Gone Tomorrow (14 page)

‘She’s doing it on a trial basis, but it’s a permanent job.’ He turned his glass round and round on the bar top. ‘I keep thinking, if she stays away, maybe she’ll meet someone else.’ He looked up, met Nutty’s eyes, and shrugged. ‘It happens.’

‘Maybe you will,’ Nutty said.

Slider shook his head. ‘I’m starting to think maybe I will have to chuck it in and go over there. I’ll have got my twenty-five in at the end of this year.’

‘That’s only half final salary. You can’t live on that.’

‘I might be able to find a job where the language isn’t a problem. Tourist guide or something. Of course, she’d be travelling, but I’d see more of her there than I will here.’

Nicholls thought it all sounded hopeless. ‘You’d miss the Job,’ he said unemphatically.

‘Like the toothache,’ Slider said with a swift smile. ‘Still, it helps to pass the time.’

‘How did your search go?’ Nicholls asked, taking the offered
exit from the tender subject. ‘Was Baxter’s lassie there? Did you find the murder weapon in her underwear drawer?’

‘Why should you think that?’ Slider asked, startled. He thought of the flimsy knickers, abandoned on the floor. Was Nutty psychic?

‘That’s where women always keep things. First place your professional burglar looks for the jewellery – you know that.’

‘But do you think she did it?’

‘Christ, man, don’t look at me!’ Nutty protested. ‘I’ve not been following yon soap opera. It’s just a lifetime’s conclusion that women are at the bottom of most things. Are you going off Cranston, then?’

‘Cranston leaves a lot of questions unanswered,’ Slider admitted. ‘It’s starting to look more like a professional job, and Cranston doesn’t come across as that organised.’

‘Well, I hope it is him,’ Nicholls said. ‘He’s a nasty little creep, and from what I’ve observed, a professional getter-away with things. I don’t like freeloaders. Another pint?’

‘That sounded like a very pointed juxtaposition,’ Slider said. ‘It’s my round – same again?’

While he was waiting for them to be pulled, his mobile rang. He had to go outside to get the privacy and the quiet to answer it.

‘Hullo, Mr S.’ It was the husky tones of Tidy Barnet, one of his snouts – though nowadays they were supposed to call them CHIS: Covert Human Intelligence Sources. Some boy wonder destined for great things spent his days in his comfy office at the Yard thinking up things like that.

‘Hullo. You got something for me?’

‘Seen you on the telly,’ said Tidy. ‘You was good.’

‘You think?’

‘Manner born. The wife reckons you could be a pin-up.’

‘It can be my second career. I’ll need one if I don’t get a break soon.’

‘Got a bit of gen for you. That Lenny Baxter – lived down Coningham, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He was seen outside his house Mundy night, about half eleven, quart’ twelve, talking to a pair o’ right tasty bastards.’

Slider’s pulse quickened. ‘Got any names?’

‘Nah. My bloke don’t know ’em, but he knows the type. Muscle-men for some big wheel. Top-price minders. Baseball caps, shades, leather jackets. Wearing gloves, and it was a warm night. Well nasty. Unlucky Lenny was in over ’is ’ead all right, right?’

‘You don’t know who killed him, I suppose?’

‘Nah. Nobody don’t seem to know.’ Tidy sounded slightly surprised at this. ‘I’ve ’ad me ear to the ground, but there’s nuffink going round.’

‘Well, thanks anyway. Keep listening, and thanks for the tip. Oh, by the way, this stuff about the minders – is it good?’

‘It’s A1, Mr S.’

‘You’re starting to sound like one of us,’ Slider said. Police graded intelligence using the four-by-four system, starting at A1 at the top, for reliable information from a proven source, down to X0 at the bottom, for something gleaned from an alien from outer space.

The main office was full of sunshine, the smell of McLaren’s fried egg sandwich and the murmur of voices. Atherton strolled in with a bag of doughnuts for everybody.

‘What are you so happy about?’ Swilley demanded suspiciously.

‘Can’t I just have a generous impulse?’ He opened the bag under her nose and shook it gently. ‘That one’s got cream in it. Go on, Norm, you know you want to.’

‘Oh, all right. Ta.’

‘The woman tempted I, and she fell.’

‘Where d’you get ’em?’ Anderson asked, edging up and pincering in.

‘The baker’s under the railway bridge,’ Atherton said. He held the bag out to Mackay. ‘There’s a Scottish girl serving in there. I said to her, “Is that a cream cake or a meringue?” and she said, “Ye’re no wrang, it is a cream cake.”’

