Hard Going (20 page)

Atherton was waiting in the doorway, ready to go. ‘What was that about a slavering alien?'

‘Bygod had cancer.'

‘Oh,' said Atherton. He thought a moment. ‘Does that change anything?'

‘I don't know,' said Slider.

‘Fair enough. Let's get a pint.'

They couldn't use the White Horse across the road because it had Karaoke on Saturday nights, and they had time to reflect as they walked down to the Boscombe on what a strange form of masochism that was. They settled into a corner with pints in front of them, and Slider took a minute to phone Joanna and tell her where he was and what time he'd be home. ‘She says d'you want to come to supper?' he relayed.

‘Thanks, but I've got something arranged,' Atherton replied.

When he had rung off, Slider took a pull at his pint and, gazing studiously into the middle distance, said, ‘Is everything all right with you and Emily?'

‘Emily is in America,' Atherton said in a deliberately patient tone.

‘I know, but – I just wondered.'

Atherton gave him a sidelong look. ‘Is that you delving uncharacteristically into my private life?'

Slider did what any sensible man does when he senses danger: shut up and kept still. After a short pause he was rewarded for his reticence. Atherton said casually, ‘She wants me to move in with her.'

‘Oh,' said Slider cautiously. ‘That's good, isn't it?'

‘No, it's not good,' Atherton said with a touch of irritation. ‘It's too soon, it's too sudden, it's too absolute.'

‘She's practically living at your place already, isn't she?'

‘Yes,
she's
at
my
place. A perfectly equable arrangement. Now suddenly she wants me to sell my house and move into her father's flat. That's a whole new game of marbles.'

Slider felt about for a thread to tug. ‘But you love her, don't you?' he tried.

‘This has nothing to do with love,' Atherton said, in an explaining-the-obvious tone. ‘This is economics.
My
house,
my
property,
my
assets, suddenly subsumed into hers.'

You could only admire a man who could use words like ‘subsumed' in the course of an emotional diatribe, Slider thought. ‘I'm sure you could work out the financial side of it – a fair agreement about who owns what.'

‘My freedom,' Atherton said, as if finishing his previous sentence.

‘Ah,' said Slider.

Atherton scowled. ‘What does that mean – “Ah”? Are you about to spout some psychological pseudo-wisdom and set me straight?'

‘I wouldn't dream of it,' Slider said, and took another long pull. ‘Nice pint.'

‘Don't “nice pint” me. You started this. You see, this is exactly why we don't discuss personal matters with the people we work with.'

Slider looked at him. ‘I get it,' he assured him. ‘You're afraid of losing your freedom, it's a big commitment, she's moving too fast and pressurizing you – I get it. Women always want to jump ahead to the end of the story. I suppose they've got hormones and Time's wingéd chariot pressurizing
them
. The nesting instinct versus the tom-cat propensity. Classic mismatch. Nothing to be done about it. Nature has a lot to answer for.'

Now Atherton grinned. ‘Nifty footwork, ol' guv of mine! From Jung to Freud to David Attenborough in one lunge, with a splodge of Marvell thrown in for decorative effect.'

‘Why so surprised? You always seem to think I'm an ignoramus.'

‘I don't. I think you're as clever as a fox with a PhD in foxiness. So what's your advice, then?'

Slider gave him a look of broad innocence. ‘None of my business,' he said. ‘I wouldn't dream of interfering.'

Atherton looked into the amber depths of his Fuller's Pride. ‘I do love her,' he said soberly. ‘It's just such a big step. I've been on my own for so long. I need more time.'

Slider let him alone to find the solution himself.

‘I suppose I have to talk to her,' Atherton sighed. ‘Tell her exactly that.' He grimaced. ‘Why do women always want to talk about stuff?'

‘They do stuff at GCSE, when we're doing woodwork,' Slider explained kindly.

‘I suppose you're working tomorrow?' Joanna said when they sat down to supper – spaghetti with her home-made Bolognese sauce, which was so rich and good even Atherton had asked for the recipe. The secret was chicken livers. Joanna didn't do gourmet, but she was big on tastes. ‘When I have a Sunday off for once, it's too much to expect you'll be off too.'

