Blood Never Dies (34 page)

‘So someone’s telling porkies,’ Porson said. ‘Our counterpoints in Birmingham are not best pleased with finding out everything is not hunkey-dokey, I can tell you. The Prince of Wales opened the industrial park, they get delegates from Europe coming on jollies to admire it. Moist eyes all round just talking about it. So now they’re upset. Want to know what we want them to do about it. I told ’em, nothing at the moment. But we’ll have to move fast before the fat hits the shin.’

He paused, puzzled for a moment as to what had gone wrong in that sentence, and cocked an eye at Slider, who was thinking hard. ‘So they process the film and print a few copies, in case of enquiries. The director would want one, and the actors might order some for their friends. But otherwise—’

‘Otherwise there’s about as much action as a quiet day in the morgue,’ Porson finished for him.

‘If they’re not actually producing any copies, what’s in the warehouse in Staines?’ Slider asked.

‘We’ll have to find out. But if it’s drugs, and that close to Heathrow, we’ll have to start thinking about involving some other people. The drugs boys for a start. Customs. Anti-terrorist – you never know who’s going to want to shove an oar in.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s going to start going pear-shaped, I can feel it in my water. They’re going to ask what the ruddy hell we’ve been doing faddling about on our own all this time. Are you any closer to working out what’s going on?’

‘Yes, sir. A lot closer. But not there yet,’ Slider said with a worried frown. ‘If I could have just a bit longer . . .’

‘You don’t ask for much!’ Porson said explosively. ‘You were sure it was this David Regal who was the head huncho. Now they’ve topped him, who’s your next target? Some completely new bastard we’ve not looked at yet?’

Barrow? Slider thought. Atherton had always wanted it to be Barrow. They’d had nothing on him, not even any connection to Regal, bar the fact that Regal was representative of Ransom – and did Barrow even know that? But if Barrow wasn’t producing thousands of films for the Marylebone Group, what was he doing to deserve his salary? Laundering the proceeds looked more likely than ever. But it still didn’t mean he was involved in the murders, and drugs ring or no drugs ring, it was the murders Slider wanted to get to the bottom of.

‘I’m nearly there, sir,’ he said pleadingly. ‘If we can work out who did the killings, I think we can give the Drugs Squad the whole thing on a plate. But if they go in—’

‘The murders’ll go by the wall,’ Porson finished for him. ‘I know. All right, you’ve got the rest of today anyway. And I don’t suppose our brothers in advertisy will want to bust any chops on a Sunday. See what you can do before Monday. But if anyone comes asking, I’m going to have to tell.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Slider said. He couldn’t expect better than that.

S
lider sent some of the troops home – there was nothing really for them to do until something new came in. Hollis was office-managering, Atherton was going through reports, Connolly was on the computer, and McLaren was still beavering away on his car reg numbers. In the comparative quiet, Slider tried to put in some heavy-duty thinking, re-reading everything in the hope that it would present itself differently to his brain and give him a new idea. Outside the day was mute, the sky pale grey, the sunlight diffused, the air still. It was neither hot nor cold, neither rainy nor sunny, there was no wind. It was as if all weather had been cancelled in deference to Slider’s preoccupation.

He was beginning to think he needed a cup of tea when McLaren came to his door, sadly not with a cup, but with an armful of paper. ‘Guv?’ he said. Slider looked up. With the way the light was striking his face, McLaren looked almost gaunt. And sad, like an unloved dog – a good dog, who did as he was told, but was never petted. How Slider longed to give him a biscuit. Or a doughnut. Or a cheesy-nacho-tikka-marinara-sweet’n’sour meatball sub. With chips.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

McLaren dumped his papers on the edge of Slider’s desk. ‘Well, guv,’ he said, ‘there was a lot of traffic on the Talgarth Road and round Elgin Crescent at the time we were looking – I mean, a
lot
.’

‘So I imagine,’ said Slider encouragingly.

‘Not so much along Goldhawk and Uxbridge Road early Mundy morning. I had over fifty matches for Talgarth and Elgin. And the Astra’s a popular make. But it narrowed down to half a dozen for all three times and places. I looked into those, and came up with nothing – no criminal record, no iffy connections, they all looked legit. I was gonna start going interviewing ’em, but then you wanted Highgate added in. There’s a lot o’ cameras in Highgate,’ he said.

‘I know. I’m sorry,’ said Slider.

‘S’all right, guv. Turned out I got a ping from an ANPR camera on Highgate High Street, at the junction with West Hill. One of my six went past it last night at ha’pass ten.’

