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  ‘He’s been doing Antiques Galore! for about seven years now, but it took a while for his celebrity to build up. I’d say it’s only in the last three or four that he’s been really famous, and we’ve had the fan-trouble.’

  ‘And has it affected business?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘We will have to examine the books at some point,’ he went on, ‘so you won’t be giving away any secrets.’

  ‘Why would you have to do that?’

  ‘It’s routine, to look into the financial background of a murder victim. I’m afraid very often money is the motive behind it.’

  She looked troubled. ‘You surely can’t be suspecting Mr Lavender of anything? He’s the kindest, gentlest man!’ The Dandie caught something in her voice and looked up at her. ‘And theirs has been such a strong, successful partnership. It wouldn’t have lasted all these years unless they were really fond of each other, would it? You really mustn’t think Mr Lavender could ever in the world have done anything to harm him.’

  ‘We don’t think anything at the moment,’ he said reassuringly. ‘We’re just at the stage of collecting information. How did the partnership work, between them?’

  ‘They balance each other,’ she said, then paused, thinking it out. ‘Mr Lavender is a real expert, with huge experience and knowledge about the business and about artefacts of all kinds. I’ve never known him to be stumped. But he’s not very good with people. He’s rather awkward, and comes across as cold and unfriendly. Before the television thing, Mr Egerton dealt with the customers, charmed them, made them feel comfortable. He was always the one who closed the deals. But he didn’t have Mr Lavender’s eye, or his depth of expertise.’ She tried a small smile. ‘Mr Egerton’s made some mistakes over the years, sometimes rather comical ones. It was a joke between them that he shouldn’t be allowed to go to a sale on his own, because he was too impulsive, too likely to bring back something gaudy but worthless. Mr Lavender generally did the buying, and Mr Egerton the selling.’

  ‘It sounds as if that worked very well.’

  She shrugged agreement.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘If Mr Egerton’s not around so much to do the selling, is the business suffering?’

  ‘The antiques business is bad anyway,’ she said, ‘because of the recession. Everyone’s suffering. But Mr Egerton’s not always busy with TV. We do a bit at fairs, but most of our sales come from bespoke – hunting down specific items that our wealthier clients want. Mr Lavender does that. And we’re having to do more restoration work as well, to stay afloat.’

  ‘Mr Lavender does restoration?’

  ‘No,’ she said impatiently, ‘we send things off to different expert restorers. We’re the middlemen.’

  ‘I see. So the shop is more of a front than anything.’

  ‘Well, there’s very little passing trade any more,’ she admitted, reluctantly. ‘But one has to have a showcase, and somewhere to meet the clients.’

  ‘So how bad is the business?’ Atherton pressed her.

  She looked away, then back. ‘We’re ticking over.’ Then in a burst of frankness, ‘I don’t know how Mr Egerton’s death will affect us. The notoriety might bring in more trade, but whether it will be the right sort … I’m afraid the shop may have to shut, and then I don’t know what will happen to my job.’

  ‘You could go back to Sotheby’s, perhaps.’

  She braced up. ‘I can always find something, I assure you. But I’ve been happy here. And Mr Lavender will be lost, with no shop and no Mr Egerton.’

  He let her mourn for a beat, then said, ‘Tell me about yesterday. What time did you get here?’

  ‘About half past nine. I didn’t check the clock, but that was my time and I’m not usually late. The shop opens at ten.’

  ‘And where was Mr Lavender?’

  ‘He came down just as I got in. That’s what usually happened.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We got on with our usual routines. He opened the post in the back office.’ She gestured through the door behind her. ‘I did some dusting. We discussed rearranging some of the items. Had a chat about sales coming up. It was just a normal day.’

  ‘Was Mr Lavender there all morning?’

  ‘Yes. He was in the office some of the time, doing paperwork, and he went upstairs a few times and came back down. He usually pottered around like that when he was here.’

  ‘And when did he go out?’

  ‘When I got back from lunch at one o’clock. He said he was going shopping and then to Mr Egerton’s house.’ Her lips trembled and her voice faltered. Atherton encouraged her with a look. ‘I can’t help thinking what a terrible shock it must have been for him, finding Mr Egerton dead like that. He didn’t say much about it last night, but I could hear from his voice he was terribly shocked and upset.’