‘I'll have to go in,' Slider said. ‘I hope not for too long, though. Oh, and Atherton's invited us over for supper tomorrow night, if Dad doesn't mind babysitting. I said I'd check and let him know.'

‘Oh, you spoke to him, then?'

‘No, we communicated by sign language.'

‘Don't be cute. You know what I mean. Did you talk to him about Emily?'

‘A bit. Men don't do that heart-to-heart stuff you women go in for.'

‘You're treading close to the line with “you women”,' she warned him. ‘What did he say? Is something up?'

‘He feels it's moving too fast, that's all.'

‘Well, Emily's not getting any younger.'

‘That's what I told him. But no man likes to be regarded as a stud.' Joanna gave him a snort of ripe disbelief. ‘In the breeding sense, I mean. We're not just mobile inseminators, you know – we have feelings,' he said poignantly. ‘And when a woman has a child, it largely replaces the man in her affections, so he's breeding his own usurper. That simply goes against logic.'

‘I had no idea you were carrying so much resentment,' Joanna said sweetly.

‘I don't mean me. I love being married to you, and all it entails. I'm talking about ordinary men.'

‘Well, of course, you make perfect sense. But what's the alternative? Jim's old life of lonely promiscuity? That's no way for a rational human being to function.'

‘He'll just have to work that out for himself,' Slider said. ‘Logically.'

‘Oh, you and your logic. As if human relationships were electrical circuits: close this switch and the current goes that way.'

‘I think they pretty much are,' Slider said, only partly to tease her. ‘Just rather complicated ones.'

‘On which subject, how's your case going?'

‘We've got two very good suspects – or four, if you count their wives.'

‘Well, that's nice. What's wrong with them?'

‘Nothing yet. We have to map their movements, which is the boring footwork. Of course, they can't both be guilty.' He paused, brooding.

‘What is it?' she asked after a minute.

He came back. ‘I was just wondering, what sort of murderer checks his hair in the mirror just before going to do the deed?'

‘A vain one,' Joanna said. ‘Aren't all murderers vain? It's the ultimate in self-obsession to think you have the right to take someone else's life.'

‘You have a point,' said Slider.

When Slider got in the following morning and went to the men's' room, he found Hollis in there, braces over a vest, shaving. His arms were very white, as if he never stripped off. Perhaps if you grew up in Manchester you never developed the habit.

‘Hullo!' Slider said. ‘You in already? Or didn't you go home?'

Night shift ended at two for the CID – the desks were unmanned then until six.

Hollis hesitated, but meeting Slider's eyes in the mirror said, ‘Didn't seem worth it, guv. I put in some time on the computer, tracking the Krolls.'

‘Oh. Good work. Come and report to me when you're ready.'

When he came, it was with Fathom and McLaren, the latter bearing a cup and a plate.

‘Got you a tea from the canteen, guv,' McLaren said.

‘Very kind of you. What's on the plate?'

‘Bread pudding. Special this morning.'

‘Thanks,' Slider said. The canteen's bread pudding was very good. There was the slightest hesitation as McLaren handed it over which made Slider wonder if he had actually meant it for himself; but it was too late now. ‘Atherton in yet?'

‘Haven't seen him,' McLaren said cautiously. He looked at Hollis and then away, as if they shared a secret. ‘Maybe he's in the bog.'

But he came strolling delicately in at that moment, clutching a take-out Costa coffee. His eyes were pink and he looked to Slider as if he hadn't slept, but Slider tried not to think about that.

‘What's going down, dudes?' he enquired ironically.

‘Kroll movements,' Slider said. ‘You're just in time.'

‘Right, guv,' Hollis said. ‘Kroll's gone past the gift shop again half eleven Tuesday morning, going the other way, and we've got his van on the move again five minutes later – caught him on the ANPR cameras at Hammersmith Broadway and King Street. Oh, and by the way,' Hollis added, looking pleased, ‘he did get a ticket for parking in Sterndale Road, so we've got extra confirmation he was there.'

‘That's good,' said Slider. ‘So where did he go after King Street?'

‘Well, guv,' McLaren said, taking over, ‘we got him at the end of Chiswick High Road, the big roundabout there, and then we lost him for a bit, couldn't make out what he was doing.'

