Dear Departed (31 page)

‘Yes,’ said Slider.

‘And doesn’t trying to kill Jasper tend to prove it?’

‘I’m keeping an open mind about it,’ Slider said, ‘but I can’t help feeling if he was going to do it he’d have done them both more or less at the same time, not waited three days before attacking Jasper.’

‘Maybe he didn’t have an opportunity before.’

‘But he saw him every day.’

‘In company with the others, presumably. Maybe he couldn’t get him alone before.’

‘Hmm.’

‘You’re not convinced.’

‘I wish I were. It just doesn’t feel quite right to me. But I’d be happy to be convinced, if only we had some evidence apart from motive.’

‘And a confession,’ she reminded him. And if Toby didn’t do it, who did?’

‘Ah, that’s the problem. We’ve eliminated the other suspects.’

‘Maybe you’ll find some more.’

‘Thanks.’

There wasn’t much to do but wait for the lab reports. Hart had managed to persuade Dennis Proctor to go home, and a phone call to the print shop found that he had gone in to work that morning, which was good. Toby Harkness had been moved to a secure psychiatric bed, and Swilley had been to see him, but was unable to get anything useful from him.

‘He’s completely out of it, boss,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t respond to questions, just sits rocking himself and staring at nothing. The shrink reckons it could be weeks before he comes back to planet Earth. If he really is off his kadooba,’ she added glumly,
‘even if we did have enough evidence against him, we’d never get him for it. It’d be diminished responsibility and a nice comfy bed in a psych hospital.’

‘What’s the news on Jasper?’

‘The hospital says he’s “comfortable”.’ She grimaced. ‘I love the words they use. I should think that’s the last thing he is. But it looks as if he’ll recover all right. They said he can be interviewed this afternoon.’

‘Right, Hart can do that.’

Swilley was leaving, and turned back to say, ‘Toby’s parents were flapping round this morning, making threatening noises. I couldn’t make out what they thought we were guilty of. I suppose it’s just habit with that sort of people, to try and do us down. I mean, there’s no doubt he just about filleted poor old Jasper. Literally red-handed. But they’re looking for something to complain about, so I thought I’d better warn you.’

Slider spent the time going through all the evidence again, trying to spot an anomaly, panning witness statements for previously unnoticed nuggets, studying the photos taken of the crowd at the scene in the hope of recognising a face.

It was late morning when the lab rang. The labs were all private now, with the police buying their services out of budget, and Tufnell – Tufty – Arceneaux had become head of the biology section under the new regime. Biology basically meant the human body, but the vast majority of their work now was DNA testing, for, with improvement in techniques, DNA could be retrieved from an amazing number of sources and from amazingly small samples. The old blood groups were as dead as phrenology, and it wouldn’t be long before fingerprinting went the same way.

Tufty was a huge man with a huge voice, though his new responsibilities and being in the private sector had slightly muted him. It unnerved him to think of the police being ‘customers’. But he and Slider were old friends, and in their palmy days, when Slider had been at Central, had enjoyed many a frolic, which always with Tufty involved ingesting large amounts of food and alcohol. Since Tufty had about twice the body mass of Slider, it was always Slider who had come off worse in these encounters.

‘Bill! How are you, old fruitbat?’ Tufty cried.

‘Struggling along. How are you?’

‘Fine, fine! Full of juice.’

‘How’s the family?’ Tufty had two sons of whom he was immensely proud.

‘Young Rupe’s got a new girlfriend. She’s a vegetarian,’ Tufty mourned.

‘Oh, bad luck,’ said Slider. ‘Are her parents cousins?’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised. But Triss is doing very well. He’s up for a part in what they call a Major Motion Picture. Queer phrase. Always makes me think of an endoscopic examination of the large bowel.’

Slider laughed. And how come you never hear about a minor motion picture? Or a minor best-seller, come to that.’

‘Beats me. But anyway, Triss reckons he’s got a very good chance, and it could be the breakthrough for him. One of those frightfully English pictures, set in the thirties, something about upper-class spies. He’s very excited that someone called Ewan McGregor is going to be in it. I thought he was a footballer,’ Tufty complained.

‘The world is leaving you behind,’ Slider sympathised.

‘Ah, well, I never go to the flicks these days. Put me in a dark, warm place after a day’s work and I either want to sleep or roger something. Or both.’

‘But not necessarily in that order.’

