Fell Purpose (30 page)

‘You give me so much confidence in my personal safety,’ Emily assured him.

‘Sometimes I’m ashamed to be a man,’ he said. ‘But if I switched now, I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe.’

There was nothing like standing in for a major acid manufacturing plant to make you feel glad about being woken up early by a crying baby. He could have kissed little George – in fact he did, and whisked him away to change his nappy and make his breakfast. While he was busy, he heard Joanna go to the bathroom, and a few moments later she came into the kitchen, looking a little bleary, but ready to do her duty.

‘I’ll take over, if you like.’

‘I didn’t want you to wake up. I tried not to disturb you,’ Slider said.

‘Are you kidding me? It was like sleeping with a harpooned octopus in its dying throes. What was it? Indijaggers?’

‘Fish and chips, Marstons and toasted cheese.’

‘Sounds elegant to me.’

‘Not at that time of night.’

‘You always told me you could eat nails.’

‘That was then. This is now. I hate to mention it, but I’m not twenty-two any more.’

She slipped her body against his. ‘Now he tells me.’ They kissed. ‘Give me that spoon,’ she said when they untangled themselves. ‘You’re doing it all wrong. The food goes in through the mouth, not the nostrils.’

‘Now she tells me.’

‘Go and have your shower. I’ll make you breakfast with my other hand, show you how we women multi-task.’

He groaned. ‘Not breakfast. Please, never mention food to me again.’

‘Don’t be daft. I’ll make you some nice plain porridge, and you’ll feel better for it.’

She was right, of course. She always was. The porridge soaked up the molten asphalt in his stomach, and allowed him to take a couple of aspirin to clear his head; after which, though it was still early, he was ready to go in to the office and tackle the rest of the paperwork while it was still quiet, and before it drove him to despair.

‘I get to feel more and more like a faithless bureaucrat,’ he said, kissing her goodbye.

‘You know who’s a really sinister character that you haven’t investigated yet?’ Joanna said, following him to the door. ‘This rich banker type, Oliver what’s-his-face.’

‘Oliver Paulson.’

‘If you say so. From what you’ve told me, he seems to have known all the protagonists, but you’ve never asked him a single question.’

‘Only because we haven’t got round to it. He works in the City so he’d have to be an evening interview.’

‘If he was a suspect you’d go right to his office and winkle him out.’

‘But why should he be a suspect?’

‘He’s a mega-rich banker,’ she said in a logic-for-the-simple tone. ‘Everyone hates
those
. Like estate agents in the old days. Maybe it was
his
baby.’

He patted her shoulder. ‘You just keep thinking, Butch. That’s what you’re good at.’

‘I could think you under the table any day.’

In the quiet of his office without the phone ringing, he got through the leftover paperwork in record time, and felt chipper enough to go down and see Carmichael, to see if he could catch him off balance.

Carmichael was not happy. ‘You can’t keep me here,’ he fumed. ‘You’ve got nothing on me. You got to let me go. I know my rights.’

‘There’s the little matter of the drugs we found in your place,’ Slider reminded him.

His face fell like a lift in a disaster movie. ‘You said you were forgetting them.’

‘I may still do. If you co-operate fully.’

‘I co-operated! You bastard!’ He let loose with a mouthful.

‘Hey! Enough of that,’ Slider said. ‘Watch your lip. My people have to check your alibi, such as it is, which all takes time.’

‘What d’y mean, “such as it is”? I’ve told you—’

‘Yes, you’ve told me, but you haven’t given me anything concrete to cover the hours during which Zellah was killed. And you didn’t tell me,’ he added sternly, ‘that she was pregnant.’

Carmichael’s face was a picture. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Messages worked across his eyes, trying to connect up with something in his brain. At last he managed, ‘But she . . . Pregnant? She never . . . It’s nothing to do with me!’

‘Come on,’ Slider said encouragingly. ‘You can’t tell me she didn’t tell you that. Isn’t that the whole reason she suddenly wanted to see you?’