‘But I found him going north past Boston Manor Station, on their security camera,' Hollis said.

‘At the end he turns east on West Ealing Broadway,' McLaren resumed. ‘So it looks as if he's going a long way home. Very long way. Doesn't make any sense.'

‘Unless,' Hollis suggested, ‘he's done the murder and he's driving round trying to settle his nerves. And if that's what it was, it makes sense of him getting another ticket for parking in Culmington Road, right by the back gate to Walpole Park. Maybe he went and sat in the park brooding about it and wondering what to do.'

‘That's a lot of maybes,' Slider said, frowning. ‘What time was he ticketed there?'

‘That's the odd thing, guv. The warden notes the van's there at half past twelve, and it never moves all afternoon. It was still there at quarter to four. The son, Mark, says the old man picked him up on Uxbridge Road around four, and we've caught the van heading east on Uxbridge Road at a quarter past, so that looks all right. And the old lady, his mother-in-law, said they got home about half past, so unless she's in on it …'

‘Which I wouldn't put past her,' McLaren growled.

‘So between twelve thirty and four he's away from the van and we don't know where,' Atherton said.

‘It doesn't sound good,' Slider said. ‘A big hole in the story. Although Mrs Kroll said he was still gambling all day Tuesday, trying to make the Changs' money.'

‘We can't take her word for anything,' Atherton said.

‘No,' Slider said. ‘We'll have to check. There are quite a few betting shops within walking distance of Culmington Road. And pubs.'

‘Right, guv,' McLaren said. ‘I'm on it.'

‘And what about Mrs Kroll?' Slider asked.

‘I went through the TFL bus tapes and checked the bus routes she normally takes home,' Fathom said. ‘We've got her getting on a 220 at the stop opposite Bygod's flat. She gets off the end of Uxbridge Road, then she catches the 207 all the way home.'

‘The times,' Slider urged. He had a bad feeling about this.

‘She gets on the 220 at twenty past two and she gets on the 207 at two thirty-seven.'

‘And her mother said she was home about three,' Slider said. ‘So that looks solid. No holes anywhere.'

‘But, guv,' Fathom said, frowning. ‘If Kroll, or her and Kroll, did the murder before half past eleven, why did she hang about in the flat till two o'clock?'

‘Searching for valuables, maybe,' Hollis offered.

‘For two and a half hours?' Atherton said.

‘It's possible,' Hollis asserted, but doubtfully.

‘She'd been working there ten years. She ought to know where everything was kept by now.'

‘Or,' said McLaren, ‘she done it by herself in the afternoon.'

‘Then what did Kroll go there for?' Fathom objected.

‘He goes to ask for dosh to pay off the Changs,' McLaren said. ‘Bygod refuses. Kroll goes away. Mrs K gets to thinking about what a mean old bastard he is and finally cracks, whacks him, then pops off home, innocent as you please.'

‘Yes,' said Slider thoughtfully. ‘Innocent as you please. She'd have to be a cold-hearted killer to pull that off without showing any emotion. And she'd have had blood on her clothes.'

‘Covered by an overcoat,' Atherton pointed out.

‘There's another possibility, I'm sorry to say,' Slider said. ‘Kroll comes back in the afternoon in a different vehicle, or even by public transport, and he does the murder. He's missing for long enough.'

They looked crestfallen, and he sympathized. It was exacting work going through hours of tapes, and having assembled the evidence it was disappointing to have the hole pointed out to them.

Hollis recovered first. ‘Right,' he said. ‘Betting shops and pubs within walking of Walpole Park. Public transport between there and Bygod's place in the afternoon. And anyone who was on the bus with Mrs K, to see if they can tell what sort of a state she was in.'

‘Meanwhile,' Atherton said, ‘maybe we can lean on them a bit more, get them to crack, and save ourselves a lot of work.'

Slider's phone rang. He answered it and listened, said, ‘Right,' several times, then rang off and stood up. ‘Well, aren't we having fun?' he said. ‘That was Mr Porson. Trevor Oxley from Tower Hamlets rang. They very kindly tossed Crondace's flat for us, and guess what?'

‘Don't tell me,' Atherton said, rolling his eyes.

‘Oh, but I will,' Slider said. ‘They've found bloodstained clothing.'