’s age, they could just wait until he dies and then pick the place up more cheaply in the aftermath. Or they might be looking at another company to buy. Or someone at Global might have been kite-flying, and it was never more than an idle thought.’

‘But there was nothing – sinister about it? I mean, if it had gone ahead, would anybody stand to lose?’

‘No, not really. Certainly all the shareholders would be likely to do well out of it. Global would offer them a good price, so they could cash in and do as they pleased with all that lovely lolly. Apart from the dividend, shares have no actual value until you sell them, you know. And given that Cornfeld is quite a tight ship, there wouldn’t be likely to be many redundancies, so the employees would be happy. They’d probably expect better peripheral benefits from the larger parent company. The only
difference would be that the Cornfeld name would probably be dropped – Global don’t go in for that Glaxo Smith Kline Beecham business – but I can’t see that anyone would do murder to preserve the company name,’ he concluded shrewdly, ‘which I suppose is what you’re trying to get at.’

‘That’s the sort of thing I’m wondering,’ Slider admitted.

‘No, I can’t see any reason anyone would be against it,’ Jenkins said. ‘And especially why anyone would kill the Cornfeld girl over it. I’m assuming she was a shareholder?’

‘She was. She held ten per cent.’

‘Really? That’s quite a lot. But not enough for her to block the deal, so that can’t be it.’

‘Who could block the deal?’

‘Well, Henry himself, I suppose. As I said, he’s an autocrat. If he was against it, the board would go with him and not recommend it to the shareholders. But I can’t see why anyone would want to block it. It’s what they call nowadays a win-win situation.’

‘Well, thank you,’ Slider said. ‘You’ve been most helpful. Just one more thing.’ A thought had occurred to him. ‘I’m a complete ignoramus when it comes to shares and stock markets and so on, so forgive me if it seems a stupid question to you—’

‘No, no,’ Jenkins murmured, impelled by his native politeness.

‘But why would it have to be hush-hush if GCC did want to buy Cornfeld Chemicals?’

‘Oh, well, because an impending offer by a big company like Global could affect the share price, and the FSA would be down like a ton of bricks on anything that looked like price-rigging or insider-dealing. My chum on the City desk had to go through the paper’s lawyers for a pretty rigorous combing even to write what he did, which was a very innocent appraisal of the company and didn’t mention Global by name. If Global really were going to make an offer the preliminaries would all be conducted very secretly, and the principals would have to be very careful what they said and who they said it to.’

‘Thank you,’ Slider said. ‘I’m most grateful.’

‘My pleasure. If I hear anything more, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

Slider put down the telephone absently, and began to search through his papers for the transcript of his interview with Mrs Cornfeld senior. Yes, there it was. Cornfeld’s eldest daughter
Ruth had married a David Cockerell, who had won opprobrium from his father-in-law by leaving the family firm and going to GCC. Was he, Slider wondered, still there? That was definitely something worth finding out. Possibly there was nothing in it – and, as Jenkins had said, what reason would anyone have to kill Chattie over the supposed acquisition, which in any case hadn’t come to anything?

But, as he ought to have realised before, or at least connected in his mind, David Cockerell’s initials were DC. And wasn’t it possible that ‘DC10’ meant David Cockerell, ten o’clock? If she had had a meeting with her brother-in-law on the last day of her life, it was possible he might know something of interest about her circumstances, or her state of mind – if not her death.

The Global Chemical Company had its London office in Northumberland Avenue. Slider knew it, one of those huge anonymous buildings, part of a long block lining the street that always reminded him of the Hauptmanised part of Paris. Northumberland Avenue, just off Trafalgar Square. Trafalgar Square. He wrote the words down and stared at them. DC10 TFQ. But Trafalgar Square would be TS as initials. Yet someone jotting down a note while talking on the phone would not necessarily use strict logic, but write down what the mind picked out as significant. TF for Tra-Falgar. And though Square began with an S, the Q was the most significant letter in it. It was eccentric, but it was not unbelievable. Idiosyncratic, rather, was the word. And the whole point of a mnemonic was that it triggered a response in your own brain, not anyone else’s.

He went to the door of his room, beckoned Atherton in, and tried it out on him.

‘Trafalgar Square? Well, it’s possible, I suppose. When I do that sort of thing in my diary I do a little square for Square, and a circle with a dot in it for Circus. We all have our own methods. Why would she meet her brother-in-law in Trafalgar Square?’