‘Your Scotch accent’s bollocks,’ McLaren said as he was passed by. ‘Here, don’t I get one?’

‘For Chrissakes, you’re already eating a sandwich.’

‘Well, I can have it for later, can’t I?’

‘Surely an oeuf’s an oeuf ?’

McLaren didn’t get it. ‘I can have it for afters,’ he said, finishing his sandwich in one goose-throttling swallow.

‘Maurice, I love you, and I want to have your babies,’ Atherton said. ‘Here, take one, then. And one for little
moi,
and that just leaves one for teacher.’

‘Where is he, anyway?’ Mackay complained.

‘He’s gone upstairs to see Mr Porson,’ Hollis said.

‘Porson’s not in,’ said McLaren through the sugar sticking to
the egg yolk on his lips. ‘His old lady’s sick. I heard Sergeant Paxo on the dog about it when I come in.’

‘What is it, the flu?’

‘Dunno. I never heard. But she must be bad for the old Syrup to stop home.’

Slider came in. ‘Are we ready to go? Did anyone get me any tea?’

‘Over here, guv.’

‘What’s up with Mr Porson’s old lady, guv?’

‘Word spreads in here like a virus in a hospital ward. I don’t know. I was only just told he hasn’t come in this morning. I expect we’ll hear later. Let’s get on, shall we? Any minute now the SCG will have sickies coming back on duty and they’ll want this case back.’

‘And we don’t want the sceptre of failure stalking us,’ Atherton said, quoting Porson. Norma glared at him. ‘What? It’s affectionate,’
he protested.

‘Some of you may know,’ Slider said loudly, ‘that we got a call last night after my TV appearance—’ He waited for the outbreak of whistles and catcalls to stop. ‘—from a lone community-minded member of the public who was passing the Phoenix on his way home on Monday night and saw the fight between Cranston and Baxter. That’s the good news. The bad news, from our point of view, is that his account largely agrees with Cranston’s. It was between ten and a quarter past eleven, our witness estimates. The men were standing outside arguing when he first noticed them. He was on the other side of the road, approaching from the Bloemfontein Road end, and kept an eye on them in case they came his way.’

‘Your nervous type,’ said Mackay.

‘Sensible,’ Swilley corrected.

‘Anyway,’ Slider continued, ‘as he drew nearer there was a scuffle and the taller, darker one reeled away, swearing and clutching his face, apparently hurt. The other one immediately made off, not running but walking fast, down South Africa Road past the football ground towards Bloemfontein Road – which I don’t need to tell you is the opposite direction from the park. Our man went past quickly, not wanting to appear too interested, but when he’d put a bit of distance in he looked back to
make sure he was safe, and saw the taller one heading for the cut-through by Batman Close.’

There were murmurs of comment, over which Hollis said, ‘We’re getting witness in today to look at mugshots just to be sure, but the descriptions fit all right. It seems like the goods.’

‘And I had a bit of information from one of my snouts last night,’ Slider went on, and repeated what Tidy Barnet had said.

‘Coningham Road’s more or less opposite the end of Bloemfontein Road,’ Mackay said, ‘so Baxter was probably heading home when he left Cranston.’

‘If he was seen alive at a quarter to twelve, that lets Cranston out anyway, doesn’t it?’ Anderson said. ‘His alibi’s from half past eleven.’

‘Only if you believe it,’ Swilley said.

‘They could have met again later, we don’t know,’ Mackay said.

‘Let’s go through things in order, shall we?’ Slider said. ‘Lenny Baxter was stabbed to death some time between eleven forty-five Tuesday night and eight o’clock Wednesday morning. That’s a fact. His body was found in the children’s playground in Hammersmith Park. That’s a fact. Eddie Cranston had a fight with him at about ten past eleven. That’s a fact.’

‘I think we could assume he was killed in the park,’ Atherton said. ‘The general public may be unobservant, but you can’t carry a dead body through the streets like a roll of lino.’

‘My own feeling is that he was killed where we found him,’ Slider said, ‘but we have always to bear the other possibility in mind. It’s possible he was taken in a van up to the Frithville gate, though I think someone would have noticed that. No-one’s come forward, but of course that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’

‘You’re not your usual cautious self today, guv,’ Atherton complained.

‘If he was killed elsewhere, wouldn’t that let out Cranston?’ Anderson asked.

‘Not at all. As Swilley says, we don’t know that his alibi is true. And I’m afraid the new evidence that Baxter was seen alive at eleven forty-five doesn’t let him out either. We’ve got a wide leeway on the time of death. We don’t know exactly
when Lenny was killed. It would be nice to be able to rule Cranston definitely out or definitely in, but life ain’t like that, ladies and germs.’

