Hard Going Read online

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’ Slider asked. He was always surprised by the things his bagman came up with.

  ‘It’s written on the base,’ Atherton pointed out.

  ‘Creet or Greekan,’ Bailey said, ‘grip it round the legs and you’ve got a good weapon.’ He demonstrated with what looked like a drive to deep extra cover.

  Slider was looking round the room. ‘Over there. There’s a space on the mantelpiece.’

  The mantelpiece was otherwise crammed with objets d’art of china, jade, and ivory, some rather dim-looking Etruscan bronzes, an onyx bull, and two little figurines that were, or were meant to look like, Sèvres. In the centre was a space, about the right size. It was easy to imagine Ariadne as the centrepiece of the eclectic display.

  ‘Any fingermarks?’ Slider asked without hope. Any two-bit criminal knew enough to wear gloves these days.

  Bailey shook his head. ‘Chummy wiped the bottom half of the thing, where he’d held it, with some sort of cloth. Handkerchief or something.’

  Slider met Freddie’s eyes with hope. ‘If it was a handkerchief and not clean, we might get some DNA transference from it. What about the rest of the room?’

  ‘Cleaner does a good job,’ said Bailey. ‘There aren’t many marks anywhere. But we’ll lift what we can.’

  The house was a thing of strange contrasts. To begin with, though it was usual in London for the floors above commercial properties to be divided into several flats or even a multiplicity of bedsits, this was all one home, over three floors. Given the cost of housing in Hammersmith these days, its size ought to have made it quite valuable; on the other hand, not everyone wanted to live over a restaurant. It was hard to guess what it might fetch on the market, but it wouldn’t have been cheap.

  At the back of the first floor was an L-shaped kitchen-dining room; on the second floor the master bedroom was in front and a large bathroom, obviously made by sacrificing a second bedroom, at the back. On the third floor – the attic behind the parapet – were two maids’ bedrooms with a sliver of a modern shower room tucked between them. One was empty; the other seemed to be used as a storage room, containing suitcases and cardboard removers’ boxes full of personal possessions.

  The main bedroom was decorated and furnished, like the living room, with grand, heavy old furniture in the Victorian style, very much a man’s taste; yet the kitchen and bathroom had been done out fairly recently in modern style and at some expense, with a lot of tile, marble, chrome, and a profusion of gadgets.

  The kitchen in particular roused Atherton’s envy. ‘Every damn thing that ouvres and fermes,’ he remarked. He loved to cook, but living in a tiny two-up-two-down he hadn’t the space for a kitchen like this, even if he could have afforded it.

  Slider had often noted that, as a rule, the posher the kitchen, the less it was used, but this kitchen, though it was spotlessly clean, was obviously cooked in.

  ‘I wonder if Mr Bygod was another of these epicurean bachelors who like to cook,’ Slider mused.

  ‘Don’t look at me when you say “another”,’ Atherton objected.

  ‘If the chef’s hat fits,’ Slider said. ‘There’s no sign of a woman’s touch in the bedroom or reception room.’

  A further anomaly was that flight of stairs at the bottom. The front door was heavy, and was controlled by an entryphone system, the upper end of which was beside the door inside the living room. It was recently painted and sported well-polished brass furniture – quite a grand door in its way – but behind it was a tiny lobby, lit only with a bare light bulb hanging from a long flex. And while the upper hall and stairs were carpeted, these lower stairs were covered with linoleum that looked old and worn, and the walls were painted with a dingy pale green emulsion that was much scuffed and marked with traffic.

  ‘You’d think, given the flat must have cost quite a bit,’ said Slider, ‘that he’d want to make a better impression.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t entertain,’ Atherton said. Then, ‘That was a nice suit he was wearing. Bespoke.’

  ‘How could you tell from that distance?’

  ‘I can tell. Might be interesting to talk to his tailor.’

  One of Bailey’s ghosts found them to tell them that Doc Cameron had moved the body and wanted them back, so they returned to the living room. The corpse was off the desk and on the floor, on its back, in a body bag, waiting to be zipped up. Slider took a look at the face – the first time he’d been able to see it. Thin, with high cheekbones, a prominent nose and full, carved lips: distinguished, he’d have said. A strong face, and while not exactly handsome, it was agreeable to look at – probably women would have found him attractive, he thought.

