Headlong Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Titles from Cynthia Harrod-Eagles by Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One: Miching Mallecho

  Chapter Two: Nose Dive

  Chapter Three: Can’t Help Loathing That Man of Mine

  Chapter Four: China Syndrome

  Chapter Five: The Regina Monologues

  Chapter Six: Brat Worst

  Chapter Seven: The Plot Sickens

  Chapter Eight: One Nightstand to Remember

  Chapter Nine: Science Friction

  Chapter Ten: The Time of his Wife

  Chapter Eleven: Jab Well Done

  Chapter Twelve: No Pizza for the Wicked

  Chapter Thirteen: The News, and Whether …

  Chapter Fourteen: On the Trail of the Loathsome Vine

  Chapter Fifteen: No Stoat Unturned

  Chapter Sixteen: White Vin Man

  Chapter Seventeen: Con, Descending

  Chapter Eighteen: A Quiche is Still a Quiche

  Chapter Nineteen: All the Little Angels

  Chapter Twenty: Notting Hell

  Chapter Twenty-One: Love, Actually

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Long Day Closes

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Gone to Ground

  Titles from Cynthia Harrod-Eagles by Severn House

  Novels

  ON WINGS OF LOVE

  EVEN CHANCE

  LAST RUN

  PLAY FOR LOVE

  A CORNISH AFFAIR

  NOBODY’S FOOL

  DANGEROUS LOVE

  REAL LIFE (Short Stories)

  KEEPING SECRETS

  THE LONGEST DANCE

  THE HORSEMASTERS

  JULIA

  THE COLONEL’S DAUGHTER

  HARTE’S DESIRE

  COUNTRY PLOT

  KATE’S PROGRESS

  THE HOSTAGE HEART

  THE TREACHEROUS HEART

  The Bill Slider Mysteries

  GAME OVER

  FELL PURPOSE

  BODY LINE

  KILL MY DARLING

  BLOOD NEVER DIES

  HARD GOING

  STAR FALL

  ONE UNDER

  OLD BONES

  SHADOW PLAY

  HEADLONG

  HEADLONG

  Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  First published in the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2018 by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles.

  The right of Cynthia Harrod-Eagles to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8836-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-961-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0171-3 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Miching Mallecho

  Slider jumped into the car, and Atherton peeled away from the kerb and back into the traffic in a movement so sleek and smooth, a dolphin would have tried to mate with it. ‘Where to?’ he said.

  ‘Head back towards the Green,’ said Slider. ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘I haven’t been in yet,’ said DS Jim Atherton, Slider’s sergeant, bagman and friend – lean, fair, and catnip to women. ‘I was just leaving Emily’s when I got a message to pick you up from outside the town hall, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re staying at Emily’s?’

  ‘Now and then. She doesn’t like my house. Too difficult to park.’

  ‘I wondered how you got here so fast.’ Emily’s flat was in Hammersmith, while Atherton’s house was in that part of Kilburn that liked to pretend it was really Hampstead.

  ‘So what’s going on?’ Atherton asked.

  ‘I don’t know much more than you. I was in a meeting with councillors and I got a message.’ Slider glanced down at the piece of paper. ‘All it says is, “3 Penkridge Gardens. Query accidental death, Edward Wiseman?”’

  ‘The Edward Wiseman?’

  ‘Should I have heard of him? Wise man – the sage who knows his onions?’

  ‘I’m guessing it might be Ed Wiseman, famous literary agent.’

  ‘When you put it like that, I seem to have heard of him,’ Slider said. ‘If it is the same one,’ he added. ‘Wiseman isn’t that uncommon a name.’

  The Tuesday morning rush was almost over, but there was still plenty of traffic about. They hurtled down Shepherd’s Bush Road; but Atherton drove with intense concentration and his whole body, so Slider never minded being driven by him. He watched him out of the corner of his eye, the rest of his attention enjoying the signs of spring – new leaves here, a touch of blossom there – which made Shepherd’s Bush suddenly more attractive. He felt one of those rare moments of good-to-be-aliveness, that occurred independently of, and managed to avoid being contaminated by, the Job.

  Ed Wiseman, he thought idly. Literary agent. ‘So how does a literary agent get to be famous, anyway?’ he asked after a bit.

  Atherton laid the car round the curve of the Green like a lick of paint. ‘Going to the right parties. Being quotable. It’s not really my field, but I think I remember he was a larger-than-life character, bit of a live wire. The Bad Boy of the publishing world?’

  ‘Something’s coming back to me. Isn’t he the media go-to man for opinion on anything to do with the book world?’

  ‘The house expert,’ Atherton agreed. ‘But if it’s accidental death, what the devil do they want us for? It’s not a DCI shout.’

  ‘Query accidental death, question mark,’ Slider reminded him. ‘The devil is in the punctuation.’