‘No!’ he said strenuously. ‘She never said a word! I swear! Anyway . . .’ More mental conflict. ‘She couldn’t have been. Not by me.’

‘Don’t make me give you the talk your father should have had with you. The one where a girl and a boy do certain things together in the privacy of his flat.’

‘But I mean . . . why wouldn’t she tell me, if she thought it was mine? Anyway, I hadn’t seen her for months. How far on was she?’

‘Look, son,’ Slider said, avoiding that one, ‘a simple DNA test is going to establish that it was your child. Now, if you really didn’t know she was pregnant, I can see it’s going to be pretty upsetting to think you killed the baby along with her—’

‘
I didn’t kill her!
Why won’t you believe me? And if it
was
mine . . .’ Something occurred to him. His eyes widened. ‘I bet that’s who she was going to see afterwards – some other bloke she’d been banging. Going the rounds to see who she could palm the kid off on.’

‘Is that what the row was about?’ Slider asked smoothly. ‘She told you she was pregnant and you told her she was on her own? No use coming to you? You wouldn’t even pay for an abortion?’

He shook his head, suddenly thoughtful. ‘She would never have done that,’ he said. ‘She was, like, very religious. She’d never have had an abortion.’

‘What, even though she was terrified of her father? If it was a choice between telling him, and getting rid of it . . .’

‘No. You didn’t know her. She would never have done that,’ he said, quiet now. ‘And she didn’t tell me. I swear. If she had, I would have . . .I’d have helped her. I’d . . . I’d like a kid. I mean, I wouldn’t have wanted one right now, for choice, but if that’s how it had to be . . . I’d have helped. If it was mine. I’d have looked after her.’

‘You have a softer side to you, I see,’ Slider said, poking him for the reaction.

His face grew bitter. ‘Yeah, that’s a big laugh to you lot, isn’t it? Comes from the Woodley South, so he’s no good. Mother’s a smack-head prostitute, no dad, brought up on the street. It’s a big laugh someone like me would want a clean life and a family. Split your sides, why don’t you?’

‘Don’t come all pious with me, son. Clean life? You sell drugs,’ Slider reminded him.

‘To rich kids, who are going to buy them anyway. If they didn’t get ’em from me, they’d get ’em from someone else. At least I don’t rob ’em, or cut the charlie with something worse. Anyway, it’s not like they’re street junkies robbing old ladies for a fix. It’s just what they do to relax in the evenings after work, instead of having a drink. What’s the difference from that and selling booze in a pub?’

‘Selling alcohol isn’t illegal.’

‘And that’s your answer, is it?’ he said bitterly.

Actually, it was, but it didn’t help his present campaign, so he sidestepped the argument. Instead he said, ‘It makes much more sense that she told you she was pregnant, you had a row about it, she walked off, and later you met up again, had another row, and in the heat of the moment you strangled her. Come on, isn’t that really what happened? I know you’ve got a temper. She went on and on and on about it, just wouldn’t stop yacking, and then she started crying – they always turn on the waterworks to get their own way, don’t they? You suspected anyway she was trying to shove the kid off on you when she’d been seeing someone else, and when she started to get hysterical and make a scene – well, anyone would snap. Isn’t that what happened? Come on, you can tell me. Get it off your chest.’

No line had ever so singularly
not
worked. Carmichael looked at him, utterly unmoved, still thinking things out. Then he said quietly, ‘I bet you it was her dad. If he found out – well, he’d kill her. Literally.’

Slider sighed. ‘And after that he’d kill you. It’s lucky for you that you’re in here where it’s safe.’

Carmichael turned his face away, stony with something that Slider was horribly afraid was sorrow of some kind. He
really
didn’t want to like Carmichael, even the slightest bit. On the other hand, he found himself fairly convinced that he
hadn’t
known Zellah was pregnant, though quite where that got him he wasn’t sure.