  ‘I’m sure he was,’ said Atherton.

  ‘It was a burglary, wasn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Was there much taken?’

  Atherton avoided a direct answer and asked her about the malachite box.

  She looked blank. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it. It certainly didn’t pass through this shop.’

  The Morisot drew a better response. ‘Oh, yes, I know about that. Mr Lavender found it at a country house sale. Nobody else knew what it was, and he got it for a song. He was very pleased with himself. He had it cleaned and gave it to Mr Egerton as a birthday present.’

  ‘Is it very valuable?’

  She frowned. ‘It’s hard to say,’ she said. ‘Morisot isn’t very well known and not the most collectible, but it’s a pretty subject, and the Impressionists are very popular at the moment. And of course as the prices of the better-known artists go beyond reach, the second rank become more desirable. I’d say you might realize a hundred thousand for it at auction, on a good day. Why are you asking about it? Is it something to do with Mr Egerton’s death?’

  ‘I can’t say at the moment,’ said Atherton.

  ‘And this malachite box?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more. Do you know who Mr Egerton’s next of kin is?’ he asked, to distract her.

  She frowned. ‘I’m afraid not. I think he had a daughter – he was married once. Would it be her? Mr Lavender would know more than I do about that. Would you like me to call him?’

  ‘No, don’t trouble him at present. We’ll catch up with him later. I’m sure he needs his sleep after such a shock.’

  ‘Yes, he really was dreadfully upset,’ she said. ‘They’d been together such a long time.’

  He asked her for the name of the shop’s accountant, thanked her, and took his leave.

  An interesting discrepancy, he thought, between Lavender’s estimation of the painting’s value, and Georgia Hedley-Somerton’s. Was that because he was the real expert and she was not? But she had been in the valuation department at Sotheby’s – although it was a long time ago. Or was it so much a matter of opinion and the temporary state of the market, plus who happened to be at the auction, that they could both be right?

  He got to the door and stayed his hand on the doorknob. There were some shapes lurking outside, like wolves at the limit of the firelight. Their blood would be up, fuelled no doubt by the sort of liquid lunch he could only dream of. Policemen drank whenever they could, but journos drank whenever they couldn’t as well.

  He looked over his shoulder. ‘I’d be careful who you open the door to,’ he said. ‘In fact, if I were you, I’d pull the blinds down and turn the sign over to “closed”.’

  She looked alarmed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The press have found you.’ He surveyed her expression. ‘Look, you’re not the sort of person to relish having your face in the paper. The best way to deal with them is to say absolutely nothing. Once you let a single word pass your lips, they think you’re a seam and never give up trying to mine you.’

  ‘I have no intention of talking to the press,’ she said coolly.
<
br />   ‘Well, they’ll have every intention of talking to you, so rather than test your resolve, best to keep away from them. If they see me come out, it’ll give them ideas – most of them know who I am. Is there a back way out?’

  ‘There’s a door into the yard, and a gate on the far side of that leads to the garages. You can get out on to the side road that way.’

  ‘Good. Let me out that way, and lock everything behind me. They’ll come barging in if they find an unlocked door.’

  ‘Surely they wouldn’t do that?’

  ‘They’re not above it, in the same way that the sea is not above the sky.’

  She managed a smile. ‘How can you joke?’

  ‘Requirement of the job,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’d go mad.’

  FIVE

  Bolshoi Artist

  Slider rang the office, and got Swilley.

  ‘I’m going to grab a sandwich and go and see one of the other Antiques Galore! people.’ He told her about his interview with Gavin Ehlie and the row with Rupert Melling. ‘Anything happening?’

  ‘Nothing apart from the canvass, boss. McLaren and Mackay are still at the house checking the goodies. Connolly’s back from Mrs Bean. She doesn’t think there’s anything there – says the old bird seems twenty-four carat. Now she’s trawling the Internet for recent guff on Egerton. Atherton’s given me the name of the accountants for the antique shop, so I’m going to get them to send over the accounts.’

