Hard Going (18 page)

Slider knew how he felt. Someone who wouldn’t talk got right up the constabulary nose.

‘Still,’ Porson went on, brightening, ‘we’ve got good reason to keep him. All that plus the fingermark inside the house – though it’d be nice if someone actually saw him going in. All those people walking up and down the road all day long, and Kroll’s a big bloke, not exactly your shrinking violet in the crannied whatnot – someone ought to’ve seen him. Going in or coming out. Coming out’d be nice, looking all sweaty and guilty – he’d have caught the eye, all right. And the woman, too – she’d have come out with him. Two for the price of one.’

‘I’m on it, sir,’ Slider said. ‘But you know that sort of canvass takes time.’

It was a matter of putting the question out to the general public via leaflets, boards and the media, and hoping the right witness both spotted it
and
was willing to come forward. Often those who did know something hesitated to ‘get involved’. Or were at work and felt it could wait until the weekend. It took days at best, sometimes weeks, before the evidence came in.

Porson nodded. ‘But you’ve got plenty to be going on with. Enough maybe to get a confession, then the rest is case-building. There’s no smoke without straw. Those Krolls have got some explaining to do. Go get ’em, laddie. Put the pressure on.’

Jillie Lawrence, one of the uniformed officers on loan, had been given the task of checking Mrs Crondace’s alibi. The chiropodist was easy enough, although she faffed a bit at first about disclosing her schedule, because of what she called ‘patient confidentiality’.

‘I don’t want to know what you did,’ Lawrence said. ‘I only want to know if you were there.’

‘It’s the Human Rights Act,’ the chiropodist blethered. ‘I’m not allowed to tell anyone anything about the patients. I could get in trouble,’ she added, with frightened fawn’s eyes. She was a thin, pretty Indian girl and looked about twelve, Lawrence thought. Is it me, or is everyone getting younger? And the young have no sense of priorities. They live in a little bubble where the worst thing they fear is an elf-an-safety knuckle rap from their supervisor. The wider world only impinged on them through television, which was itself an unreality. News was entertainment. None of it really happened. Only Mrs Gupta, who did your assessment and could write bad things about you, was real.

‘You’ll get in worse trouble with the law if you don’t show it me,’ Lawrence said brutally. ‘Obstruction of the law could have you inside. Fancy going to prison?’

But Lawrence could see she didn’t really believe in prison either. She showed the schedule in the end only because Lawrence’s personality was stronger than hers. Lawrence rolled her mental eyes. Modern policing, when it came to young people, was a battle for credibility. At least most older people had proper respect for the law – or anyway, a healthy fear of consequences.

Still, there was no doubt that Mrs Crondace had had her regular treatment on the Tuesday morning, which was only what Lawrence expected because DI Slider had said nobody gave an alibi with that sort of smugness unless it was solid, and she had faith in DI Slider’s judgement.

The bingo part of the alibi took longer. She had to ask about who the regular players were, which was practically everybody, then whittle it down to those who always came on a Tuesday, then sift out those who knew who Mrs Crondace was. And nobody really wanted to talk while the calling was going on, in case they missed a line or – God forfend – a jackpot.

At the end of the process she managed to persuade two women to come out of the hall during a brief break and allow her to buy them a cup of tea and a cake in the café.

Mrs Crondace? Yvonne, her name was – they pronounced it
Ee
-von. Oh yes, they said, they knew her. They said it without marked enthusiasm, and after a bit of coaxing Lawrence got them to admit they didn’t like her much. She was not very nice.

‘Hard,’ said Mrs Green.

‘Hard as nails,’ Mrs Orton elaborated. ‘Mind you, she’s lucky – always wins something. I could do with a bit of her luck,’ she went on wistfully. ‘You start to wonder when someone always gets the lucky card.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past her to’ve fixed it somehow. Hard, she is,’ Mrs Green said.

‘And coarse. Ever so coarse. She talks too loud and swears too much. She’s not our sort.’

‘But was she here last Tuesday?’ Lawrence pressed them.

‘Oh yes. I came about half past two, and she was already here. And she was still here at six when I left.’

‘I came half past five,’ said Mrs Green, ‘and I saw her. She left about half past nine – Yvonne did. I remember because I stayed on for the super jackpot, they have that at ten, and I was glad she was going, ’cos she wins too often. I thought I’d have more chance if she was gone.’

‘Did you get it, dear?’ Mrs Orton asked eagerly.

