Death Watch (23 page)

‘Yes, so I understand,’ Slider said, still faintly puzzled. ‘Was your husband a fireman, then?’

‘Oh yes, years ago, before I met him. He was just a part-timer, on retained service, when we first got married, but he gave that up as well when the kids came along. Well, he’d taken the job with Clearview by then, anyway, and of
course he couldn’t be on call when he was on the road selling windows. I think he missed his mates and everything, but I wasn’t sorry when he gave it up. I don’t think any woman likes her husband taking those sort of risks. And of course the money was nothing.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Slider.

He couldn’t see where it was leading, but there seemed to be a definite fire motif in all this. Fire, and the mystery tart, and jack – the – lad reps in money – trouble. Was it a lead? Was it a clue? Something was fishy, at any rate, and a fish by any other name would still never come up smelling of roses.

Norma came rushing in, looking excited and triumphant.

‘Got it, Guv!’ she said. ‘This is it, the connection we’ve been looking for!’

‘All right, sit down – and don’t disappoint me now. You wouldn’t like to see a strong man weep, would you?’

‘No, no, you’ll love this,’ Norma promised. She sat down and crossed her long, long legs, well above the knee. Slider fixed his eyes on her clipboard and concentrated on breathing evenly. ‘I’ve been checking up on what Mrs Webb gave us about her husband. He was a full – time fireman at the Shaftesbury Avenue fire station, but that was closed down in 1974 during one of their economy drives. Then Webb became a part – time fireman at Harefield, which of course was his local station. Retained personnel have to live and work near the station, so they can be bleeped when they’re needed. In fact, all firemen are expected to live near their station, except for those serving in Central London, where it wouldn’t be possible, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Slider said.

‘Oh, well, you know that, obviously,’ Norma said, catching herself up. ‘And obviously you know that firemen usually have some other trade under their belts, because they have so much time off – four days on and four days off on full – time working.’

‘What was Webb’s trade?’

‘Carpenter. I suppose that’s why he went into double – glazing – the window connection. Anyway, Webb combined carpentry with part – time fire service for four years. He married in 1976, and took the full – time job with Clearview in 1978, and gave up the fire service at the same time, as we know. The children were born in 1978, 1981 and 1983. In 1986 Clearview went bust, and Webb took a commission – only job with Zodiac. And in 1987 he was murdered.’

Anatomy of a life, Slider thought. How little it all boils down to.

‘Right, so what’s the connection with Neal?’

‘I’ve just got the list through of the personnel at Shaftesbury Avenue station immediately before it closed down. Richard Neal was a fireman, on the same watch as David Webb!’

Oh joy!

‘So they knew each other,’ Slider said happily.

‘Yes, and intimately at that, I should think. From what I hear, there’s a very strong bond within a watch. They live and work together for intense periods. The wonder of it was that Webb never mentioned Neal’s name to his wife. I’d have thought he’d have forever been telling stories of the good old days. You know what men are like, sir!’

‘Well, a bit,’ Slider said modestly. ‘But since it was all over two years before he married her, perhaps it just never happened to come up. And she may not have liked to hear about it.’

‘Jealousy, you mean? Yes, I can understand that. There’s another thing I was thinking: this business about nicknames. There was a man on the same watch as Neal and Webb whose name was Barry Lister. I know it’s a bit of a long shot, but supposing he’s “Mouthwash”? You know, Lister – Listerine?’

‘It’s possible,’ Slider conceded. ‘All those names will have to be checked, but you can start with Lister, by all means. Get everyone working on it right away. We want to know where they all are, what they’ve been doing, who kept in
touch with whom – especially Webb and Neal – who’s had recent contact with Neal, and any other possible connections there may be between them. Not forgetting whether any of them knew our old friend Collins.’

‘It’s not going to be easy to track them all down, after sixteen years. People move around such a lot, inconsiderate bastards.’

‘Try the short cuts. Check the names against the subscribers to the telephone numbers on Neal’s itemised bills, to start with. Polish has them all indexed. And have someone run the names past Mrs Neal, see if she’s heard of any of them, and Mrs Webb ditto.’

‘Right.’

‘And try the London telephone directory. It’s an obvious source, but it’s funny how often people forget it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you can tell Mackay to put all those names into the computer, see if we’ve got records on any of them.’

