Killing Time (26 page)

Busty answered the door to him with a blank look which endured for a moment before recognition tuned in. She was in full working fig – black skirt and a tight vee-neck mauve jumper with lurex threads woven through it. Her hair was fully coiffed and her makeup daunting, but behind it she looked sad. Slider thought that was really sadder than if she had looked haggard or grief-stricken or riven with despair. You could get sympathy, drugs or even –
absit omen –
counselling for desperate grief, but sad you have to do all on your own, and it goes on so much longer.

‘Oh. Mr Slider. I was just getting ready to go to work,’ she said.

‘Hello, Busty. I thought you were poshed up. You look very nice.’

‘Only will it take very long?’ she asked, not responding to the compliment.

‘Not long. I want to ask you some more questions. Are you up to going back to work?’ he asked as she walked ahead of him to the sitting-room.

‘I got to do something. Can’t sit around all day. Especially not here.’ She paused a moment at the door of the sitting-room like a horse baulking at water. ‘I make meself come in here, but I still see him, you know, lying there.’

He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘You’re very brave,’ he said. ‘If it’s any help, I think it must have been very quick. I doubt if he would even have known what happened.’ Who had he said those same words to recently? Oh, yes, Sir Nigel. Jay Paloma had two mourners who had loved him sincerely. There were worse epitaphs.

‘Thanks,’ she said after a moment, and got out a handkerchief, carefully to dab her eyes. ‘Don’t get me going. I can’t do me warpaint again.’

‘Are you managing all right for money?’ he asked her, wondering if that was why she had to go back to work.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I got me wages, and there’s all the savings. Lucky Maurice put it in a joint account, so it come to me automatic. There was ’ell of a lot of it.’ A thought struck her, and she looked at him with alarm. ‘It won’t be took off me, will it?’

‘No. Why should it?’

‘Because of Maurice buying the stuff for his friend.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to come into it. Anyway, who could say that was where the money came from?’

She relaxed. ‘Only he’d want me to have it.’ A look of bitterness crossed her face. ‘I’ve had his mum and dad on the phone. They want to take him back to Ireland to bury.’

‘Ah.’

‘Them what’ve never spoken to him in twenty years.’

‘Yes. I’m afraid they are his next of kin. Did he leave a will?’

‘Not that I know of. He wasn’t expecting to get murdered.’

‘No, I suppose not. Well, I’m afraid if they insist, the law’s on their side. Does it matter very much to you where he’s buried?’

‘It’s not the
where
, but I’d’ve liked to be there, to see him off. They won’t invite me, though. Not someone like me.’ She blew her nose carefully. There were little rings of white now on her nostrils where she had pinched the makeup off. ‘What did you want to ask me, anyway? I got to get on, or I’ll be late.’

‘I’d like you to cast your mind back to the way the flat was when you came home that day. What I’m trying to do is establish exactly what time of day Maurice was killed.’

She stared. ‘I thought you knew. Half past eleven at night, didn’t you tell me?’

‘I’m testing out a theory,’ Slider said. ‘There’s a lot that doesn’t add up, and it’s possible we’ve been proceeding on the wrong assumption. Now you told me that Jay was very tidy – houseproud even?’

‘That’s right. It was him that did all the housework.’ She looked round the room, and he looked with her. It was tidy, but there was dust on all the surfaces, and a cold smell of disuse. ‘Everything was always spick and span.’

‘What was his routine? What did he do when he got up?’

‘Well, he’d have a cup of coffee, then he’d go to the bathroom. Always spent ages in the bathroom. Bath, wash his hair, shave – ever so particular about shaving, went over his chin with a magnifying mirror and tweezers after. And he had to do his legs and that.’ She gave him a sidelong look and he nodded understanding.

‘So all that would take him – how long?’

‘An hour, I suppose. More even.’

‘And he always bathed before breakfast? Never the other way round?’

‘He liked to get clean first. Always wash and everything, get dressed then have his breakfast.’

‘But that last day, the Tuesday, his routine was rather put out, wasn’t it, because he got up to see you off?’

‘That’s right. Well, he’d’ve normally got up about half twelve, but he got up about eleven.’

‘And what did he do?’

‘Well, he made us some coffee, and he sat with me and drunk it while I finished getting ready.’

‘In his dressing-gown and slippers?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And he hadn’t done his bathroom routine yet?’

‘No. Well I was still in and out.’

‘Quite. So when you left at half past eleven he would probably have gone straight to the bathroom?’