  ‘Have you found a will?’

  ‘No, boss. Not so far. I’ve still got some things to sift through.’

  ‘If you don’t find one, look for the name of his solicitor. They’ll have a copy.’

  ‘You think it’s an inheritance thing?’

  ‘I don’t think anything yet.’

  ‘Oh – Atherton said the press turned up outside the shop while he was there.’

  ‘That’s inevitable,’ said Slider.

  ‘And Connolly said Mrs Bean told her she’d had them on the phone.’

  ‘Damnit! That’s not inevitable. How did they find out about her?’

  ‘I don’t know, boss. Maybe one of her friends or neighbours. You know what people are like about wanting to get in on the act.’

  Slider knew. To be the next-door neighbour of the person who cleaned the house of a famous person was exciting enough, but if the famous person got murdered and was all over the papers, the appeal of being associated with the news story would be irresistible.

  I danced with a man who danced with a girl who danced with the Prince of Wales.

  Or someone might have leaked.

  Soho was, of course, the perfect place to be for grabbing a sandwich. He found a sandwich bar he liked the look of – small and cheerful with an impressive queue for takeaways – and secured a seat on a tall stool by the shelf along the window, so he could look out. He treated himself to a hot salt beef on rye and a cup of tea, and while he was waiting for it he rang Pauline Smithers.

  ‘Hello, Bill. How’s it going? I heard about Joanna losing the baby. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘How did you hear that?’

  ‘Oh, grapevine. News travels. People know I’m interested in your fate, and things get passed along.’

  ‘That makes me feel nervous.’ He watched the people hurrying along outside, huddled against the cold, and enjoyed the steamy warmth of the café all the more by contrast.

  ‘It shouldn’t. Isn’t it nice to know your Aunty Pauline is keeping an eye on you?’

  ‘You were never aunt material. Certainly not where I’m concerned.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. How’s she holding up?’

  ‘Stoically,’ Slider said, not wanting to go into it. Not that Pauline was ever a rival to Joanna – their flinglet had happened many years ago – but he never liked talking about one woman to another. It seemed like bad manners, somehow.

  ‘I know you, Bill Slider,’ Pauline said sternly. ‘You’re blaming yourself. You think you should have stopped her doing that tour.’

  ‘It wasn’t for me to stop her or not stop her. She makes up her own mind,’ he said. But she was right – of course he did blame himself. He had been uneasy about the strain of the tour in her condition even beforehand. But he had always believed partners in a marriage should be equal and autonomous, and Joanna had her own career and made her own choices about it. Still, that didn’t let him off the hook. When it came to the baby, it was his as well as hers. And the loss was his as well as hers. ‘The doctor said the tour had nothing to do with it, anyway,’ he went on. ‘It was just one of those things.’

  ‘Then you’d better start trying to believe it,’ Pauline said. ‘Punishing yourself won’t help her.’

  He tried to change the subject. ‘How are things in SCD1?’

  She accepted the redirection. ‘Fairly busy at the moment.’ She was in the Homicide Unit at the Yard, but in the less frenetic missing persons section. ‘The usual teenagers gone AWOL, plus two children snatched by their father and taken to Pakistan. They always give me the child abductions because I was in SO5,’ she sighed. Two years working in child pornography had almost broken her. ‘I thought I’d got away from all that.’

  ‘You’re doing essential work,’ he comforted her.

  ‘So are you. I gather you’ve got the Egerton case?’

  The waitress placed his plate and mug in front of him, and he mouthed thanks. ‘That’s right, and I’ve got a couple of missing artefacts – a painting and a Fabergé box. I was wondering if Bernard knew anyone in the Art and Antiques Unit.’

  Bernard Eason was in cheque and plastic crime, but they both came under the SCD6 aegis.

  ‘Bernard knows everyone,’ Pauline said. ‘But if this is part of the investigation, won’t you be making a formal request?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but you know how these things go. Without a bit of leaning, I’ll get put in a queue. I’d rather like someone to talk to personally. If Bernard could give me a name, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘I’ll ask him. I’m sure he knows someone. And, listen, you and Joanna must come and have dinner with us. When this case is out of the way.’