  ‘Maybe Someone Up There knows he was famous,’ Atherton said, slipping like a salmon between two cars to enter the white water of the West Cross roundabout. Someone Up There, of course, did not mean the Almighty, but the Metropolitan Police Top Brass – much the same thing to a lowly copper, but without the connotations of forgiveness and mercy. ‘If you’re famous, they get the good silverware out.’

  ‘Don’t be bitter, dear,’ Slider chided him. ‘Left at the end, and left again. Even the rich and famous deserve our best endeavours.’

  ‘I suppose it’s a case of Ours Not To Wassname,’ Atherton sighed.

  ‘Eloquently put.’

  ‘This is it,’ said Atherton, turning into the target road. ‘I h
ope we can park.’

  Penkridge Gardens was on the side of Shepherd’s Bush bordering Holland Park – the posh side. The houses were typical of the 1850’s expansion of London. You saw them all over the western boroughs: tall, handsome, yellow stock brick with white copings, three storeys with a semi-basement, generally built in terraces to save space. Number three was in fact an end-of-terrace because, presumably through some historical or geographical anomaly, number one, the corner house, was detached.

  One hundred-and-fifty-plus years represents a lot of history for a building, and in value and status these had gone up and down like a Harrods lift at sale time. At the moment they were on their way up from the low point at which most had been broken up into flats, if they were lucky, and rooms if they were not. There was a certain prevailing shabbiness over the street, but improvement was evidently going on. Some had been bought back into single ownership, and were showing new windows and fresh paint, pristine stonework and – sure sign they had made it safely above the high-water mark – trimmed evergreen shapes in tubs on either side of the front door.

  Number three was sending mixed messages. It was in single ownership, but needing attention – nothing desperate, but it had evidently been neglected for some years and was showing wear.

  Number one, the detached house on the corner, was undergoing major surgery. It was fully scaffolded, with a sign fixed to it that said D.K. Connor, Building Contractors. High safety-hoardings that screened the site from the street were plastered with warnings: KEEP OUT. DANGER, DEEP EXCAVATIONS. PROTECTIVE HELMETS MUST BE WORN. NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY.

  A skip and various builders’ vans were complicating the parking situation. Atherton had to park on the double yellow. ‘Deep excavations? The curse of the iceberg strikes again,’ he observed as they got out.

  London property was expensive, and in limited supply. With these older houses, up was not an option: planning laws protected the look of the street. So the only way was down. It was common to dig out the semi-basement to increase the ceiling height, and extend it backwards under the rear garden, to create a whole extra floor’s-worth of rooms. But in some cases – and this seemed to be one – owners were going further, and digging a second basement underneath the first. If the property were valuable enough, and the planning officer could be squared, some even went for a third, so that what was visible of the house was the least part of it – hence the iceberg label.

  Slider’s architectural sensitivities were offended. These old houses were built with taste, style, and generous proportions, and to undermine them for such ephemera as swimming pool, games room, gym, and/or private cinema just seemed wrong to him. But it wasn’t his business what people did with their money, so he merely sighed, ‘I wish they wouldn’t.’ And added, ‘Anyway, that’s not our house. We’re number three.’

  But even as he said it, he noted that there seemed to be police activity at both properties – and a lack of building activity where there should be plenty.

  Atherton had spotted something else. ‘Bandits at twelve o’clock,’ he muttered urgently. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs …’ Slider quelled him with a look.

  It was their immediate boss, Det Sup Porson, his bald top gleaming in the hazy sunshine, his strange, greenish overcoat flapping about his legs; and leading the way was his boss, Commander ‘Dave’ Carpenter, in a suit so sharp you could peel mangoes with it.

  Porson was a tall man, who had, over the years, put the fear of God into generations of underlings; but beside Carpenter he seemed to scuttle in a subordinate semi-crouch like an apologetic crab. Carpenter was big – both tall and muscular – with a head of thick, glossy chestnut hair. Brushed straight back but lifting in its own wave above his scalp, it made him look even taller. And, of course, as borough commander he was big in the spiritual sense, and knew it. He held their lives – or, not to be over-dramatic, their careers – in his perfectly-manicured hands.

  Everything about his carriage and expression said ‘don’t mess with me, boy’. His height allowed him to look down his large, well-shaped nose at almost everyone, and his big chin made looking back up a fruitless activity. Management training had taught him to invite his staff to ‘call me Dave’, but definite woe would betide the minion who did so. A young detective constable who took him at his word was rumoured to have suffered third-degree frostbite and never smiled again.

  Slider had already been on Carpenter’s bad side, hadn’t enjoyed it, and had hoped to live out the rest of his life avoiding him altogether. Besides, breathing the same air as demi-gods always gave him a headache.

  ‘Slider!’ said Carpenter, and smiled. Carpenter smiling was, on the whole, slightly worse than Carpenter not smiling.

