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  Slider sidestepped that. ‘You say you left some time after six. Do you know what his plans were for the evening?’

  ‘He said he was spending the evening reading manuscripts.’

  ‘Here, at home? Was he expecting company?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. There was nothing in his diary. Why, do you think there was someone else here?’ she added anxiously.

  He smiled at her. ‘I haven’t got as far as thinking yet. These are just routine questions we always have to ask.’

  ‘But it was an accident, wasn’t it?’ she pressed, anxiously.

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out. Don’t worry about it. There always have to be questions asked when an unexpected death occurs.’

  ‘Unexpected death,’ she repeated, blankly. Her lips quivered.

  He was afraid she might be cracking. He distracted her. ‘I’m going to go up to have a look at his office now. I may want to talk to you some more afterwards, if you don’t mind.’

  She looked away with an air of weariness. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said.

  Slider mounted the stairs with Atherton behind him. ‘I like her style,’ he said.

  ‘Plain and wholesome?’

  ‘Why not? And I admire self-control.’

  ‘Better when they babble. You learn more.’ Atherton shivered. It did feel cold up here, but it was presumably a psychic shiver, because he said, ‘I’m not liking this.’

  ‘What happened to “ours not to wassname”?’

  ‘I’m starting to wassname. I hope it was obviously an accident. I don’t want to be stuck on this for weeks.’

  ‘Why should we be?’

  ‘Poisoned chalice,’ Atherton reminded him.

  Slider didn’t want Carpenter breathing down his neck for weeks – or at all, indeed. ‘In and out,’ he promised. ‘Quick as a bunny. Unless we find a note, there’s no reason to think suicide.’ They reached the landing. ‘Gloves and shoe coverings,’ he said. Atherton gave him a look. ‘Just basic precaution. Just in case.’

  ‘In case what?’

  ‘It’s better to get into good habits,’ Slider said. ‘Upstairs first, I think.’

  Wiseman’s bedroom had a double bed, which was unmade, and there was a frowsy smell in the air. On the bedside cabinet on one side there was a used coffee mug and an empty wine glass, on the other a wine glass still containing a little red wine. Further inspection revealed an empty water glass on the windowsill, and another coffee mug, somewhat crusty, standing just under the bed.

  ‘Multiple vessels. Maybe he had company after all,’ Atherton said.

  ‘No knowing how long they’ve been there,’ Slider said. ‘Maybe he was just a slob.’

  A built-in wardrobe covered the whole wall opposite the window, and was mirrored floor to ceiling, making the room look bigger. It was full of expensive clothes, beautiful suits, cashmere sweaters, designer jeans, fine leather shoes. And in the bathroom, there was a variety of grooming products: body creams, after-shave balm, hair-volumising shampoo, hot oil treatments, colognes – even a pot calling itself Dead Sea Mud Facial for Men.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Slider mildly.

  Atherton was certainly not of the ‘real men don’t moisturise’ school of thought, but even he blinked. ‘Vanity, all is vanity,’ he said. ‘However, please note the soap scum round the basin, spots on the mirror and caps left off bottles and tubes. Seems you’re right – he was a slob.’

  ‘I’ll take the bathroom cabinet, you take the bedroom drawers. Looking for any medications that might cause dizziness. Or evidence of recreational drugs.’

  ‘Or a terminal illness that might make him want to kill himself,’ Atherton said.

  But there was nothing of note, only the usual over-the-counter nostrums that a man of mature years might keep about him, and several packets of condoms. ‘Which doesn’t prove anything,’ Slider concluded.

  ‘Au contraire,’ said Atherton. ‘A man who needs that many condoms has no reason to kill himself. I’m coming down for accident.’

  The other room on the top floor was a spare bedroom only by virtue of having a single divan bed pushed up against the wall, and a chest of drawers crammed into the corner. The rest of the space was taken up by a rowing machine, a weights bench and a rack containing graded hand weights. A full-length mirror was screwed to the wall opposite it.

  ‘Ah, so this is where he exercises the manly bod, keeps himself in trim,’ said Atherton.