As he was passing through behind the shop on his way back upstairs, Nicholls popped his head out and said, ‘Oh, Bill, there you are. There’s a guy wants to see you about the Wilding case.’

‘Did he ask for me by name?’

‘Officer in charge. But I think he’s pukka. Looks like a cit.’

Slider sighed. ‘All right. Shove him in . . . what’s empty?’

‘This time o’ day? All of them. Have number two – no one’s thrown up in that since the weekend.’

‘Always grateful,’ Slider said.

He was not sure, when he first caught sight of the man, that Nicholls’ description was accurate. He looked more like a nutcase than a cit, though Slider had to confess that that was mostly because the man was wearing shorts, and he had a pathological suspicion of grown men who wore shorts in urban areas. He was tallish, scrawny, in his forties, with scanty hair and, as if to compensate, a large beard, above which an all-weather tan matched the brown of the sinewy legs exposed between shorts and sandals.

‘The name’s Eden,’ he said briskly, extending his hand towards Slider.

Slider never liked touching members of the public if he could help it, and used his own hand to gesture the man to a seat, avoiding the contact.

‘Detective Inspector Slider. What can I do for you, Mr Eden?’

‘They tell me you’re the person in charge of the case – the murder – that poor girl on Old Oak Common? I thought it was my duty to come forward, though I don’t know whether my information will be of any help or not.’

‘You have information about Zellah Wilding?’

‘Yes, if that’s her name. At least, I suppose it was her I saw. On Sunday night.’

‘Why didn’t you come forward before now?’ Slider asked sternly.

The man bridled. ‘I’ve been away for a few days. I went away early on Monday and I’ve only just got back.’

‘How come you didn’t hear about it? Don’t you watch television or read the newspapers?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, sounding annoyed, ‘I’ve been walking in the Lake District, camping out, and no, I don’t read the papers when I’m away. I like to commune with nature and get away from civilization. And I must say I don’t like your attitude. It’s only when I saw the police tape round the area and my neighbour told me what had happened that I heard about it, and I thought perhaps my information might be useful to you. But I can go away right now if you’re going to talk to me like that.’

‘Please tell me what you know, Mr Eden. Whether you think it’s important or not. You say you saw Zellah Wilding on Sunday?’

‘I tell you, I don’t know if it was her,’ he said, unmollified. ‘I was coming home late on Sunday night. I’d been to see a friend for supper, and we’d sat talking longer than I realized, and I only just got the last train. I walked home from East Acton Station – I live in Braybrook Street, on the corner of Wulfstan Street?’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Well, I wasn’t really noticing anyone consciously, you understand, because I was thinking about my holiday, and thinking I’d better pack before I went to bed as I had to get up so early, and how I ought to set both alarm clocks, because I’m a sound sleeper, and I wasn’t going to get much sleep as it was because I was so late.’

‘Yes, I understand. Go on. What did you see?’

‘Well, when I turned into Braybrook Street there was a young girl sitting on the grass on the other side of the road, putting her shoes on. A girl in a very short skirt and one of those tops that leaves the middle bare.’

‘Did she have a pendant round her neck?’

He considered. ‘Yes, I think so. Some kind of ornament, some dangly thing. Anyway, she put her shoes on, then stood up, and just stood there, as if she was waiting for someone. She looked across at me as I came along, and I looked away – avoiding her eyes, you see, so I didn’t get a really good look at her. I took her for a prostitute, if you must know,’ he added, blushing again, ‘and I wanted to make sure she didn’t come over and bother me. Because they can be very nasty, especially if they’re drunk. Foul mouthed, you know. I don’t like bad language.’

‘Did she look drunk?’

‘I can’t really say. I didn’t stare at her. She looked the sort that might be drunk. Blonde hair, and those very high heels, and the skimpy clothes, like I said. Anyway, just then a car went past me, and she looked at it and started walking after it. It slowed down, and stopped under the railway bridge, and she went up to it.’

‘Did she run?’