‘Course I didn’t. I’d’ve told you,’ said Mrs Green. ‘Two numbers short. It was that woman from the estate got it – her with the glasses and the hat. What’s her name? Big woman.’

‘Maureen, is it? With the hat?’

‘No, Marjorie, that’s it. You’re thinking of Maureen Fisher. She’s—’

Lawrence interrupted before they got going. ‘Did you have a chance to talk to her at all? Yvonne?’

‘You don’t come here to talk,’ Mrs Green said, casting a longing eye at the door. Numbers could be being called out in there, numbers that would make her fortune and lift her from her old, known life of tedium into a new one of exciting possibilities, foreign holidays and redecorating the lounge.

‘I did, in the break, when they were changing the drum,’ said Mrs Orton. ‘Well, it wasn’t so much a matter of talking to her. She does all the talking.’

‘And what did she talk about?’ Lawrence asked hopefully.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Some stuff or other.’

‘Try and remember. It’s important.’

Mrs Orton frowned. ‘She was going on about something. What was it? Some court case I think. Her husband was taking someone to court? I know she went on and on about it. I wasn’t listening, tell you the truth. She uses too many swear words. I’m not a prude, but I don’t like that sort of language. Wait, I know – she said someone had got off, that was it. Her husband had taken someone to court about something, but they’d got off, and she wasn’t going to let it go at that.’ Mrs Orton looked pleased. ‘That’s what it was. I remember now.’

Mrs Green was scornful. ‘She was always talking about that. That old court case. Bores the ears off you with it.’

‘Does she, dear? I’ve not spoken that much with her. But Tuesday, she was quite vehement about it, that I do know,’ said Mrs Orton. ‘I remember she said she was going to get him. Looked really grim when she said it, and I thought I wouldn’t like to be that person, because she’s not a nice woman at all, not really. She said, “My God, I’m going to get him if it’s the last thing I do.”’

Lawrence leaned forward. ‘Did she say “my God” or “Bygod”?’

‘I don’t know. Does it make any difference? It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Orton.

‘Not entirely,’ said Lawrence. ‘Bygod is a name, you see. The name of the person she was after.’

Mrs Orton’s eyes and mouth became perfectly round. ‘Ooh!’ she said.

Mrs Green clutched her arm. ‘There you are, Peggy, you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble now. And the eyes-down just started again. We’re going to miss it.’

‘I won’t keep you much longer,’ Lawrence said. ‘If you can just think back, and tell me which she said.’

Mrs Orton shook her head. ‘Well, I thought she said “my God”, because that’s what I’d expect to hear. But now I come to think of it, maybe she did say “by God”. Yes, I think p’raps she did. Yes, because I thought at the time it was rather an old-fashioned way to speak.’ She raised a pink, pleased face to Lawrence. ‘Yes, I’m sure of it now. She said “by God”.’

‘You’re quite sure?’ Lawrence said.

‘As sure as I’m sitting here,’ said Mrs Orton, beaming.

ELEVEN

Algorithm and Blues

M
rs Kroll was sticking grimly to her story. ‘I told you, I was there my usual time. And my husband was never there. He’s never been near the place.’

‘But we have the evidence of his van being parked right in the next road,’ Slider said patiently. ‘We have it on camera.’

A gleam entered her eyes as she thought of something. ‘Didn’t see him, though, did you? You don’t know who was driving it. Maybe it was taken.’

‘Then why didn’t you report it stolen?’

‘Maybe they brought it back. Someone borrowed it without telling him.
I
don’t know. That’s your job. All I know is he’s never been to the house, and that’s that.’

‘Mrs Kroll, we have his fingermark from inside the house.’

‘I don’t care,’ she said flatly. ‘You’re lying to try and trick me. Or you put it there yourself. Or you’re mistaken. He wasn’t there and that’s it, and that’s all I’m going to say.’ And she folded her arms and her lips tightly to emphasize the point.

Illogic, Slider thought, was a powerful defence. If someone simply would not agree that if (a) was so, then (b) must logically follow, it left you out on a limb with your predicates dangling.

Mr Kroll took an entirely different approach. He listened in his customary silence as they laid the damning evidence in front of him, and some thinking seemed to be going on behind those buckled brows. Then he unlatched his lips for the first time since they brought him in, and said, ‘I don’t care. Charge me if you like. There’s nothing you can do to me.’