  ‘You sound as if it’s a criticism.’

  ‘Not at all. Good for him, at his age. Make the most of what you’ve got, while you’ve still got it.’

  Slider snorted, heading for the stairs.

  Wiseman’s ‘snug’, across the hall from his office on the middle floor, had a fireplace that was obviously used, books on every wall that were obviously read, old, saggy armchairs and a sofa that were well sat-in, a carpet worn almost to holes in the most popular spots. There was a faint, old smell of cigarettes, and used ashtrays here and there. On a table in the corner was a tray containing decanters – brandy, whisky, gin. There was a sound system and a good collection of CDs, plus a lot of vinyl – mostly classics and jazz.

  ‘He looked after his records all right,’ Atherton noted. ‘Nothing left out of its sleeves.’ One was lying on top of the turntable lid, as though it had been the last record played, but even that was safely sleeved. ‘Julie London,’ Atherton said. ‘Nice. But everything’s turned off. He wasn’t listening to music when the end came.’

  Beyond this room was a lavatory, and beyond again a tiny kitchenette with a small refrigerator, kettle and coffee machine.

  ‘Very cosy,’ said Atherton.

  ‘This is where he holed in, all right. He had everything for his immediate needs without going downstairs.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just suggests a mindset – that he was very much a bachelor.’

  ‘She said he’s been divorced a long time.’

  ‘True. Now for the office.’

  ‘The departure hall,’ said Atherton.

  ‘Presumably,’ Slider cautioned.

  Wiseman’s office was on the left at the top of the stairs, above the ground-floor office. It was cold, of course, because the window was wide open. There was moss-green carpet on the floor, a small, cast-iron fireplace, which seemed unused, and the walls were painted cream – what could be seen of them. There were bookshelves floor to ceiling opposite the fireplace, and every other inch seemed to be covered with framed pictures of one sort or another – mementoes of an eventful life, Slider supposed. Even the mantelpiece over the fire was laden with photos, cards and invitations, a pewter mug which seemed to be stuffed with bills or receipts, a trophy of some kind, and a couple of elderly silver sports cups.

  Standing with its back to the window, for the light, was a big old mahogany desk with a green leather inlay, and an expensive black leather desk chair – the tilty, wheely sort – pushed neatly in. On the desk was a reading lamp, switched on, and a manuscript apparently in the process of being read: two-thirds in the to-do pile, one third turned face down beside it, done. A pencil lay on the top sheet, and there were scribbled comments in pencil in the margin. A ring notebook lay beside the script, with more jottings on the exposed page. On the other side was a brandy balloon with a fair serving of amber fluid in it. The ashtray on the desk contained the mashed-out stub of a slim panatela and some ash, but the room did not smell of smoking, perhaps because the window had been wide open all night. There was an old-fashioned corded telephone, in the 1960s style, in ivory – the retro colour of choice. There was a wire in-tray containing a pile of mis-matched folders and A4 envelopes, presumably more manuscripts, and a china mug containing pens and pencils.

  A second desk of modern make, pushed up against the wall beside the door, took care of the computer, keyboard, and printer/scanner, and also a small portable television.

  ‘Well,’ said Atherton at last, ‘you can
see the scenario. He’s sitting there, reading some no-hoper’s novel—’

  ‘Why no-hoper?’

  ‘Look at how much he’s scribbled on it.’

  ‘If it was hopeless, he wouldn’t waste time on it, would he?’ Slider objected.

  ‘All right, he’s reading a manuscript that needs improvement, gets up to stretch, decides to have a look at how the work’s going next door, leans out too far – aided by the brandy, probably – and goes over.’

  Slider went over to the window, put his head out and looked down. He was familiar with the urge that sometimes comes over people when they look over a cliff, but there was nothing inviting about the prospect below him, of scaffolding poles, hard edges and metal things. He drew back in and looked around. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t think what it was. He shook it away, for the subconscious to work on.

  Atherton took Slider’s place at the window and looked down. ‘I can’t believe it was suicide. It’s such a messy way to do it. And inefficient – you’re just as likely to end up alive and badly hurt as dead.’