‘Because his office is in Northumberland Avenue.’ ‘Yes, but I meant why would she meet him at all?’ ‘Because his company, GCC, was thinking about taking over Cornfeld Chemicals, and she was a large shareholder.’

‘You think?’

‘Well, I’d like to find out. Shall we go and see him?’

Atherton looked doubtful. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the results on the clothes to come back? We’ll look like fools if it turns
out that Toby did it after all – which is still the most likely scenario.’

‘I’d sooner try to keep ahead of the game than waste a day if Toby’s innocent. And I’m curious, anyway. I didn’t think there was any contact between those two parts of the family.’

‘Curiosity I’m always willing to indulge,’ said Atherton. ‘Why not? Let’s go.’

The GCC building was very old-fashioned inside. A lofty reception hall was lined with polished stone – granite, Slider thought – and at the far end was a wide, dark wooden desk behind which two elderly porters stood, wearing heavy navy uniforms and flat caps reminiscent of the defunct GLC. Was there such a thing as a GLC Surplus Store? Slider wouldn’t have been at all surprised. There was a bank of lifts to one side and polished stone steps going up at the side of them, and in all the expanse of floor space there was not one potted plant, leather chair, glass coffee table or magazine. This was a stern, no-nonsense reception hall of the old school, where you stated your business and were admitted, or were firmly ejected with the coldest of cold eyes.

One of the porters examined both Slider’s and Atherton’s warrant card with almost offensive thoroughness, while the other telephoned ‘upstairs’, and carried on an inaudible conversation without ever taking his eyes from the visitors. At last he replaced the receiver, wrote laboriously in a visitors’ book, produced two clip-on visitors’ badges, and said, ‘Seventh floor. You’ll be met at the lift. Make sure you bring the badges back when you leave. They’re numbered,’ he concluded menacingly. Both porters watched Slider and Atherton walk to the lift with an air of being prepared to bring them down with a flying tackle if they veered towards the stairs. Neither of them had smiled at any time during the transaction.

Inside the lift, Atherton said, ‘Whew! I thought there was going to be a blood test and a retinal scan before we got in.’

The lift was panelled on two sides, but mirrored, behind a decorative grille, on the third. Slider cast his eyes towards it and said, without moving his lips, ‘Careful what you say. We may be being watched.’

Atherton smirked, but rode in silence the rest of the way.

Outside the lift doors was a corridor panelled in light oak, with grey carpet on the floor, filled with expensive silence. Whatever was going on behind the closed doors leading off it, no sound penetrated. A woman was waiting for them, a top-of-the-range middle-aged secretary in a fawn suit, silk blouse, knotted silk scarf round the neck, pearl earrings, and large, careful hair in a short bob held off the face with a velvet Alice band. It was like stepping back in time, Slider thought.

She didn’t smile, either. ‘I’m Mr Cockerell’s personal assistant,’ she said in a voice so cut-glass you could have sipped single malt from it in a gentlemen’s club. ‘Follow me, please.’

She led them down the corridor to an anonymous oak door in the oak wall, which led into what was obviously her room, for there was a desk with papers on it, a typewriter (really!) and a computer, filing cabinets and cupboards. It was windowless, which Slider thought horribly claustrophobic. She walked straight across to the door on the far side, tapped on it and opened it, saying, ‘Detective Inspector Slider and Detective Sergeant Atherton, sir,’ stepped aside to usher them through, and closed the door noiselessly behind them.

The room beyond was a different animal altogether. It was much larger, to begin with, and it had windows all along the far wall, though they were covered with venetian blinds and let in little natural light. The walls were wood-panelled, there was concealed lighting round the edges of the ceiling, and the carpet was thick and plush and blackberry-coloured. There was no office paraphernalia, only a vast oak desk, a sofa, coffee-table, and several chairs. On the left-hand wall was a unit, cupboards along the base, further cupboards up each side, and shelves across the middle, containing a few tooled-back leather-bound books and some photographs in heavy silver frames. The desk had on it only four telephones and a blotter. This was a man, said the office, so powerful he did not have to
appear
to work. Two of the chairs were pulled up to the near side of the desk, and Slider and Atherton trudged towards them, which was hard work given the depth of pile on the carpet. The man seated in a large, padded, leather executive chair on the other side, rose to welcome them.