Death Watch (20 page)
‘Not even when you heard your best friend was dead?’
Again the flaming spots of embarrassment and anger. ‘I didn’t know until last night, when I phoned Pet, and she told me. So I came home. But there was nothing I could have done, was there?’
Atherton kept his voice neutral. ‘Gone round to see Neal’s widow, perhaps.’
‘I wouldn’t have done that anyway. I told you, Dick never liked anyone going round his house or talking to his wife.’ He made a futile gesture of the hand. ‘I can tell you where I was the rest of the week, if you really want to know.’
‘Thank you,’ said Atherton. ‘And I’ll have another word with your wife before I go.’
Collins shrugged. ‘If you must.’
‘But right now, I’d like you to start remembering where you had those drinks after you left Dick Neal, so that we can find out if anyone saw you.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Collins stared. ‘You mean, I’ve got to give you an alibi? But I didn’t kill him!’ His voice rose. ‘Dick Neal was my friend, even if—’
‘Even if he owed you money and was screwing your wife into the bargain?’
‘Oh Christ.’ The face crumpled, and for a moment Atherton thought he was going to cry. ‘Listen, you stupid bastard,’ he said, with an almost childlike hitch in his voice, ‘I liked him. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world. I
liked
him!’ The words were emphatic, but the tone was almost bewildered. Atherton felt that if he had not been a man talking to a man about a man, he might have said
loved
instead of
liked.
‘Guv?’ Atherton sounded excited.
‘What have you got?’
‘Anderson and I have checked with the staff of every club
Collins named. No-one remembers him going in that night. The wife is sticking to the New Revised version, that he came home at midnight, but her eyes are all over the place – she’ll say whatever will stop him thumping her. And he had no appointments before Tuesday, in Barnstaple, so there was no reason for him to get out of Town on the Monday.’ There was a doubtful silence. ‘What d’you think?’ Atherton prompted the airwaves. ‘Brilliant motive, violent quarrel only hours before the murder, no alibi, and he does a runner early the next morning. What more can a man want?’
Slider spoke at last. ‘All right. Nick him.’
Atherton breathed a sigh of triumph. ‘Thanks, Guv.’
‘Do it at home, so you can search his drum. Find out from his wife what clothes he was wearing that night, and bag ’em up. We’ll have his car in, as well, do the thing properly.’
‘Right.’
‘D’you want back up? Is he likely to be violent?’
‘I’ll offer to let him make my day,’ Atherton said cheerfully. ‘I can’t stand a man who hits women.’
‘All right, St George. Just be careful.’
‘I didn’t know you cared, sir.’
‘I don’t want a suspect covered in bruises, that’s all.’
ATHERTON PUT HIS HEAD ROUND the door of Slider’s room, and found Dickson in there as well.
‘It’s all right, come in,’ Slider said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘He’s sticking to his story,’ Atherton said. He looked ruffled, Slider noted – a bad sign with Atherton.
‘Still not asked for a lawyer?’ Dickson put in.
‘No sir.’
Dickson exchanged a look with Slider. That was not good news. As it said in the Bible, the guilty man singeth for his brief, but the righteous man is bold as a lion.
‘He’s quite willing to talk,’ Atherton said. ‘He says he got home about midnight, pretty drunk, and went to bed. He got up at about seven, packed his bag, left the house about quarter past. Drove down the Western Avenue to the M25, then round to the M3 and onto the A303. We’ve got some corroborative evidence on the journey – he filled up at the BP station at Hillingdon Circus at half past seven. The night clerk remembers him: unshaven, looking as though he’d slept in his clothes, smelling of drink. That time of the morning its mostly commuters, sir, so he did rather stand out from the crowd. And he stopped to eat at the Little Chef at Bransbury on the A303 at around half past eight. They remember him there as well, and it’s all right as far as time goes.’
‘That’s all very well, but we don’t much care what he got up to on Monday morning, do we?’ Dickson said. ‘We know he must have gone back to his house before he went
down to the West Country, because he had to collect his bag. He could have been killing Neal at two o’clock and still have gone home, to leave at seven-fifteen.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Atherton uncomfortably.
‘What about the neighbours?’ Slider asked. ‘Any of them remember the car coming home?’
‘No sir. The next-door neighbour says he left for work at half past six on the Monday morning, and he thinks Collins’s car was on the hard standing then, but that doesn’t help us much, either.’
‘I’m glad you realise that, son,’ Dickson said flintily.