  ‘People commit suicide in needlessly messy and painful ways all the time,’ Slider pointed out.

  ‘Usually because they’re stupid. Wiseman was an intelligent person. You can always find ways of doing it, less painful ways. And he’d have the imagination to foresee agonising injuries or paralysis.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Slider. ‘The overhead light’s on, as well as the reading lamp. It must have been dark. So when he looked out, he might not have seen the detail of what was below. Just a chasm. They say that if you look into an abyss for long enough, sooner or later the abyss looks back at you.’

  ‘Very poetic. But I’m not convinced. He knew what was there, whether he saw it or not. It’s still accident for me.’

  ‘That window isn’t easy to fall out of,’ said Slider. ‘You’d have to lean your whole body out to go past the point of balance.’

  ‘Well, why not? Maybe he was checking on the state of his brickwork. And he’d just got up from his desk, so he might have been dizzy. Or a bit drunk. You can’t say it’s not possible.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of saying that.’

  ‘What’s up, guv? It’s supposed to be accident. Everyone wants it to be accident. You’re not trying to make it suicide after all?’

  ‘Of course not. There’s no note. And he was working – no suggestion he was in a troubled state of mind. It all looks good.’

  ‘Except?’ Atherton queried. ‘I know that tone of voice.’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know. Something bothered me, but I can’t see what it was now. It certainly looks all right for accident.’

  ‘There’s absolutely nothing to suggest anything else, so we can get out of here,’ Atherton said beguilingly.

  ‘Just take some pictures of the general layout,’ Slider said.

  While Atherton was doing that, he stood where he was, by the window, and looked round slowly, in case he could spot the anomaly. Despite Wiseman’s apparent slobbiness in other areas, the room was clean, the comb-marks of recent vacuuming on the carpet, no accumulation of dust on surfaces. As he moved his head a tiny glint caught his eye, and bending down, he saw a minuscule screw on the carpet, right up against the skirting board under the window. How come the Hoover hadn’t picked it up? he wondered vaguely. But there was always a thin strip at the edges that the machine couldn’t reach, wasn’t there?

  ‘All right,’ he said, seeing that Atherton had finished. ‘Another quick word with Miss Hollinshead, and we can wrap this up.’

  THREE

  Can’t Help Loathing That Man of Mine

  When Slider reached the downstairs hall again, Hart came back in through the front door. ‘Doc’s here, boss, if you want to speak to him. They’re taking the body away.’

  ‘I’ll have a quick word,’ Slider said.

  Freddie Cameron, still in paper suit, though without the head coverings, mask and gloves, was on the pavement, looking at his mobile, as everyone seemed to be these days when they weren’t doing anything else. He looked up as Slider approached. ‘Morning!’ He gestured with the phone. ‘Text from the daughter,’ he explained.

  ‘Catherine? How is she? I haven’t seen her since she was Liesl in The Sound of Music.’

  Cameron raised an eyebrow. ‘That was a few moons ago. And she’s Kate now. Thought Catherine Cameron was a bit of a mouthful. Kate Cameron’s snappier. She’s getting married.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Slider said. ‘She won’t be Cameron much longer, then, anyway.’

  ‘They don’t change their names these days. Causes too much trouble at work.’ Catherine was a portfolio manager with J P Morgan. ‘He’s a bond dealer in the same building as her. Nice chap.’

  ‘So you approve?’

  Cameron grinned. ‘Since when does approval come into it? But it’s nice for Martha and me to feel comfortable with her choice.’

  ‘Big wedding?’

  ‘Sounds that way,’ said Cameron. ‘They’ve both got a lot of friends.’

  ‘I hope you’ve been saving,’ said Slider.

  ‘Oh, they’ll be paying for it themselves. We offered, but they actually earn more than we do, so it seemed silly to insist. And this way they can have it exactly the way they want. I think some kind of foreign venue is on the cards.’ He gave Slider a rueful smile. ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘Not for a long time yet, thank God,’ said Slider. His daughter, also a Kate, was only twelve. At the moment she regarded boys with an impatient contempt that was a great comfort to him.