‘Terrific!’ Slider said. ‘Good man.’

‘Trouble is, guv, I’ve already looked into this person and can’t find anything. But it’s gotta be something, hasn’t it? I mean, to be at all four places at the right time – and the only one that is. And Highgate’s a long way out from the other places.’

‘It has to be our suspect,’ Slider said. ‘Who’s the car’s registered keeper?’

‘It’s a Miss M Lynn, address Flat Twelve, Chiltern Mansions, Chiltern Street – that’s by Baker Street station, so gawd knows what she was doing all the way out—’

‘Mary Lynn?’ Slider exclaimed. ‘That’s the owner of the ballet school Atherton went to see this morning. The school whose address was in Corley’s pocket. Haven’t you been listening?’

‘I’ve been doing these numbers,’ McLaren said in aggrieved tones. ‘It’s a lot of work. Takes a lot o’ concentration. I haven’t been able to think about anything else all week. Anyway, I only got the last connection a few minutes ago. I came straight to you.’

But Slider had moved on. He frowned in thought. ‘Wait a minute, what was that address? Chiltern Mansions? That rings a bell.’ He burrowed through his notes and his mind simultaneously. ‘Somebody lives in Chiltern Mansions.’

‘Yeah, guv, this female with the Astra,’ McLaren began patiently.

‘Barrow!’ Slider exclaimed – and satisfyingly, just the instant before he came across it on paper. ‘Here it is. Paul Barrow, Flat Twelve Chiltern Mansions – the luxury penthouse. Mary Lynn lives at the same address as Paul Barrow.’

‘Maybe she just uses the address,’ McLaren said with Sliderian caution.

But Slider was pursuing his finger down the notes. ‘Paul Barrow married a Mary Lynnette Scott in 1989. Mary Lynn must be her stage name. Electoral register says he lives alone so she hasn’t put herself on.’

There was something else. Yes, he had it now. ‘Regal’s wife is Sylvia Scott. Now I know why she looked faintly familiar. They’re sisters! Mary Lynn and Sylvia Scott are sisters, and they’re married to David Regal and Paul Barrow, so the whole thing is connected.’

‘Yeah, guv, you must be right,’ McLaren said, with a glow of animation in his eyes that had been missing recently. ‘We got ’em!’

‘We have indeed.’ Mary Lynn had told Atherton she didn’t know David Regal. She had made a proper mistake. ‘All your painstaking work has really paid off,’ Slider said to McLaren – credit where credit was due.

‘But which one’s the boss?’ McLaren said, smirking under the praise. ‘It’s gotter be Barrow, ennit? If it’s not Regal.’

‘I really don’t care,’ Slider said, ‘as long as I nail the murderer. The drugs squad can do the rest.’

Out in the CID room, Slider told the rest of the assembled firm the news. Conversation broke out.

‘Barrow must be the big man, then, and Regal was just a figurehead,’ Hollis said. ‘Question is, did Mrs Regal know her husband was being offed, or did they just wait for her to be out o’ the way?’

‘Sure God, if you think that’s the only question,’ Connolly objected.

‘We oughta get him in and grill him, guv,’ McLaren suggested. ‘Barrow.’

‘I always fancied him for First Murderer,’ said Atherton.

‘We still don’t know who did the murders.’ Connolly.

‘We know it wasn’t Mrs Regal – she had an alibi.’ Hollis.

‘Who ordered ’em? That’s the point.’ McLaren.

‘An alibi for one of the murders. We don’t know they were all done by the same person.’ said Connolly.

‘How to prove any of it is the point,’ said Atherton.

‘Check everybody’s alibis for all the murders,’ Hollis suggested.

‘Maybe we ought to wait until we get some news on the Staines warehouse,’ Atherton said. ‘We’ve only got half a story as far as the drugs are concerned. In fact, we don’t even really know Barrow’s involved. He could just be a stooge.’

‘We’ll have to keep Mr Porson up to speed, whatever we do,’ Slider said. ‘Let’s go through it point by point and try to get some kind of order into it.’

Atherton was just coming out of the men’s room when his mobile rang. He was alone in the corridor, and stopped to look at the display. ‘I don’t know that number,’ he said to himself, and took the call.

The voice that answered his made his hair stand on end – warm, low, full of humour and sex. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d remember what your voice sounded like,’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘You have a very attractive voice, you know.’

‘I could say the same to you, but that would be banal,’ he replied.

‘I’m sure nothing you say is ever banal,’ said Mary Lynn. ‘I’m flattered that you recognized me so quickly, though.’