‘I just hate having anything Slob Eddie’s told us turn out to be true,’ Atherton complained.

Slider continued. ‘Now, the case against Cranston, such as it is – and let me remind you we don’t have any evidence against him – has the merit of simplicity, but it leaves questions unanswered. What did he do with the weapon?’

‘No problem there,’ Swilley said. ‘Even if he really didn’t leave Shotter’s house between then and the time we found him, it still gave her two full days to get rid of it.’

‘Which would make her an accessory and an accomplished liar,’ Slider said.

‘I’ve put some enquiries in train about her,’ Swilley said. ‘She’s got no record, but DC Hughes at Acton owes me one. He’s going to sniff around the Elephant for me.’

‘You conjure up some dainty images,’ Atherton said.

‘The pub, dickbrain.’

‘Second question,’ Slider intervened, ‘if it was Cranston, why did he go through Lenny’s pockets, what did he take, where is it, and why didn’t he take the money?’

No-one had any suggestions to offer. After a pause, McLaren said, ‘Well, it’s still Cranston for me.’

‘That’s the kiss of death to any theory,’ Atherton said.

‘You’re such a snot,’ Swilley snapped, and turned to McLaren. ‘Go on, why?’

McLaren blinked in her sudden warmth. ‘Well, we’ve got nothing else. And he did have a fight with him.’

The warmth switched off. ‘You’ve got to lay off those stupid pills, Maurice. Boss, if it wasn’t Cranston, what was Lenny doing in the park? Was he meeting somebody? If he was, maybe it was him that used the Frithville gate. We know he went home, and that would be the logical way for him to come back.’

‘But where are the bolt-cutters?’ Hollis asked. And where’s the padlock and chain?’

‘Most likely the park keeper just forgot it and it never was locked,’ Mackay offered.

‘To back up the Cranston Is Innocent theory,’ Slider went on, ‘we’ve got all these dark hints that Lenny Baxter was mixed
up in something bigger than collecting loan repayments from women on benefit.’

‘Herbie Weedon got quite apocalyptic about it,’ Atherton said.

‘Yes, but he wanted to get you off his tail,’ said Swilley. ‘On the other hand, there’s the evidence that Baxter’s pad was searched by a professional. They didn’t take his goods and chattels so they must have been after something else. Something that would incriminate someone, maybe.’

‘And he was chatting to two heavies outside his house,’ Anderson said.

‘They might just have been friends of his,’ Atherton said fairly.

‘But someone who wasn’t interested in money went through his pockets,’ Slider reminded them.

‘And that’s definitely sinister,’ Hollis said. ‘Contempt of money is the root of all evil.’

‘I’ve heard that,’ Atherton said.

‘To me, the single stab wound to the heart always looked more like a professional killing than the result of a drunken fight,’
Slider said. ‘But even a drunk can get lucky, and we’ve got to keep open minds. So what lines have we got to follow up?’

‘Check on Carol Ann Shotter and keep an eye on Cranston,’ Swilley said. ‘If he knows he’s being watched he might do something stupid.’

‘Right.’

‘Put pressure on Herbie Weedon about who Lenny might have been annoying,’ Mackay said. ‘Cranston might not have been the only one of his customers out for his blood.’

‘Right.’

‘And there’s Sonny Collins,’ Anderson said. ‘He’s a loose end, isn’t he? Said he didn’t know Lenny but according to Cranston called him by name. He and Lenny might have been into something together.’

‘Right,’ said Slider again. ‘We must see what we can find out about Mr Collins. And let’s not lose sight of Lenny’s missing girlfriend.’

‘Yeah, what’s the story with that?’ Mackay asked. ‘She came home, found the pad had been searched, knew Lenny had been offed, panicked and ran?’

‘Maybe she came home and surprised them at it,’ Swilley said, ‘and they snatched her to keep her quiet.’

‘Maybe don’t feed the bulldog,’ Atherton said.

‘Either way, we need to find her,’ Slider said. ‘Ask around, boys and girls. Get your snouts on that, and on who those two heavies were, seen chatting to Lenny outside his house. And keep cracking on with the search for witnesses. Everybody in west London can’t be deaf, blind and dumb!’

‘Sonny Collins has got no criminal record, guv,’ Hollis reported.

‘I didn’t think he would have,’ Slider said. ‘Breweries have to be pretty careful.’

‘Right. I’ve had a quiet word with them, and they said they checked him up when he applied. He’d had three other pubs before, and nothing against him. Before that apparently he was in the navy.’