  ‘So what’s the story here? I didn’t call you over, since the body’d already been moved. Rigor is fully developed, so I’d put the death at twelve to eighteen hours ago. Was it suicide or accident?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out,’ said Slider. ‘Presumably the fall did it?’

  ‘It’s consistent with a fall from that window. I’ll do the post tomorrow, but there’s plenty there to cause death – head injuries and a broken neck, to name but a few.’ He gave Slider a canny, penetrating look. ‘Not a sensible way to choose, if it was suicide.’

  ‘No,’ said Slider. ‘We rather hope it was an accident.’

  ‘That’s what I supposed. A man with connections, I gather. Not sure how you’d prove it either way – but that’s your problem.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Slider.

  ‘So, I’ll be off on my appointed rounds, then, and let you have the report tomorrow. Good luck.’

  As he headed for his elegant grey whisper of a Jaguar, someone else jumped out of a bile-green Yaris and pranced towards Slider, a gleam of authority in her eye. It was the PR guru from headquarters. He sighed inwardly. He knew Lily Saddler was a stayer, because she had outlasted the previous commander, Mr Wetherspoon, and he admired her for that, but he couldn’t like her. She was small, Glaswegian and hard as polished enamel, and though he had been assured she had charm when schmoozing the press, he never saw any of it. She was convinced that her job was more important than his, which was hard for a DCI to take. Unfortunately, when it came to celebrity corpses, the Brass tended to agree with her.

  He got his word in first. ‘I can’t spare you long. I’ve got an interviewee in there getting cold.’

  ‘You’ve got a witness to the fall?’ Saddler asked quickly, her sharp crow’s eyes pecking holes in Slider’s skull to get at the juicy thought processes inside.

  ‘Not as far as I know. Person who worked with him. Possible last person to see him alive.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was disappointed. ‘Well, make sure you don’t tell her more than she tells you. We don’t want any more leaks.’

  ‘Who’s talking about leaks?’ Slider said, letting the insult to his professionalism slide past. There was never any point in arguing with the Saddlers of this world.

  ‘Somebody told the press Ed Wiseman was found dead. Why d’you think I’m here? Dave is very unhappy about it.’ The chummy use of Carpenter’s first name was meant to disp
lay her power to Slider, the PR equivalent of a baboon’s bottom. He bet she wouldn’t call him Dave to his face. ‘So let’s make sure there are no more slip-ups. Do you know the cause of death yet?’

  ‘Falling out of a window onto a wheelbarrow full of bricks,’ said Slider.

  She gave him an impatient look that said, Strike one! ‘I’m quite well aware of that. Can I say it was accidental death?’

  ‘That’s one possible interpretation of the facts so far,’ he said.

  ‘One possible interpretation?’ She seemed about to say more, but studying his face, fell silent a moment.

  ‘All right,’ she said at last, ‘I’m going to issue a statement along the lines of, “Ed Wiseman was found dead at his home this morning in what appears to be a tragic accident.” Any objections to that?’

  Would I dare? Slider asked silently.

  Failing of an answer, she snorted in an annoyed way and said, ‘Just so long as nobody on your side contradicts that.’

  ‘Aren’t we all on the same side?’ he asked innocently.

  Strike two! ‘Say nothing more than that to any media person who approaches you. Those words exactly – don’t improvise. And don’t let anyone else on your team say anything. Not even “no comment”. Do I make myself plain?’

  ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘I have to go now.’

  He gained the top of the shallow steps before her voice reached him. ‘And if I was you, I’d make damn sure it was an accident before the end of the day.’

  He stopped and turned round. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he said sternly.

  She didn’t flinch. ‘The media won’t be held off by a “looks like” for more than a day – two at the most. If we don’t confirm, they’ll start speculating. I want to kill this tomorrow at the latest. I want it to be a non-story.’

  He gave her a thoughtful look, turned and left without a word.

  Atherton was waiting in the hall. ‘What did Wee Jimmy Krankie want?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Scottish comic character. Look it up online. With that helmet hair, she’s the spitten image when she smiles. Have you ever seen her smile?’