Hard Going (12 page)

‘Why didn't Bygod sue him?'

Hawes shrugged. ‘I don't know. Maybe he was just too miserable.'

‘A
solicitor
?'

‘It's just a guess. You'd have to ask him. Oh, you can't, can you? Well, we had to pull Crondace in over the death threats and the marches, and I went to see Bygod at the time, to tell him what we'd done, and to tell him to get in contact with us if any more threats were issued. And he seemed very low then. Absent in thought, you know, and not very interested in what Crondace might or might not do. Acted like he was depressed – and who could blame him? Shortly after that he closed his office and left his house, moved to Hackney. Didn't tell anyone where he was going, but Crondace managed to find him again – we'd been keeping an eye on our Del for unrelated reasons, which was how we knew. Bygod did another flit, and he must have done a good one, because that was it as far as we were concerned. We never heard of him again. So he was in Shepherd's Bush, was he?'

‘The last eleven years. But not practising law – as far as we know, he'd retired.'

‘And now he's dead,' Hawes said thoughtfully, pausing in his rubbing to push his glasses back up his nose. ‘Interesting. How'd they do it?'

‘Bashed on the back of the head while he was sitting at his desk. Several violent blows.'

Hawes nodded. ‘Frenzied attack, eh? Well, I suppose your mind might legitimately turn to Delboy Crondace, because he did love thumping and bashing. And some of his vigilante pals were even more unpleasant – stupid as well as violent, which is always a nasty combination. One of them tried to set fire to an innocent man's house because he'd heard he was a paediatrician. We had a lot of fun with that, I can tell you.'

‘I can imagine.'

‘But it was a long time ago,' Hawes said. ‘Sixteen years. Would Crondace carry on a vendetta that long? Or his chums? Unless Bygod had been up to something else.'

‘There's no suggestion he was up to anything, but of course if he was, he'd be careful, and it would take some ferreting out. But if Crondace really believed Roxwell had raped his daughter – if the hurt went deep enough …'

Hawes nodded. ‘Well,' he said, ‘all I can say is, if you go after Crondace, be careful. He was a nasty piece of work then, and he'd only be – what? – fifty-five, fifty-six now, so he's still in the prime of life. He could take you with one hand tied behind his back.'

‘I'm not the stuff heroes are made of,' Slider said with a grin. ‘I was thinking of going after the mother.'

‘H
e got
away
?' Slider said.

Atherton refused to look cowed. ‘The pub was packed. Kroll spotted me over the heads the same moment I spotted him, and he was nearer the door. By the time I'd extricated myself he was gone.'

Slider turned his gaze on McLaren, who at least lifted his hands in regret. ‘The Red Lion, guv. Three doors, two of us. He must've come out round the corner. I dunno how he made us, though.'

‘Maybe he didn't,' said Slider. ‘Maybe any strange man catching his eye across a crowded room was enough to put fear in his heels.' He brooded. ‘Well, we'll have to find him, that's obvious.'

‘Should we bring Mrs K in?' McLaren asked hopefully.

‘Not yet,' Slider said. ‘He might go home if she's not disturbed, and we can get him there. Meanwhile, I'd better talk to Mr Porson. We'll need an alert out on him, and some more bodies.'

‘What do you mean, he got away?' Porson demanded, his brows rushing together like wartime lovers at Waterloo station.

‘I'm not sure it was anyone's fault,' Slider said, and explained Kroll's situation. He had started gambling some years ago with an illegal bookmaking cartel called the Chang brothers, who despite their name were not Chinese but from the Baloch region of Pakistan. In the days when he had been illegally fly-tipping (and possibly other activities Mark either didn't know about or wouldn't admit) he'd had plenty of money to gamble, and he lost freely, so the Changs had been willing to let him run up a substantial debt when his ponies didn't pony up. But a couple of tugs from the friendly local constabulary had shut off Kroll's quick sources of income, and the only way he could think of to raise enough to get the Changs off his back, or rather off his knees, was to keep betting through more conventional channels. Of course, like every gambler needing to win to pay his debts, he only amassed more debts. The ‘one big win' that was to pay for all remained elusive, and he was now at the end of his tether and on the Changs' immediate ‘to do' list.