  ‘I’d like that. If Joanna feels up to it. We haven’t been going anywhere.’

  ‘I understand. But she’s got to climb back on the horse sometime. Don’t mollycoddle her.’

  ‘OK. Thanks, Pauly. I’m glad Bernard’s working out all right for you,’ he added, to distract her from more Joanna-advice.

  ‘He’s a perfect pet. He’s a bit like you, in some ways.’

  Oh hell! Slider thought. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Got to go,’ she said briskly. ‘My landline’s ringing. Speak soon.’ And she was gone.

  Slider tackled his sandwich, which should have been glorious, but between dismay that Pauline might have chosen a man because he was like him, and annoyance that everyone had an opinion about how to cope with the miscarriage, some of the shine was off it.

  Rupert Melling lived in a slim Georgian house in one of Hampstead’s narrow and precipitous streets, where parking was a nightmare. Slider had to cram himself somewhat illegally into a space on a corner, put a ON POLICE BUSINESS card in his windscreen and hope for the best. Rumour had it that Hampstead parking wardens were trained by ex-Stasi enforcement officers who had been sacked for gratuitous brutality.

  The sky was beginning to cloud over with high, fine streaks of cirrus, sure sign that a front was coming. It had grown even colder since this morning, with a doomed, iron feeling to the air that Slider knew presaged snow. It hardly mattered in London, but he had grown up in the country, where snow was something to be dreaded. He hunched into his coat, feeling the cold strike through the inadequate cloth, and stumped back down the narrow road to the house. The cobbles already felt slippery underfoot.

  He had called ahead, and Melling answered the door himself – a well-preserved forty-something with a perma-tan. He was wearing black Turkish trousers, a white muslin buccaneer shirt and a red velvet cummerbund
marrying the two. It was an outfit so flamboyant as to be theatrical. His hair was dark, curly and shoulder length, and the blue of his eyes was so intense Slider suspected tinted contacts. And all off duty. This, he thought wisely, was a vain man.

  ‘Hello!’ Melling cried, as if he had only been waiting for Slider to arrive for the fun to start. ‘Come in! Have you had lunch yet? We’re just going to have something.’

  Slider was still in the process of proffering his warrant card. ‘I haven’t introduced myself,’ he said, slightly minatory. ‘You should check my ID.’

  ‘Oh, but I was expecting you,’ Melling said gaily. ‘And I’m sure nobody could look more like a detective inspector than you do! But if it will make you happy …’ He took the card and studied it with pantomime thoroughness. ‘Mmm – mmm – mmm! That seems to be in order, Inspector – though the picture doesn’t do you justice.’ He handed it back. ‘Doesn’t show off your marvellous blue eyes. Your best feature – you should make the most of them. Don’t you agree, Alex?’

  A lean and sulky young man had lounged up behind him: thick, tousled blonde hair, pale gold skin, high cheekbones, pouting mouth, like a young Rudolf Nureyev. The column of his neck disappeared into an open-necked blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to display long, rather veiny forearms. Below were baggy fawn cut-offs, strong brown legs and bare nubbly feet. He looked as though he ought to be doing languid acrobatics on Santa Monica beach, not hanging about Hampstead on a bitter winter’s day.

  ‘This is my friend and house-mate, Alex Anton. Detective Inspector Slider, Alex. Take his coat. Come in, come in. It’s a beastly day, isn’t it? We’ve got the fire lit.’

  Alex took Slider’s coat with reluctant obedience and hung it on the newel post of the stairs, and they followed Melling through the narrow hall into a room which, though small, had such beautiful Georgian proportions and original features that it felt spacious. A fire was glowing under a marble fireplace, and big red-plush armchairs and a massive leather chesterfield were drawn up to it. The rest of the room was furnished in an eclectic mix of antique and designer-modern, and everything in it had the air of being placed there to be a conversation piece. Slider had never been in a room in which so many objects clamoured, ‘Look at me, look at me!’ all at the same time. It was enough to give you a headache.