‘We’ve got everybody out still checking the bars,’ Slider said. ‘We’ve had a couple of possible sightings, but not close enough to the time to rule him out. And we’ve not managed to place his car near the motel for the crucial two hours, even with the witty rear-screen sticker. The trouble is, people just don’t look at parked cars.’
‘Tell your grandma,’ Dickson growled.
‘I thought the fact that he’d done a runner would tell against him,’ Atherton said hopefully.
‘What does he say about that?’
‘He says everything just got on top of him, and he had to get away. He still denies having a row with his wife, or hitting her, but admits he was short of cash, and he makes no bones about knowing about her and Neal.’
‘I think she’s your best bet as a weak link, Bill,’ Dickson said.
Slider nodded. ‘She must already feel resentful towards Collins. Have another crack at her,’ he said to Atherton. ‘Let her know he denies hitting her — that ought to fuel her fires.’
‘Yes Guv. I’ll remind her that while he’s inside, he’s not in a position to hit her again. And of course, if she really was in love with Neal, she ought to shop her old man if she really believes he killed him.’
‘All right,’ Slider said. ‘Keep everybody on it. Remember we’ve got to put it up before the Magistrates by tomorrow morning.’
‘Yes sir. Neal desperandum, eh?’ Atherton went out.
‘What about the forensic report, Bill?’ Dickson asked.
‘Not in yet, sir. I’d better roust ’em – not that I’ve much hope. It’s too long between. And even if we can find evidence that Neal was in Collins’s car, well, so what?’
‘Precisely.’ Dickson got creakingly to his feet. ‘In the old days we could’ve given it a run with about a sixty per cent chance of getting him sent down. But not now. The CPS won’t buy it without a money-back guarantee plus ten-year free service warranty. I tell you, Bill, it’s a bloody mug’s game being a copper, now. They tie one arm behind your back and then ask you to clap your hands.’
Slider nodded dutifully.
Dickson reached the door and turned back. ‘You don’t think Collins is our man, do you?’ Slider looked up warily. ‘No, sir.’
Dickson exposed what was widely regarded as the most threatening porcelain in the Job. ‘Then you’d better bloody well find out who is, hadn’t you?’ he suggested pleasantly.
When Slider passed through the front shop, O’Flaherty was there, back from his three days off. He was dealing with a woman who had come in to show her driving licence and had taken the opportunity to point out with some vigour that if the police spent less time harassing law-abiding citizens in their motor cars they’d have more time to catch criminals, and in particular the ones who had stolen the decorative urn from her front garden over
three weeks
ago and appeared to be being allowed to get away with it scot-free.
O’Flaherty had only encountered this line of reasoning about thirty-two thousand times before, but he dealt with it with such fluid ease that in the time it took Slider to get from one side of the counter to the other, he had got her apologising for taking up his valuable time and promising to be more careful about zebra crossings in future.
‘Thank you very much, ma’am.’ He gave her his Simple Son of the Soil beaming smile. ‘Much obliged to you. Oh,
Bill, a word with you please! Good day to you, ma’am. Mind the step, now. That’s right.’
Slider turned back with O’Flaherty’s meaty hand on his forearm, the thick fingers permanently curved at exactly the circumference of a Guinness glass. A stout fellow, O’Flaherty.
‘Nice footwork, Fergus,’ he said, nodding at the retreating back beyond the shop door. ‘I didn’t know if you were going to book her or ask her to dance.’
‘Ah, sure God,’ O’Flaherty said modesty, ‘didn’t I train at the Arthur Murray School of Policing? Listen, can I get you interested in this play the Commander’s putting on?’
‘Wetherspoon’s charity performance? Not likely,’ Slider said hastily.
The working copper’s life had recently been further burdened by the Plus Programme, some bright lad’s idea for transforming the leathery old Police Force into the slimline, glossy new Police Service: giving it a ‘corporate image’ and making it more user-friendly. It was just like their Area Commander to take the whole thing to extremes.
They had always raised large sums of money annually for charity, but they’d done it quietly, and with dignity. Now Wetherspoon wanted them literally to make a song and dance about it: a Joint Services performance of ‘The Sound of Music’. Good publicity, he’d said. Show Joe Public our caring face. It was all about Communication, the new police buzz-word. And it would all end in tears, Slider predicted.
‘I thought you wanted me for something important,’ he complained.
‘’Twasn’t one of his better ideas.’ O’Flaherty’s face registered profound gloom. ‘Mind you, some of the firemen are dead keen. The Hammersmith lot are mad about th’amateur theatricals.’