‘So now he's in more of a flap than a flag in a gale,' Slider concluded. ‘I suppose someone looking at him was enough to trigger his flight mode, without stopping to wonder who they were.'

‘Can't say I blame him,' Porson said. ‘The guilty flee when all men pursueth, like the poet says. Well, you'd better work with Acton on this one – they know the ground. Tell 'em everything. They might be willing to help run down Kroll if it helps 'em nail the Changs. Set a thief to catch a monkey.'

‘I'm hoping he'll go back home, sir,' Slider said, ‘which is why we're not pulling in Mrs Kroll.'

‘Right. And you say it's a cul-de-sac? So you can keep a watch without making it obvious. Put someone on it who doesn't stick out like a sore head.'

‘Mackay's good,' Slider said. ‘And one of the uniforms – Coffey – he's a bright lad. We can put him into plain clothes.'

‘Whatever you want.'

‘And we'd better keep an eye on Mrs Kroll, both in case she bolts, and in case she leads us to him. Or he might go to his other son, Stefan. I suppose we ought to have the daughter's house in Birmingham watched as well, in case he goes there.'

Porson nodded. He was thinking. ‘This makes him a bit tastier, doesn't it? Desperate for money, knows his wife's boss is well off.'

‘And that he's a philanthropist,' Slider added.

Porson shrugged. ‘I wasn't thinking that so much. I mean, can you ask a philanthropist to fund your gambling debts?'

‘If he's fond enough of your wife and it'll help you turn over a new leaf, maybe,' Slider said.

‘Hmph. Maybe. What I was thinking is, wifie's got the key, and she lets him know when the boss is going to be out so they can rifle the place and nick – well, whatever's nickable.' He forestalled Slider's objection. ‘We don't know that he didn't keep a bundle of readies somewhere. Old-fashioned bloke who doesn't like modern technology is just the kind to pay for everything in cash. Then the boss comes back unexpectedly and there's nothing for it but to whack him.'

‘But in that case why did the boss obligingly sit down with his back to Kroll? And why was he writing a cheque?'

‘Oh, all right!' Porson said grumpily. ‘Have it your way. The visit was while Bygod was at home, the Krolls appealed to his better nature and he agreed to help.'

‘But then why kill him?'

Porson's eyes gleamed with triumph. ‘Because the help he was offering wasn't enough, and there was a bigger prize somewhere in the house. There was no sign of disturbance because Mrs Kroll knew exactly what it was and where it was. She could put her hand straight on it.'

Slider sighed. ‘It's a possible scenario, but how the hell would we prove it?'

‘Catch Kroll first. Once you've got him, reel 'em both in and one or other will crack.'

‘What we have to do,' Slider said, ‘is establish exactly when Mrs Kroll arrived and left, and whether Mr Kroll was there on that day. We know from the fingermark he was there some time, but it could have been an earlier occasion. If we can fix his van in the area on the Tuesday … Put McLaren on it.'

‘Right, guv,' said Hollis, adding another note to those about who was going to be watching what and whom.

‘But we can't just hang around waiting for Kroll to turn up,' Atherton objected.

‘Is that your guilt speaking?' said Slider. ‘I agree. I think we should have a good look at the Crondaces, particularly the father. He's the only person we actually
know
issued threats against Bygod. Get on and trace them – father, mother and Debbie – and we can have a chat with them, see what they've been up to. Carry on with the other things we were doing. And meanwhile—'

‘Meanwhile?' Atherton urged. ‘That was an interesting pause.'

‘Meanwhile –' Slider came back from his thoughts – ‘I don't see any harm in paying a little visit to the ex-wife, see if she has any light to shed on our mystery man. See if you can track her down, will you?'

It turned out not to be too difficult to find Mrs Bygod, who was still using his name, at least professionally: she had a dog-grooming business. She was living on the edge of Chipping Barnet, a leafy spot to the north of Finchley where golf courses roam free as God intended, and breed and flourish in the verdant Hertfordshire pastureland. Slider claimed the privilege of rank to get out of the office for a while and breathe the fresh air.

According to the land registry, the house was owned by one Philip Buckland, presumably her new husband. It was called Field End, which sounded leafy, but it was actually a large, modern bungalow, disappointingly right on the Barnet Road, the A411, which was busy and noisy. Still, Slider supposed, it was better for business not to be tucked away where passing trade could not take note of your existence. It did at least back on to open countryside – or in this case, open golf course, which in Hertfordshire amounted to much the same thing.