‘Not sure, these days. Anyway, talking of a day’s work—’

‘You’ve got a result on the knife for me?’ Slider said hopefully.

‘Pulled out all the stops, old bean. I hope you appreciate the fabulous velocity of our efforts, because you’re not going to appreciate much else. There’s only one sort of DNA on the knife, and it matches the sample you sent us of – let me see, sample number dum-de-dum-de-dum, here it is – Jasper Stalybrass. That’s a nice old-fashioned name. I hope he lives to pass it on.’

‘It seems probable,’ Slider said.

‘You sound glum, chum.’

‘You’ve just told me I’ve got no evidence. Sometimes I wish I’d never left the uniformed division.’

‘Ah, life isn’t the same without a lump of wood down your trousers,’ Tufty sympathised cheerily. ‘Never mind, you’ll get him some other way, whoever he is.’

‘I didn’t entirely believe it
was
him.’

‘Well, what are you complaining about, then?’

‘Just life in general. What about the clothing I sent you, the jacket and the gloves?’

‘Plenty of stuff there for me to play with,’ Tufty said. ‘Blood, of course – presumably the victim’s? What’s the name – Charlotte Cornfeld? That’s who you want us to match it to?’

‘Yes, and Freddie sent you a swab and blood sample for that.’

‘Yup, all in order. Then there’s the wearer of said jacket and gloves, and we’ve got skin cells, sweat, dandruff and loose hair to work on there. No trouble at all. We’ll get a nice profile out of that lot for you.’

‘How long?’

‘Fast track?’

‘Top priority.’

‘Thirty-six hours is the absolutely fastest we can do it,’ Tufty said. Slider left him a pause, knowing him of old, and after a beat he continued, ‘For you, maybe an hour or so sooner.’

‘Thanks, Tufty. The ASAPer the better.’

‘Well, after all, guv, it doesn’t prove it wasn’t Toby,’ Hart said. ‘It just doesn’t prove it was.’

‘I know that,’ said Slider. ‘We can only hope the lab tests come back with something. In the meantime, we have to try to find some other evidence.’

‘How about we try all the people who’ve said they were in the park at the time with a photo of Toby?’ Swilley suggested.

‘The one on the website’s a good one,’ Hart said. ‘We could use that.’

‘Fine. And I want someone to follow up on this story that Harkness stalked another girl. Talk to his colleagues and friends, if any.’

‘Jim’s got the in on that little lot,’ said Swilley.

Slider caught Atherton’s horrified look and said, ‘I think after the Toby-Jasper incident they may want a fresh face. You can do it, Norma. We know he didn’t have a record, but there may have been more than one incident. Probably best not to bother his parents—’

‘In spades,’ Swilley agreed fervently.

‘In any case, they’d probably deny it. But get everything you
can, and especially if he became violent at any time, even if it was only a punch-up.’

‘Righty-oh, boss.’

‘And,’ Slider said to the whole group, ‘we have to consider the possibility that it wasn’t Toby, hard though I know that is for you all to bear. We have to find some other lines to follow up, in the eventuality.’

‘Well, like Jim always says,’ said Hart, ‘it always comes down to two motives – sex or money.’

Atherton gave her an ironic bow from across the room. ‘So if Toby is sex, who’s money?’

‘Darren said Jassy knew about the will,’ said Hart. ‘So it can’t be her.’

‘There might have been other money that would’ve come to her if Chattie was dead,’ Mackay said. ‘What about other relatives?
Did Granny have anything to leave? What about her old man?’

Swilley damped his fire. ‘But Darren and Jassy have both got alibis.’

‘An alibi’s made for breaking,’ McLaren said almost absently, as he licked the last melted chocolate off the inside of a Twix wrapper.

‘Oh, and what does that mean, Food-face?’

McLaren obviously hadn’t got as far as working out a meaning for his words. His expression went blank for a moment with effort, and then he said, ‘Doesn’t say she might not’ve got someone else to do the hit for her.’

‘She hasn’t got any money. How would she pay a hit man? They like to be paid up front, you know,’ Swilley told him kindly.

‘Darren had all that coke. He must have money. He could’ve given it her.’

‘If we’ve got to look for a contract killer,’ Hart said, ‘we really are in the clarts.’

‘It’s too daft a killing for a contract killer,’ Slider said. ‘Let’s not lose sight of the fact that whoever did it, they were dumb enough to try to make it look like the Park Killer’s work, and to believe we wouldn’t see through it. It’s an amateur killing; a planned killing; a cowardly killing.’