‘Must come from living their whole lives in a state of high drama.’
‘It’s all right for them, the public loves ’em anyway,’ Fergus mourned. ‘But for us – sure, a nice dinner-dance is
one thing, or a raffle, or a bit a tombola for the owl ones. But we’ve got to be careful on our own ground. I’m not for Chrissake getting into tights anywhere where me face is known.’
‘I don’t think it’s your face they’d be looking at,’ Slider said heartlessly. Fergus was buttocked like a Shire horse. ‘But cheer up – if it’s a success, Wetherspoon might decide to take it on the road.’
Fergus brightened. ‘Is that what you’d call a tour de Force? Ah no, I’m leaving the RADA business to the young lads. I’ll stick to selling tickets. Can I put you down for two?’
Slider shuddered. ‘Tell you what, I’ll pay not to come.’
‘That’s what Anderson said, and Norma Stits,’ he sighed. ‘There’s no joy outa the whole lot of yez up there.’
‘The Department always sticks together.’
‘You’re like bananas,’ Fergus growled. ‘Yellow, bent—’
‘—and go round in bunches, yes, I know. Have you finished now? Can I go?’
Fergus eyes him thoughtfully. ‘How’s this case a yours going, Billy sweetheart? I heard God Head got his little chopper out and then he put it back again.’
‘It may yet reappear. It’s up and down like the Assyrian Empire, is Head’s chopper.’
‘Sure God, but haven’t you a nice little suspect binned up in there?’ O’Flaherty enquired in amazement. ‘What in God’s name are we feedin’ the bastard for?’
‘I’m not convinced he’s the man. He ought to have put his hand up by now, but he hasn’t even asked for his brief.’
‘Dem’s the worst sort,’ O’Flaherty observed. ‘What’ve you got on him then?’
‘Good motive, no alibi, and sod-all else. When I tell you the most telling piece of evidence against him is that he’s a brandy drinker, you’ll see the strength of our case.’
‘A man who’ll drink that stuff, insteada God’s own pint – an’ maybe just a spot o’ Jimson’s at weddins an’ funerals an’ th’like—’ Fergus agreed sagely. ‘What’s brandy got to do with it, anyway?’
‘The victim was a whisky drinker, but was found with a
bellyful of brandy.’ Slider sighed. ‘I’m not sure we’re going to get there on this one. I wouldn’t mind really – I mean, we’ve always plenty of other things to be getting on with – but it was a particularly nasty piece of work—’
Fergus wasn’t listening. ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, there’s something in the back of me mind—’ His face grew congested with thought. ‘Brandy is it? Brandy. Now what does that—?’
Slider waited for a moment or two, and then glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, Fergus. Constipation is the thief of time, you know.’
O’Flaherty would have snapped his fingers if they hadn’t been so thick. ‘That’s it! I knew there was something. Listen, don’t you remember the Harefield Barn Murder, when was it, three-four years ago? The geezer that was found hanging from the rafters and the straw set on fire.’
‘Harefield’s not our ground,’ Slider said blankly.
‘Don’t you ever read the papers?’ O’Flaherty said witheringly. ‘An’ you a Ruislip man! They thought it was suicide at first, but the post mortem turned up he was already dead when he was strung up. They never did get anyone for it, as far as I know.’
‘What’s that got to do with brandy?’
‘It was brandy that was used to start the fire. And he’d had a bellyful, like your man, but the johnny’s wife swore Bible he never touched spirits. Strictly an ale man. That’s what put me in mind. If there’s not a lead for yez there, my arse is an apricot.’
‘It’s worth looking into,’ Slider agreed cautiously.
‘A carse it is. Would I sell you a pup?’ O’Flaherty smiled beguilingly. ‘Cliff Lampard over at Uxbridge will tell you all about it. He’s a darlin’ man – and a Guinness man, what’s more, so you can trust him wit your life.’
‘It may come to that. Oh, that reminds me, Joe Doyle sends you his regards. Via Atherton, from the Shamrock Club,’ Slider elaborated, seeing the name drew a blank on Fergus’s face.
‘The Shamrock? I haven’t been in there in centuries.
Sure God, the man’s a chancer. Wait a minute, though – that’d be a grand place to sell a few tickets, now! If they’re not breaking some law down there, the Pope’s a Jew.’
‘If you’ve got to resort to blackmail to sell tickets for this show, it must be bad.’