  He stared down for a long moment, aware that this was the last the world would see of Lionel Bygod, whoever and whatever he had been. From here he would go to the morgue, where he would be unemotionally cut up and analysed, no longer a person but a case, a piece of evidence in an investigation; and from there into a coffin, his final disintegration taking place unseen within the oak, pine or mahogany, depending on the next-of-kin’s propensities or finances. That zip would zip closed his time on the stage, like the final curtain on the last night of a play. All that he was and had been was over and done with. And Slider had yet to discover if anyone cared. It was a melancholy moment.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Freddie disturbed his reverie. ‘Well, there were no other visible injuries, so I think you can take it it was the head trauma that killed him. Ceteris paribus and subject always to post-mortem.’

  ‘Ever my cautious Freddie,’ said Slider. But they’d had cases between them before, more than one, where all was not as it seemed. He walked to the desk. ‘And what was he doing, sitting there?’

  ‘That’s rather curious. It appears he was writing a cheque.’

  There it was on the desk, the cheque book, the edges of the pages stained with blood. The victim’s body had shielded it; but paper acts like a wick and had drawn it up from the wet blotter. A rather nice fountain pen, dark green marble effect with gold bands, was also lying there, uncapped. He had got as far as writing the date, Slider saw.

  ‘The pen was actually in his hand,’ Freddie said. ‘The right hand. It was hidden under his torso when he fell forward.’

  ‘So he was actually writing it when he was killed,’ Slider mused.

  ‘Yesterday’s date. If only the blow had miraculously stopped his watch as well, we’d have the exact moment of death pinpointed,’ Freddie said drily.

  Outside, Slider discovered his boss, Detective Superintendent Fred ‘The Syrup’ Porson, walking up and down, his autumn raiment – a beige raincoat of wondrous design, covered in flaps, straps and buckles – swirling around him like a matador’s cape. He had abandoned the eponymous wig when his dear wife died, but his bony pate served only to emphasize the lushness of his eyebrows, as lavishly overgrown as Sleeping Beauty’s hedge, and whipped up into peaks like hoary meringue.

  He was talking to Swilley, another of Slider’s DCs, who had to pace with him and looked as though she didn’t like being made to look foolish in that way. He swung round as Slider emerged with Atherton behind him, and barked, ‘Only just made it!’

  Slider was stung. ‘I came as soon as I heard, sir – or as soon as my lift arrived.’

  Porson waved that away. ‘Over there. Checkpoint Charlie.’ He gestured towards the next side turning. ‘Border between us and Hammersmith. Only just the right side of it, or they’d have got it instead of us. Thankful for small murphies.’

  Slider forbore to comment. Only the upper echelons could actually want a murder case.

  ‘I’ve already had friend Grunthorpe on the ear’ole to me this morning,’ Porson rumbled on. ‘In the person of DS Carthew of course. They think it ought to go to Hammersmith’s murder squad.’

  Grunthorpe was Porson’s equivalent at Hammersmith, and Trevor ‘Boots’ Carthew, his right hand man, was famous for his dedication to his master’s interests. Grunthorpe was known
to be always on the lookout for prestigious cases to boost his reputation – or easy ones to boost his clear-up rate.

  Slider frowned. ‘But the deceased wasn’t anyone important, was he?’

  Porson shrugged. ‘Not as far as I know, but that’s irrevelant. I think they’re jealous about the Corley case. Touch of the green-eyed wassname.’ In his impatience with life, Porson’s way was to take random swipes at language, like a bored waitress wiping tables in an airport eatery. ‘We did ourselves a bit of bon with that, and they want some of what we’ve got. Give ’em half a chance and they’ll be all over this like a cheap rash. So I want the investigation done by the book and double-quick time. Don’t want any excuse for Mr Wetherspoon to cast nasturtiums on our efficiency. What’s it look like so far?’

  Slider shrugged in his turn. ‘No obvious signs of burglary. And it doesn’t look professional.’

  ‘Domestic? Blast,’ said Porson.