‘Which sounds,’ Swilley said, meeting his eyes, ‘more like money than sex.’ He nodded agreement to her, but said nothing.

‘Well, maybe it’s something to do with her dad’s business after all,’ Hart said. ‘Only what? If someone was trying to get at him, you’d think he’d know it.’

‘Not blackmail,’ said Atherton. ‘But how about revenge? He loved her, and a businessman who’s successful must have trodden on somebody’s toes on the way up.’

‘He upset enough people in his family,’ Hollis said.

‘That’s certainly a line to follow up,’ Slider said. ‘Get on to your contacts on the papers, get everything you can from their morgues on Henry Cornfeld.’

‘And keep hoping it turns out it was Toby after all,’ said Hollis, ‘because we lose the extra bodies tomorrow.’

It seemed strange to have enough time for lunch again. His body was so unused to being fed at the right time that he couldn’t manage more than a few mouthfuls of the canteen liver and bacon, mash and peas, and, aware that he was being stared at by some of the uniform relief also lunching, he abandoned the effort and took a cup of tea back to his office. There he sat brooding over the photographs of Chattie, wrung by her smile, trying to make her tell him what had happened. Little Princess Perfect, Hart had called her spitefully, but she had turned out to be pretty nice after all. She had had enough income to have been idle like Jassy, but she had preferred to set up her own business and work hard at it to prove she could make it alone, as her father had done. She was her father’s favourite child. Her grandmother had adored her. She had had lots of lovers. Toby had been obsessed with her, Jasper a longtime admirer. Any number of people had come forward to say how much they liked her, how she was kind and cheerful and funny. Yet someone had killed her. Someone – presumably someone she knew – had beckoned her into the shrubbery for a private talk, and she had gone without a struggle, drunk poison and died. It was bizarre. But there had to be a reason. Passion, jealousy, money, what?

Something to do with her father’s business? He remembered Joanna saying she had seen something in the paper recently about Cornfeld Chemicals, though she couldn’t remember what, not having been interested in the story.

He rang Tufty Arceneaux.

‘What is it this time? Asking me again won’t get your results any sooner, y’know.’

‘It’s not that,’ Slider said. ‘You play the market a bit, don’t you, Tufty?’

‘Have to, old fruit, now I own shares in this place.’

‘Seriously – you always have, haven’t you? Do you have someone who advises you? Someone who understands the City, knows what’s going on?’

‘You mean not just a broker but a chap who knows. Finger on the pulse, head in the bucket, sort of thing?’

‘That sort of thing.’

‘Fellow you want is Colin Jenkins. Old drinking buddy of mine from way back. Used to be City editor of one of the broadsheets, still knows everybody in the Square Mile. If Colin doesn’t know about it, it ain’t happening. Want me to give him a bell?’

‘Would you? If he’s willing, ask him to ring me. I need a bit of information.’

‘Willco.’

‘Oh, and, Tufty?’

‘Still here, old cork.’

‘Tell him it needs to be done discreetly.’

‘Oh, it’ll be discreet all right. Old Col’s so discreet, if he had an affair, even he wouldn’t know about it.’

The call came through about fifteen minutes later. Colin Jenkins had a rich-toned voice and an old-fashioned accent that would have done well in Tufty’s son’s new movie. Think Dennis Price playing a senior civil servant, Slider mused to himself.

‘Tufty says you need information and that it’s in a good cause,’ he said.

‘Yes. I’d rather not say too much about my thought processes at the moment, but—’

‘Tufty’s word’s good enough for me. What can I do for you?’

‘Cornfeld Chemicals,’ Slider said. ‘What can you tell me about them?’

‘Ah,’ said Jenkins. ‘Well, now, it’s a good little company, if anything slightly undervalued. Used to be a family business before it was floated and the family are still large shareholders. The founder, Henry Cornfeld, is the chief executive and chairman of the board, but he knows his business. I’d say it
was a sound investment. If you get hold of any shares I’d hang on to them.’

‘Yes, I see. But weren’t they in the news a few weeks ago? Someone told me they saw them mentioned in the papers, but can’t remember what the story was.’

‘Oh, yes – there were rumours about a takeover, but I don’t think anything came of it in the end. There was a piece in the
Telegraph
City pages – perhaps that’s where you saw it.’