Game Over

‘And I was called on my mobile ten minutes ago. Can you find out who it was that called me and where they were?’

‘Yes, boss.’ She jotted down the number.

‘When Hart comes in, you and she can start sorting the statements. Get Fathom on it too, so he can learn from you. Oh, and let me know when Mr Porson gets back.’

‘Right, boss.’

In the soft room, Emily Stonax was sitting on the sofa with WPC ‘For God’s Sake Stop Calling Me Jane’ Asher beside her. Asher stood and Miss Stonax looked up as Slider and Atherton came in. So far, Slider noted with relief, there seemed to be no tears. Emily Stonax was dry-eyed, though white with shock, but evidently doing her best to hold it together. She was twenty-eight, according to Swilley, though she looked younger – but then, he thought, most people did these days, probably because they dressed younger. Slider noted the suitcase, carry-on bag and duty-free carrier in the corner, with a donkey jacket dumped over them, and took in the dry, weary look of the recently flight-arrived.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Slider,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss Stonax. I know it must be hard for you, but would you mind if I asked you a few questions?’

She was sitting a little hunched, with her hands clasped between her knees, screwing a paper handkerchief about between her fingers: a slim but nicely made young woman in cargo pants and soft ankle boots, a white shirt – understandably a little crumpled – and a brown suede jerkin. Her only jewellery was a large, oval gold locket on a chain round her neck, which hung like a slightly flattened pullet’s egg in the V of her shirt neck. Her hair, as abundant, black and coarse as her father’s, was cut short and spiky, and stood out round her head, but pointing backwards like the quills of a hedgehog. It was, he saw, meant to look cute rather than challenging. No Goth, this: she had no make-up on and no piercings, her nails were short and unpolished, and there was about her face a look of intelligence, and of sense – not always the same thing. Her full mouth, brown eyes and thick eyelashes gave warmth to a face otherwise notable for character, with its straight nose, strongly marked brows and firm chin. She met Slider’s eyes directly, and he felt the attractiveness of her, even as he was admiring her determination not to give in to wailing and gnashing while there was something that had to be done.

‘Ask me anything,’ she said. ‘I want to help.’

Slider took the chair opposite her, on the other side of the lamentable coffee table. It reminded him to ask, ‘Has someone offered you coffee?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, nodding towards Asher. ‘I didn’t want any, but I’d love a glass of water.’

Atherton beat Asher off the mark and brought it. The soft room had a water-cooler, but was also provided with proper glasses so he was spared the shame of bringing her a plastic cup. She took it from him with a smile that did things to his spine, and he took himself off to one side, out of her line of sight to Slider, so that he would not distract her, but also so that he could study her face without her looking at him. There was something about her that he could not take his eyes from. Slider, a normal but almost-married man, had merely felt her attractiveness, but it had pierced Atherton like a skewer to the vitals. She took his breath away.

‘Would you begin by telling me what happened this morning?’ Slider opened. He knew it, of course, from Swilley, but he found it helped to get people talking, to repeat something they’d already said. Safe ground, easy to get across. ‘You’ve just flown in from America, I believe?’

‘Yes. I live in New York now. I’m a journalist – freelance, but I do a lot of work for the New York Herald.’ Her lips gave a quirk that would have been a smile in other circumstances. ‘It’s not quite challenging the New York Times yet, but it’s getting there. There’s a good team, dedicated to serious news, and it already had a lot more international coverage than most other American papers. Dad’s such a help there – was such a help,’ she corrected herself faintly, her eyes lowering for a moment. Slider saw her swallow hard and then brace her shoulders, sitting up straighter.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. She made a little ‘carry on’ gesture with her hand, and went back to tormenting the tissue. ‘So why did you make the trip to London today?’

‘I come home three or four times a year to visit Dad. I was due a break, and he said he wanted to see me, so I packed a bag and hopped on a plane. I rang Dad on my mobile from Heathrow but he didn’t answer. I thought it was a bit odd because he knew what time I was getting in, but then I thought he must have had to go out suddenly.’ She frowned. ‘Though if he’d gone out he’d have put the answer-machine on. I ought to have thought of that.’

‘People can forget,’ Slider said, helping her out.

‘Not Dad,’ she said. ‘He was a journalist. Communication is everything. Anyway, I took a taxi home and let myself in. And I saw—’ She couldn’t quite, for all her determination, say it aloud. She took a breath and said, ‘You know what I saw. So I rang the police.’

‘You didn’t touch anything or move anything?’

‘I know that much. I went across to Dad just in case—’ She shook her head. ‘I could see it was no good.’ She met Slider’s eyes. ‘I’ve never seen anyone dead before. Of course, Dad’s seen dozens, maybe hundreds of bodies. I suppose if I want to call myself a proper journalist I ought to be able to face up to things like that. But it’s hard when it’s your own father. It must be harder, surely, than with a stranger?’

He saw that she wanted him to answer. She was deferring to his knowledge, given his job, of looking at dead bodies. He was touched, and impressed that her intellect was still functioning independently. She was not one who would enjoy the histrionics of grief, and he had seen plenty of those over a long career and admired her for it. ‘I think it’s always hard, whether it’s a stranger or not,’ he said. ‘If you care about people. Something has been taken away that can’t be replaced.’

He felt Atherton stir at that, and supposed it a rebuke for getting too personal. But this woman was going to have to help them a lot, and he wanted to treat her as an equal by taking her questions seriously.

‘You don’t get used to it?’ she followed up his answer.

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘You cope.’ She nodded thoughtfully, and he got back on line. ‘You say you let yourself in?’

‘I have my own key,’ she said.

‘You have your own room there?’

‘Not that, exactly. I don’t keep any stuff with him any more – that’s all in New York. But somehow, wherever Dad lives is still “home” to me.’

‘Does anyone else have a key that you know of?’

She shook her head, but a faint colour touched her pale face. ‘I don’t know for sure, but he might have given one to Candida.’

‘Candida?’

‘You don’t know about her? She’s his . . . girlfriend? Mistress? I don’t know what the proper term is. I’m not being censorious,’ she added with a frank look. ‘I don’t mind about her, honestly. Why should I? Mummy’s dead, and anyway she left him long before that. He’s entitled to a life of his own. I just don’t know how you would classify her. Candida Scott-Chatton. I expect you know who she is?’

Atherton anticipated Slider’s ignorance. ‘She’s the head of the Countryside Protection Trust and a spokesman on ecological matters.’

Emily Stonax looked at him. ‘And a journalist.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of her,’ Slider said, who actually had – and had seen her on television, round about the time of the Countryside March. Tall, blonde, aristocratic, gorgeous. And hard as nails – as he supposed she’d have to be with such a thankless brief. ‘Do you have an address for her?’

‘Ten, Hyde Park Terrace,’ she said promptly. ‘It’s just off Queen’s Gate, near the Albert Hall. I think she and Dad were quite close. I mean, she stuck by him after that business last year?’ The sentence ended on an upward note as she looked to see if Slider understood the reference. He nodded. ‘I suppose someone will have to tell her,’ she added, faltering.

‘We’ll do that. Unless you’d rather . . .?’

‘No. God no. I don’t want to have to tell anyone – is that normal?’

‘It’s normal not to want to put it into words.’

‘That’s what it is,’ she said eagerly. ‘If I say it, it will make it real. Luckily there’s no family to speak of. Since Mummy died, it’s just the two of us.’

‘So, no other keys that you know of?’