The bungalow was showing its age: the original wood-framed windows were in dire need of painting, the chimney needed repointing, and there were several slipped tiles among those on the roof. The wide front garden of the bungalow had been surfaced to make parking space, but it was cracking round the edges, and weeds were beginning to establish bridgeheads on it.

A sturdy signpost against the front wall announced
june bygod pet grooming clipping dying show services
, and a phone number. It, too, could do with repainting, Slider noted. A minivan, with the same words painted on its sides under a depiction of a show-cut poodle with its hair dyed pink and a pink bow on its head, was parked on the tarmac to one side, and on the other was a large black Range Rover with sheep bars on the front – a real Chelsea Tractor. Slider pulled up alongside it.

A dog started barking when he rang the doorbell, and since the door was glazed with reeded glass, he could see it prance into view from somewhere in the back of the house. When the door was opened it flung itself on him – a grey standard poodle with a suspiciously blue tinge to the grey of its coat, wearing a blue collar stuck with large imitation sapphires. It was as tall as a man when it stood on its hind legs, as it was only too happy to prove. It put its front feet joyously on Slider's shoulders, bent on proving its Gallic credentials by French-kissing him.

‘It's all right, he won't hurt you,' a voice trilled. ‘He's only being friendly.'

Slider liked dogs, but he had no need of a saliva sample at this stage of the investigation. He pushed the poodle down firmly with a hand on its chest, projecting mastery, and it sat, gazing up at him adoringly. Atherton had the same sort of effect on women, he remembered, a trifle wistfully.

‘Down, Buffy, down,' its owner commanded redundantly. ‘There, you see? He likes you.'

June Bygod was small and well-corseted, firm curves embraced by a two-piece Jersey suit in beige with blue trim. She had a tight, smoothly pink face, professionally made up, expensively styled wavy hair, light brown with blonde highlights, and a good deal of gold costume jewellery. She was smiling a professional smile, with a hint of teeth that were either capped or amazingly regular for her age, which he knew from the marriage certificate to be sixty. Under the make-up, he thought her face missed being attractive by some distance, but in day-to-day business transactions you would never realize it. Probably she had never been pretty, and had learned to make the best of things.

He got out his warrant card. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Slider of the Shepherd's Bush CID,' he said.

The Shepherd's Bush bit did not seem to mean anything to her. ‘Oh yes?' she said brightly. ‘Is it about a dog?'

‘I'm afraid I have some bad news, madam,' Slider said. ‘May I come in?'

She blinked, and her mouth sagged into disappointed lines that seemed more natural than the smile. ‘Oh,' she said, slightly crossly. ‘I thought you were a customer. Oh well, come in, then.' She stepped back to let him in and shut the door. ‘Come through.' The poodle pranced ahead of them, and she led the way through a narrow, parqueted hall to a sitting room at the back, with sliding French windows the whole width giving a view on to a very dull garden – lawn in the middle and shrubs round the edge – with a chicken-wired dog run and kennels at the end, and beyond them the verdant pastoral idyll of the ninth hole, 180 yards, dog leg right, par three.

The wallpaper was ambitiously patterned, as was the carpet: together they gave the same effect as when you rub your eyes too hard with the heels of your hands. The overstuffed three-piece suite and fake fireplace, glittery chandeliers and onyx-topped coffee-table reminded him of his ex-wife's new home with her second husband, Ernie Newman, except that Irene's stuff was all brand new, and this was old and somewhat worn. There was a strong smell of dog and a fainter one of cigarettes. The former was explained by the presence of an elderly dachshund and a greasy-looking Yorkshire terrier, curled up together on a rug on the sofa, the latter baring its teeth and emitting a low, rattling snarl. The cigarettes – since Mrs B did not herself smell of them – suggested Mr Buckland smoked.

‘So what's all this about?' she asked. ‘Please sit down.' She waved him to an armchair facing the window. He sat, and the poodle immediately plonked itself in front of him, offering utter devotion if he felt inclined that way. ‘He seems to have taking a liking to you. Does he bother you?'