‘Right.’ She stood up, smiling at him. ‘Overtime all round, Guv?’

‘It’s going to be a busy night,’ he said. Dickson was going to love explaining this to the keeper of the privy purse. ‘Is the Super still in, d’you know?’

‘I just saw him come out of the lav.’

‘Right. I’d better catch him before he goes home.’

He decided to clear the decks while he was at it by phoning Irene. ‘I’m going to be very late tonight. In fact it may be an all – nighter. We’ve got a new lead to follow up, and Head’s about to pull the pin on us, so we have to move fast.’

Irene hardly listened. She had news of her own, which she was breathlessly eager to tell him. ‘I’ve had a phone call from Marilyn Cripps!’ she said with unconcealed triumph.

Slider tried very hard to be interested. ‘Oh? What did she want?’

‘Well, you know her boy’s at Eton? Well, they’re doing a special gala variety show for charity at Easter – singing and
dancing and little sketches and so on, but all in good taste, not like the Palladium or anything. They’re getting one or two other local schools to join in, and one of the royals is going to be there – I think it’s the Duchess of Kent. Or did she say Princess Alexandra? Well, anyway, one of them is definitely going to be there, and there’ll be a supper afterwards, and all the organisers will be presented to her, whichever one it is.’

‘Yes, but what’s this got to do with you?’ Slider asked when she paused for breath. ‘I suppose she wants to put us down for tickets—’

‘No, no, you don’t understand!’ Irene said rapturously. ‘Marilyn Cripps has asked me to help! She’s asked me to make some of the costumes. She says they’ve got to be really professional – looking, and that’s why she thought of me.’

‘She wants you to make costumes for a school play, and you’re pleased about it?’

‘It’s not a school play,’ she said indignantly. ‘It’s a Gala, and it’s at
Eton College.
Don’t you understand? It means I’ll be invited to the reception as well, and I’ll get to meet the Duchess of Kent!’

‘Or Princess Alexandra – whichever it is,’ Slider said, and then wished he hadn’t.

‘I thought you’d be pleased for me,’ she said, hurt.

‘I am,’ he said hastily. ‘I’m delighted. It’s wonderful.’

It gave him a pain like indigestion to think what a dismal thing had the power to thrill her. Marilyn Cripps was one of the world’s greatest organisers, a gigantic woman like a rogue elephant – not physically large, but unstoppable. Not the least of her talents was being able to pick the very people who would do the hardest work for the least reward, and think themselves privileged to be asked. Irene had been involved in making costumes for Kate’s school’s play once, and he knew how much time and effort was involved – tedious, neck – aching work bent over the dining – room table in poor light night after night. But for something at Eton College, Irene would work until her fingers came off and her eyes stopped out, and the Cripps woman knew it.

‘Will I be expected to turn up for this do?’ he asked
tentatively. He knew how ballsachingly ghastly it would be. He had nothing against putting on a monkey suit for the Duchess of Kent (or Princess Alexandra) but he was afraid only having his jaws surgically wired would prevent him from saying something unforgiveably fruity to Mrs Cripps.

‘Oh no,’ Irene said promptly, and with faint and pardonable triumph. ‘They can’t have too many people to the supper, especially with a member of the royal family there. It will just be the guests of honour and the main organisers with their husbands or wives, and the rest of the helpers will be asked on their own. But you probably wouldn’t have been able to come anyway, would you, so it doesn’t matter.’

‘No, of course not.’ He made an effort on her behalf. ‘Well, I really am pleased for you, darling. I hope you’ll be—’ He nearly said very happy. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy it very much.’

‘It’s going to take up all my time for the next few weeks,’ she said happily, ‘so don’t expect me to be around to cook your meals whenever you come home. And there’ll be meetings and fittings and things at Marilyn’s house or up at the College,’ – how gladly that word tripped off her tongue – ‘maybe several times a week. We’ll have to have a babysitter when I’m out: it’s not fair on Matthew to leave him in charge so often. I hope we can afford it.’

He heard the faint irony in the question, and responded with an irony of his own. ‘When it comes to your happiness, of course we can afford it.’