‘How does life imprisonment sound to you?’ Atherton asked genially.

‘I’m safer in here than out there,’ Kroll said. ‘You can do what you like.’

Slider quelled Atherton with a minute glance, and stared at Kroll in silence for a long time, long enough for him to begin to fidget a little. Then he said quietly, ‘If you go down, your wife goes down too, have you thought of that?’

Kroll looked alarmed for the first time. ‘You leave her out of it. She knows nothing.’

‘No jury is going to believe that. To begin with, she had the key.’

Since Bygod was at home and probably let the murderer in, this meant little, but Slider was hoping to provoke Kroll into making some comment on the observation that would incriminate him. But Kroll only clenched his considerable jaw and said, ‘You leave her alone! She’s got nothing to do with it. Keep away from her or I’ll—’

‘You’ll what? You’ll kill me?’ Slider enquired politely. Kroll’s meaty fists were clenched on the table. Slowly they unwound. Slider said, ‘You have the right to have a solicitor to represent you, as you’ve been advised more than once. I think you should have one now.’

‘I don’t want anyone,’ Kroll said, staring at the table, and his tone sounded bitter. ‘I won’t have one.’

‘Get him someone,’ Porson said. ‘I can smell a complaint coming down the track, and I don’t want some human rights lawyer stinking up the case. Get him someone good.’

‘David Stevens,’ Slider suggested. Stevens was a sleek otter of a man with shiny brown eyes, and suits that made even Atherton whimper. He was so successful, you’d think the firm of Lucifer and Faust had a contract on file with his name signed in suspicious red ink.

Porson nodded in appreciation of the point. ‘Steven’s’d cover our bottoms all right.’ While Slider was contemplating this alluring image, Porson changed tack. ‘Mr Wetherspoon likes Crondace,’ he said, with a latent sigh. Wetherspoon was their Borough Commander, and a royal pain in the arse which he also regularly liked to hang out to dry. He was the ultimate publicity bunny, never happier than when facing the TV cameras and the frenzied clicking of shutters. He had been chummy with the Home Secretaries of the previous administration, and the change of government had not left him with any sunnier a disposition towards the team at Shepherd’s Bush. A golfing, lunching, drinkies-at-Number-Ten media star did not want people on his payroll who looked funny (Porson) or got themselves into trouble by doing the right thing (Slider).

Slider digested the information, and said, ‘There’s no harm in keeping a second string to our bow, sir.’

‘Right,’ said Porson gratefully. ‘And who knows, Mr Wetherspoon may be right.’

To cheer him up, Slider told him about Mrs Crondace at the bingo hall.

Porson was doubtful. ‘Sounds as if Lawrence pushed her into it,’ he said. ‘Can’t rely on that.’

‘No, sir. And of course Crondace has no alibi at all, as far as we know. There are certainly tempting things about him – not least that he’s missing.’

‘Keep after him,’ Porson said. ‘And keep an eye on her. And I don’t see any harm in tossing his flat, if Tower Hamlets’ll play ball. I’ll ask Trevor Oxley. If Crondace is that much of a slob, you never know what you might find. Meanwhile –’ he turned at the end of his walk and faced Slider – ‘get more evidence on the Krolls. Her movements as well as his. And a witness who saw him go in. At least.’

When Slider got back to his room, most of the troops had gone. In the CID room McLaren was doing something on the computer, Atherton was tidying his desk, and Hollis was pottering about, mug of tea in his hand, with the air of a man already in his slippers.

‘Where’s Mackay? I thought he had night duty,’ Slider said.

Hollis said, ‘I swapped with him, guv. Some school thing for his kid.’

Unusually noble of him, Slider thought. Nobody liked catching the night shift. Then he remembered Hollis had been having trouble at home – maybe he liked the excuse to stay away. Slider cleared his desk and locked everything, then went back out and said to Atherton, ‘I’m whacked. Fancy a drink?’

Atherton looked up. Was there the slightest hesitation before he said, ‘Yes, okay’?

‘I’ve been thinking about a pint all afternoon,’ Slider said, ‘ever since Mackay and Coffey came in wittering about the Navigation.’ Connolly came into the room at that moment, on her way back from the loo. ‘Are you off?’ Slider said. ‘Want to come for a pint with us?’

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Janey, that’s weird. The minute I came in the room I knew you were going to say that. Do you believe in premonition?’

‘No, but I’ve a queer feeling I’m going to. Are you coming then?’