  Slider concurred. Human passions took a lot more fathoming out, and amateurs didn’t tend to have their prints or DNA handily on record. They might be more liable to leave traces behind, but you had nothing to compare them with until you’d identified them by other means. And other means tended to take time.

  Porson looked round at the immediate area. ‘And this is a bad place.’

  Slider knew what he meant. At intervals along the pavement edge trees had been planted, the tall, handsome London planes beloved of Victorians, which had now reached magnificent full size. It was a soft, early autumn day and the buttery sunshine was filtering through the leaves, turning them to glowing shades of lemon and lime. Beautiful – but they would restrict any view of the door from across the road, either by a casual gazer-from-the-window or a CCTV camera, should there happen to be one. Nearby there was a bus camera on a tall pole, but of course that was focused straight down the road. Some of the posh shops might have cameras pointed at their doors which could possibly show people walking past, but without a precise time of death, that might not narrow the field in any meaningful way.

  Porson came out of his reverie. ‘Still, we’ve got it and they’ve not, and a nod in the hand’s as good as a wink. And I want to keep it that way, so I need you to stay on your toes.’ There was a furious clicking sound, like a troupe of asthmatic cicadas, heralding the arrival of the press, and Porson glanced over his shoulder, then gathered his coat around him in a curiously dainty gesture. ‘The Bavarians’re at the gate. I’m off. Keep me in the picture.’

  He scuttled off, the better, Slider reflected, actually to stay out of the picture.

  Slider called Swilley to him, and briefed her about the disposal of his personnel.

  TWO

  Don’t Cry for Me, Ardent Cleaner

  Having dispersed the available troops on canvass, DC Kathleen ‘Norma’ Swilley took the Italian restaurant for herself. She was a tall, athletic woman, good looking in a blonde, small-nosed, wide-mouthed, Californian way. From the beginning she had had to fight her way through the various misogynies of the Job – even now, marriage and motherhood hadn’t discouraged the chancers, or those who insisted that because she rejected their advances, she must be a lesbian. But she had found refuge in Slider’s firm. Slider only cared that she was a good policeman, and was the one work colleague who had never hit on her, so he had her undying loyalty.

  The restaurant was unimaginatively called Piazza but was obviously a posh one. She found the door unlocked, but it was not yet open: the lights were off, it felt cold, and the only sound came from the gloom of the far interior, where a man was clinking about with bottles, setting up.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out.

  He came hurrying towards her at once, dressed in the pan-global uniform of white shirt and black trousers, a tall man, with thinning fair hair, and the sort of knobbly peasant face that looked as if it had been roughly marked out of clay with thumbs, then decorated with a small, bristly moustache like desert grass.

  ‘Bella signorina!’ he cried as he approached. ‘So much regret! Siamo chiusi! We are closéd. But you will come back later, please, so beautiful signorina!’

  He beamed at her, a smile that seemed so genuine it made all the difference from being called bella signorina in any other Italian restaurant. She almost found herself smiling back.

  ‘It’s all right, you can drop all that stuff,’ she said, showing her warrant card. ‘Police.’

  But he continued to smile, and his eyes seemed kind. ‘But it is true, you are beautiful,’ he insisted. She made a discouraging face, and he went on, ‘To tell you truth, I am not Italian anyway.’

  ‘No kidding,’ said Swilley.

  ‘I am from Kurdistan,’ he admitted modestly.

  ‘Is that right, Mr—?’ Swilley enquired, for the notebook.

  ‘Here I am called Cesar,’ he said. Now he had dropped the eh, Luigi! stuff, his accent was faint and unclassifiable, residing more in his cadences than anything specific.

  ‘Real name? For the record,’ she said.

  ‘Sinar Serhati. I will spell it for you.’ When she had it down, he asked, ‘Is there some trouble? I see so many police outside.’

  ‘I’m afraid there is. It concerns the man who lives upstairs.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Mr Bygod? Has something happened to him? Please God he is all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say he was found dead this morning.’

  Serhati’s face registered immediate concern and dismay. ‘Oh, please, no! This is terrible! He was such a nice man – and very kind to me.’

  This was good, Swilley thought – he evidently knew Bygod more than casually. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about him, if I may,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Serhati, still with the sorrowful cast. ‘Please sit down, and would you like some coffee? I’ll ask Naza to bring some.’