‘It’s not that long ago since we spoke,’ Atherton said, trying not to notice the warmth creeping up under his collar. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s more what I hope I can do for you,’ she purred. ‘You were asking me about a young man – Robert Williams?’

‘Robin,’ Atherton corrected automatically.

‘Yes, that’s right. I said I’d ask the rest of my staff about him, but actually, I think I’ve come across some information that would interest you.’

‘About Robin Williams?’

‘Yes, but you see, I don’t think that was his real name. And I think it concerns poor Jesse, as well, Jesse Guthrie.’

Was she about to tell him about the fight at the Hot Box? ‘That will certainly interest me,’ he said invitingly.

There was a pause. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I would far rather tell you face to face. Telephones aren’t secure, you know, and – well, what I have to say is rather sensitive.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ Atherton said. His mouth was dry, for some reason, and his pulse was too rapid. ‘You could come in to the station.’

‘Oh, I’d rather not do that,’ she said quickly. She paused again, as if waiting for him to suggest something else, and then said, even lower, in a voice that thrilled the back of his neck and all the way down his spine, ‘Do I have to spell it out? I really want to meet
you
.’

‘Oh,’ said Atherton inadequately.

‘Did I make a mistake?’ she asked. ‘I felt such a strong attraction to you the moment I saw you, and I was sure you felt the same.’

‘You weren’t mistaken,’ he said. ‘I did feel it, but – well, you know. I didn’t want to presume.’

‘You’re too modest. You are a very remarkable man, you know, and I – well, I haven’t felt anything like that for a long while. So can we meet? Just you and I? Somewhere privately, where we can talk.’

‘Do you really have information for me?’

‘Yes, I really do.’ There was humour in the response. ‘Does it depend on that?’

‘Not at all. It just makes it even better. Where would you like to meet?’

‘It must be somewhere discreet. You see, I’m married.’

‘Are you indeed,
Miss
Lynn?’

‘That’s my stage name. But don’t worry, we’ve been separated for some time.’

Atherton knew she was not on the electoral register for Chiltern Mansions. It might be true.

‘We’re getting divorced, but if he found out I had been seeing someone else he could make things very difficult for me. The settlement and so on. He’s very vindictive.’

Atherton could believe that about Paul Barrow.

‘So I must ask you not to tell anyone, anyone at all, about it. Can you do that? Be utterly discreet?’

‘I wouldn’t last long in my job if I couldn’t keep a secret’ he said. ‘And – I’m living with someone as well.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded taken aback. ‘I knew someone like you couldn’t be single,’ she added ruefully.

‘But she’s away at the moment. She travels a lot. She won’t be back for a couple of days.’

‘It must be lonely for you,’ she murmured.

‘It is,’ he said. ‘I hate going home to an empty house. And she’s away such a lot, I sometimes wonder if it’s worth carrying on with the relationship at all.’

‘Perhaps,’ she began, and then stopped. He could hear the silence thinking.

He took up the invitation of the word. ‘Perhaps we could meet at my place, for a drink, and a talk? That would be as private and discreet as anywhere.’

‘Yes,’ she said, pleased. ‘Better than a public restaurant or bar, where you never know who might see you.’

‘And more comfortable,’ he suggested silkily.

‘Oh, much. So – when?’

‘The sooner the better. Tonight?’

‘Yes, tonight,’ she said eagerly. ‘But I’m working until quite late. I could come round afterwards. Where do you live?’ He told her. ‘I could probably get there by about eleven.’

‘That would be perfect,’ he said. He could feel himself trembling lightly all over like a tapped leaf.

‘But you won’t tell anyone?’

‘Who would I tell? I don’t particularly want to get found out either. I hate rows.’

‘Well, I won’t tell if you don’t. Absolute discretion?’

‘Absolute,’ he said. ‘I won’t breathe a word to a soul.’

Atherton had got ready well in advance of the hour, but he sweated so much he had to shower and change again. The house seemed horribly empty without the cats, Siamese twins with loud voices and acrobatic habits. But he could not have concentrated with them around. They had complained vociferously at being bundled next door. Atherton had told his neighbours he wanted to paint the bedroom before Emily got home and said with absolute truth that it was impossible to paint with them in the house – everything ended up hairy. He said he couldn’t shut them in anywhere because they had learned how to open doors, which was also true: one jumped up and swung from the door handle while the other hooked it open from the bottom. It was a ballet of cooperation. The neighbours had taken them with only a mild roll of the eyes.