‘Oh yes. Bound to. He wouldn’t hang around dirty, not Maurice.’

‘Which would take him to half past twelve-ish. And then he’d have breakfast?’

‘I spect so.’

‘What did he usually have?’

‘Oh, all different things. Toast or cereal or something hot. Depended on how hungry he was.’

‘Scrambled eggs, maybe?’

‘Yes, he sometimes had that.’

‘What did you have for breakfast that morning?’

‘Me? I never had nothing. Just the coffee. I was going to have lunch at Shirley’s, I didn’t want to blow meself out.’

That would account, Slider thought, for two coffee mugs and the single plate and pot in the sink. It was looking possible.

‘What about washing up? Would Maurice have left the breakfast dishes in the sink?’

‘Oh no, he’d have washed up straight away. Never liked leaving things.’ She looked at him, trying to follow his train of thought. ‘Them things in the sink—’

‘One plate, two mugs. If they were his supper things, why two mugs? Unless one was left from earlier in the day.’

‘No, if he’d had a cup of coffee on its own some time, he’d
have washed up the mug. Anyway, he was sitting watching telly, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t have sat down and watched telly without washing up first.’ Slider saw something dawn on her. ‘And another thing, I’ve just remembered, and now you come to mention it does stick out – the bath towels.’

‘Yes?’ Slider thought. ‘There were two stretched out on the shower rail.’

‘That’s right. Mine and his. He hung them like that to dry, and then later on he folded them up and hung them on the towel rail with the others. He’d never have left them like that all day.’

Slider nodded thoughtfully. Even people with strong routines could deviate from them. It wasn’t proof of anything, but it was suggestive. The eggs might have been supper, he might have had a rogue cup of coffee earlier and been distracted from washing up the mug, he might have forgotten to go back and fold the towels. Any one of them – but all of them? Unless he had gone out on urgent, unexpected business, and been out all afternoon – then he might not have got round to completing his morning tasks. And Grisham said there was no answer from the telephone. But that could be evidence either way, in or out. ‘Did Maurice ever forget to switch the answering-machine on when he went out?’

‘I’ve never known him to,’ she said.

Of course that wasn’t proof either. He
might
forget. Or he might simply not answer for some reason. But it was another little grain to add to the scales.

‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘The television was on when you found him?’

‘Yes.’

‘So whatever channel it was on must have been what he was watching when he was killed.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘My sergeant said it was set on Channel Four. Now, I’ve got here—’ he felt in his pocket ‘—the schedule for that day, the Tuesday. Will you look at it, and tell me what there is on Channel Four that he might have been likely to watch.’

She took it, peered, crossed the room to her handbag for her glasses, and looked again. ‘Well, the film, of course. He’d have been up for that.
In Which We Serve –
that was one of his
favourites. He loved all that sort of thing, old black and white films, especially about the war.’

‘Would he have known it was on? Do you have the television listings anywhere?’

‘No, we don’t get a paper or anything. But we got Teletext. And anyway, there’s always some daft old film on Channel Four in the afternoon. Maurice knew that.’

‘Let’s see, that was on at one-fifty-five. Is there anything before that he’d be likely to watch?’

She peered. ‘Hmm. I don’t think so. He wasn’t a great telly-fan really, except for the old films. He’d sooner read a book, he always said. Me, if I was home, I’d watch anything, especially the soaps, but he’d always tut at me and say it was rotting my brain and couldn’t I find anything better to do. But he did like the movies.’

‘All right, what about later in the day? In the evening?’ She looked at the programmes rather hopelessly. He tried to help her along. ‘What about the news? Would he have watched the Channel Four news?’

‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Well, there’s not a lot here I could say for sure he’d watch. He wasn’t really very big on telly, like I said.’

‘Assuming for the moment that he was killed at half past eleven while he was watching television – what do you think he’d have been watching?’

‘The film I should think. He quite liked Charles Bronson.’

‘That was on ITV.’

‘Yes. That’d be the best bet.’

‘Not the documentary on Channel Four?’

‘What, this one, about women in industry? Ooh no, I don’t think so.’

‘All right, thanks,’ Slider said, taking back the schedule. Busty looked at her watch and he did likewise. ‘Have I made you late?’

‘Well, it is late. But Benny’s not come yet. That’s not like him to be late.’

‘Perhaps he’s waiting downstairs for you?’