Irene didn’t notice. She was busy looking forward to the rosy future which had suddenly replaced the dreary grey vista of heretofore. ‘To think of her asking
me!
She must think more of me than I realised. When it’s over, perhaps I’ll invite her and some of the others over to our house for something. A bridge evening with supper would be nice. I’ve got a book somewhere with some marvellous recipes for finger – food! Our lounge is so small, though, I’d have to move the suite out to the—’

‘I’ve got to go now, darling,’ he said hastily. ‘The other phone’s ringing—’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said vaguely, and actually put the phone down on him in sheer absence of mind. He could almost see the young bridal look her face would be wearing as she planned the social life she had always dreamed of. Bridge, garden parties, cocktail parties … the Crippses usually made up a party for Ascot, too … and they went to Glyndebourne
several times
most summers …

He hoped Irene wasn’t going to be let down too hard when her usefulness was over. For the moment, however, much as he hated Mrs Cripps for exploiting Irene, he had to admit she had made her happier than he had been able to in years.

And, of course, he was guiltily glad that with Irene fully preoccupied outside the home, it would be easier for him to see Joanna for the next few weeks.

‘Who on earth would want to murder a fireman?’ Joanna said. ‘I mean, of all people in the world, you’d think they’d be the last to have enemies.’

Slider smiled into the darkness. They were in bed, Joanna was in his arms, with her face on his chest and the top of her head tucked under his chin, and he was so blissfully comfortable he almost couldn’t be bothered to correct her wild delusions.

‘You know that there’s a saying in the Job, whenever a probationary PC complains about the attitude of the public:
if you wanted to be popular, you should have joined the fire brigade.’

‘Quite right. I mean, what they do is so absolutely heroic and unselfish, isn’t it? They risk their lives for other people’s good, and you can’t even suspect them of ulterior motives, like policemen or soldiers who might just possibly be doing it for the power.’

‘You have got it bad, haven’t you? But Neal wasn’t a fireman, he was a fire alarm salesman. He hadn’t been a fireman for sixteen years.’

‘Sixteen years. A big part of his life. And his life was real
to him, not just a set of statistics, a list of facts on an index card,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He ate and slept and thought and felt; the most important person in the world to himself. The epicentre of a whole universe of experience.’

Slider grunted agreement.

‘It’s easy to forget him in all the excitement, isn’t it? That was something that worried me when you were investigating Anne – Marie’s murder, that I’d become interested in the problem of it, without remembering there was a person attached.’

He grunted again. It was amazing, when you thought how knobbly and uncompromising the human body was compared with, say, a cat’s, how Joanna’s contours fitted against his so easily and perfectly.

‘But I suppose you’d have to do that, wouldn’t you, out of self – defence? You couldn’t really allow yourself to care personally about every victim?’

And then again, when you thought how different her contours were from his – yet you couldn’t have got a cigarette paper between them at the moment, always supposing you were abandoned enough to want to try.

‘Have you got any real picture of Neal in your mind? I mean, is he a person to you?’ Joanna pursued. ‘You were saying the other day that you felt sorry for him, but it sounded as though it was partly a joke.’

Slider roused himself. She was in one of her interrogative moods, and there was only one way to silence her. The romantic touch – charm, flattery, seduction – make her purr, make her feel like a queen. Time for the sophisticated approach.

‘C’mere, woman,’ he said.

Ten minutes later she murmured in a much more relaxed voice, ‘I love being in bed with you.’

‘Pity the nights are so short,’ he said. ‘It’ll be an early start for me tomorrow. But at least we can have breakfast together. And the A40 traffic can get along without me for once.’

‘You’d better go on sleeping here while I’m away,’ she said. ‘Get Irene into the habit.’

‘What d’you mean, while you’re away?’

‘You haven’t forgotten I’m going to Germany for four days?’

He’d forgotten.

‘Mini – tour,’ she reminded him. ‘What we call the Cholera Special. Three towns in four days – Cologne, Düsseldorf and Frankfurt.’

‘I didn’t know that was yet, I thought it was weeks away,’ he said. ‘Hell’s bells!’

‘And damnation,’ she added. ‘Berlioz,
La Damnation de Faust.
If it wasn’t a tour, it’d be a pleasure: music so beautiful it’s an erotic experience just playing it, and a luscious tenor singing in French –
in French!
I could listen all day.’