  Swilley assented, and watched him go to the back and call out to someone out of sight. He returned and sat opposite her at a small table, gave her a searching look, and said, ‘Was it his heart?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Only that at his age it is usually heart.’

  But she could see from his expression he didn’t think it was. Of course, the police would hardly come asking questions about an infarct. It was a problem in the Job, that simply turning up alerted people to the fact that something was wrong, and put them on their guard.

  ‘I’m afraid it looks as though someone killed him.’

  Interesting. He didn’t look as shocked at that as he might have. He sighed. ‘These are bad times,’ he said quietly. ‘So much trouble in the world.’

  ‘What was the nature of your relationship with Mr Bygod?’ she asked.

  ‘He was a customer,’ he said at once, ‘but he was also very good to me. He helped me buy this place.’

  ‘He gave you money?’

  Serhati looked hurt. ‘No! I would not ask him for money. He helped me get loan from the bank. Told me where to go, how to apply. Helped me write a business plan. All sorts of advice. You see, I was a waiter here. Ever since we came to England – Naza, my wife, and me – I have been waiter, and Naza worked in kitchens, but our dream was to have our own restaurant. We saved and saved but never enough. Then I came here, and after a year I was made manager. The owner, Mr Batelli, he owns four restaurants, he can’t run them all himself. He liked me, and I did well for him, and then one day he said, “How would you like to buy?”’

  ‘An Italian restaurant?’ Swilley asked.

  ‘No-one eats Kurdish food – not even the Kurds,’ he joked. ‘But the business is the same. Naza and I are Kurdish, my chef is Spanish, his assistant is Greek, I have one Polish waiter, one from Kosovo, and one from Portugal. Mr Bygod used to call it United Nations. But restaurants are like that everywhere. Catering is the great melting pot, Mr Bygod used to say.’

  A little, round woman came scuttling from the back with the coffee and a plate of thin cinnamon biscuits. She cast one nervous look at Swilley, Serhati
said something to her in a very foreign language, and she scuttled away again. ‘My wife, Naza. She doesn’t speak so good English.’

  Which sounded to Swilley like a warning off. But there seemed no reason yet to interview her and she let it pass. She sipped her coffee, which was excellent. ‘Was Mr Bygod a good customer?’

  ‘The best sort. He loved food, he appreciated it. We like people who enjoy what we serve them. And always good wine. He knew a lot about wine. He helped me make up the wine list after I bought the place.’

  ‘So was he well off, do you think? Had plenty of money?’

  Serhati shrugged. ‘There was no show about him. He wore nice clothes, but not flashy. His house was comfortable the same way. I would call him an old-fashioned English gentleman. He spoke like that – like a lord, like Oxford-and-Cambridge. Maybe he had money – I don’t know. I don’t think it mattered.’

  She understood what he meant, or thought she did – that someone like Bygod would be the same whatever his circumstances. But money always mattered. Nice clothes cost money at some point in their history. So did an Oxford education. She wondered if Serhati knew that Oxford and Cambridge were separate places.

  ‘Why do you think he helped you?’ she asked.

  ‘Because he was a good man,’ Serhati said with faint surprise, as if she shouldn’t have needed to ask.

  ‘He liked you,’ she suggested.

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose he did. But it was not only me. One of my waiters, too, a boy from Syria – he had trouble with the immigration. He’s gone now,’ he added hastily, ‘but Mr Bygod helped him with the papers.’

  What Swilley was getting from this was an unusual degree of involvement with a local restaurant by a customer, particularly a Londoner. She decided to probe a little further. ‘So you’ve been in his house,’ she said casually, not making it a question.

  He paused the fraction of an instant as if weighing his response – a suspicious pause, it could have been, except that he came from an oppressed people, where such caution was probably a survival tactic; where simply coming to official attention was all you needed to find yourself in trouble. He seemed to settle into his skin a little as he concluded the truth had to be told. She recognized the look as an act of courage – or perhaps of hard-won trust. ‘He asked me up there several times when he was helping me with the bank papers, and once when I had a problem with the Public Health inspector. It was not a social thing.’