‘He always comes up and knocks. Wouldn’t miss a chance.’ She smiled a little. ‘But maybe he saw you come up. He wouldn’t want to intrude. He’s like that. Very discreet, is Benny.’

‘I’d better go and leave the path clear for him.’ He walked to the door, and she followed him. ‘Has he asked you to marry him again?’

‘What, Benny? Nah. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was working up to it though.’ She sighed. ‘I think I’ll have to get rid of him. Stop using his cab. Now I haven’t got Maurice to come between us, it could start getting awkward with old Benny. I mean, he’s a nice bloke and everything, but it could get a bit embarrassing. And my eye, his feet don’t half pen!’

Slider laughed. ‘You make me nervous about my own. I shall go back to the station and investigate.’

‘Oh no, you’re not niffy,’ Busty said.

He opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony, and, in his new caution, leaned briefly over the balcony wall to scan the area. Everything looked the same, safe and serene.

Busty came out, too, folding her arms across her twin peaks, blinking a little in the sunlight like a vast back-combed bushbaby. A wave of affection came over Slider. People like Busty were all right. They were never any trouble. They just got on with things.

‘If there’s anything I can do for you, Busty, you know just to ring, don’t you? You’ve got my number.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’ She seemed touched, and blinked a little more moistly. ‘You’re all right, Mr Slider,’ she said, echoing his thoughts, and then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘Ta frevrything.’

Downstairs Slider got in his car, backed out of the space and drove off down the yard. He kept an eye on his rear-view mirror, but he saw nothing untoward, no sudden movements, or cars casually pulling out of parking spaces to follow him. Just plain, old-fashioned paranoia, he supposed. Everyone in the universe had that, according to Atherton.

In spite of his odd appearance – or perhaps because of it – Hollis came across as reassuring to members of the public. He sat on Mr Perceval’s sagging sofa with his knees nearly up around his ears, his tufty, uncertain head appearing between them like an elf peeking out from the trees. There was a curious humility about him, as though he had come to learn: Plato at Socrates’ feet.

Mr Perceval, who lived in the flat directly underneath Busty
Parnell’s, was both reassured and flattered. It was a long time since anyone had wanted to learn anything from him. He had been wise in his time – he had actually led a very interesting life – but he was old now, and quite alone in the world, and he moved very slowly and whistled when he spoke because his false teeth were too big, so not many people had the patience to listen to him. His teeth were too big because his gums had shrunk, along with everything else. He had been a magnificent five foot six in his full manhood, now he was only five foot two. Where had his four inches gone, he wondered? He pondered the question sometimes as he moved slowly around his flat. The flat was too big for him now he was on his own, especially as he’d sold most of the furniture over the last few years, so that it was practically empty. He was like a shrivelled kernel rattling about inside a walnut shell. Back in history when they’d moved the calendar along to catch up with the rest of the world, people had gone out in the street and marched with banners shouting ‘Give us back our eleven days!’ He’d learned that in school. Sometimes as he walked about the kitchen, heating up his supper and setting out the tray (he still liked to do things properly, it helped fill the time), he would find himself chanting ‘Give me back my four inches!’ inside his head.

He’d left school at fourteen, though he reckoned he’d still learned more than they knew at eighteen these days. He was apprenticed to a violin maker in Ealing. Nineteen twenty-four, that was. He loved violins; it wasn’t that he was musical, but he liked the feel of the wood, and the smell of the shavings and the varnish, and the slow, tender creation of something which was so much greater than the sum of its parts. They were all different, all beautiful in their own way, like women, and you had to know how to get the best out of them. When his apprenticeship was over, he went to Guivier’s violin workshop up in Town. He’d met a lot of famous people. Sir Edward Elgar – he’d met him once. A real gentleman, he was, but sad, so sad it made you shiver. And that Yehudi Menuhin had come in once for a repair to a fiddle, and he’d chatted to Mr Perceval just as nice as you like. And although he wasn’t musical, Mr Perceval had started going to concerts – well, it made sense, to see what it was all about, the work he put in. That was how he met his wife, Violet, at a concert at the old Queen’s Hall. They went
to the Proms together that summer, and one evening, after the concert, outside the Stage Door at the Albert Hall, Sir Edward Elgar had come out and passed right by Mr Perceval on the way to his car and had recognised him and touched his hat to him. A real gentleman. Mr Perceval was so pleased and Violet was so thrilled that later that evening he had popped the question to her, on top of the number twelve bus going home, and she had said Yes.