  ‘Sir?’ said Slider. As every man in uniform knows, you can’t go far wrong with one of those. From behind Carpenter, Porson was making a complicated face at him, which seemed to be a combination of apology and warning.

  Carpenter halted, blocking out the sun. Slider had never liked being loomed over. The hair rose on his scalp. He felt like a Jack Russell facing a St Bernard. Only in his case, he wasn’t allowed to leap up and bite him in the balls.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering why you’re here,’ said Carpenter.

  Existentialism at this hour of the morning? Various facetious answers flitted through Slider’s mind, but he thrust them down sternly. The only safe answer was another: ‘Sir?’

  ‘My wife’s cousin is godmother to Calliope Hunt,’ Carpenter told him importantly, as though that explained everything. Slider heard Atherton, behind him, snort, and change it into a cough. Fortunately, Carpenter didn’t seem to want a response at that point. He went on: ‘So you can see why I have to be pro-active on this one. The family don’t want any breath of scandal. Leave aside the fact that we’re dealing with a high-profile celebrity, so there’s bound to be media interest. And media interest is always the wrong sort, as you very well know.’

  There was a pause, so Slider inserted another: ‘Sir,’ into it. The time would come, he supposed, when he knew what the hell Carpenter was talking about.

  ‘I don’t want it said that we didn’t take this seriously,’ Carpenter went on, ‘but on the other hand, don’t take all day about it. I want it confirmed as accidental death as soon as possible. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Accidental death,’ Slider repeated. Without the query. Okay. Got it.

  ‘Good man,’ said Carpenter, without warmth. ‘Carry on.’ He swung away to where a young police driver was holding the door of his car open for him, leaving Porson trying to scowl in two directions at once.

  He settled on Slider. ‘Well, what are you standing there like that for?’ he barked. ‘You look as if you’re laying an egg. I tried to duck this one, but it’s landed in our laps, so there’s no point beefing. Just get on with it. Make sure there’s nothing fishy about it and get back to what we’re supposed to be doing.’

  Slider picked his way through eggs, ducks, beef and fish, and said, ‘I don’t know what’s going on yet, sir. Query accidental death, is all I know.’

  Porson breathed out the give-me-patience, double-nostril gust. ‘Deceased lived there,’ he indicated number three with the jab of a thick finger, ‘but the body was found there.’ Now he jabbed at the builder-benighted number one. ‘Capeesh?’

  Slider capeeshed quite a bit. Evidently some kind of personal connection existed between Carpenter’s wife and the deceased. If it wasn’t accidental death, it might be suicide, and most people did not like those they loved to be stigmatised with suicide. Or themselves with having neglected to notice it was about to happen and stop it.

  On the other hand, Slider thought, certainty is better than uncertainty. Suicide with a note is at least a full stop. ‘Accident’ always leaves some questions unanswered, generally lumbering the grieving with an ongoing quest for someone to blame, which only stretched out the pain.

  ‘So the question is just accident or suicide, is it?’ Slider sought clarity.

&
nbsp; Porson looked as though a bad smell had arisen under his nose. ‘Commander Carpenter made himself quite clear, didn’t he? Make sure it is accidental death. And make it quick. We can’t afford to waste time on an investigation.’

  ‘I thought that was what I was here for,’ Slider said. ‘To investigate.’

  ‘A clearing-up process. Don’t go pulling any rabbits out of hats.’

  Rabbits, yet, Slider thought. ‘I just need to know what “make sure” means. At the highest level,’ he added, indicating the space Carpenter’s car had recently occupied.

  Porson scowled. ‘I’m the highest level you need to worry about. Do your job, that’s all. I’ll support you.’

  Unclearer and unclearer. ‘So you want the truth?’ said Slider.

  ‘Don’t get clever with me! Just get on with it,’ Porson barked, giving him a minatory stare. He turned away, then turned back to say, ‘And for Gawd’s sake get some bodies in, get some crowd control going. This is not a three-lane circus.’

  Porson had a scattergun approach to idiom. Something was bound to reach its target.

  When it was safe to do so, Atherton moved up beside Slider. ‘You actually said “the truth”?’ he queried. ‘It’s not safe to bait your superiors, don’t you know that?’

  ‘I must have some pleasures in life.’

  ‘So what are we supposed to find?’

  ‘Buggered if I know.’

  Now the coast was clear, his own man, DC LaSalle, was coming across, hopefully to fill him in on some of the facts he was woefully short of.

  ‘You know what this is,’ said Atherton gloomily. ‘This is a poisoned chalice.’

  ‘Should get rid of all the livestock, then,’ said Slider.

  Chickens, ducks, fish, rabbits. They could do without them. The beef he might keep: a sense of put-upon-ness boosted a copper’s adrenaline. It was his usual working environment.

  How did someone end up in a building site through accidental death? Even suicide would present the same question: why pop next door to top yourself? Certainty could be hard to come by, and certainty was what Mr Carpenter wanted – as long as it was the right sort.