boss. She glanced sideways at his profile as he drove. He still gave her a flutter, though she accepted he was off limits now. She liked older men, and there was just
‘That’s what we’re going to find out,’ he said.
‘No, but I mean did she go putting herself about to get one over her dad, and get picked up by a low-life, raped and murdered?’
‘She wasn’t raped.’
‘Oh, yeah, I was forgetting.’ She frowned. ‘Well, how does that work, then?’
‘It complicates things,’ Slider admitted.
‘Why strangle the cow when you’ve drunk the milk?’
‘What a dainty turn of phrase you have. Anyway, it’s useless to speculate with so few facts.’
‘Yeah, but it passes the time.’ He didn’t look at her, but she saw his lips twitch in response.
The house was big, handsome, well proportioned; probably built in the 1820s, Slider thought, of solid London stock and slate, with the tall sash windows beloved of people who had enough servants to clean them. There were wide steps up to the front door over a semi-basement, and what had been a large front garden was now mostly gravelled parking, but with a shrubbery softening the edges, and a couple of lofty ancient trees for beauty. Parked on the gravel were a black sports-model Golf, a red Mazda X5 and a big Mercedes station wagon.
‘Bet the Golf’s the birthday present,’ Hart said as they pulled in alongside. ‘Lucky girl.’ She climbed out and looked up at the house. ‘Well, obviously they’ve got money, a house this big in this part of the world.’
Slider got out at the other side and pointed upwards. ‘That’s the other side of the coin,’ he said, as a 747 roared slowly over on its way to Heathrow. ‘All these lovely houses are under the flight path.’
Hart shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t bother me. I grew up with two bruvvers who loved reggae. A jumbo’s a breeze compared to that.’
They walked up the steps. There was the sound of slamming music from somewhere inside. Slider rang the bell, waited a moment, and rang it again. A dog’s barking came closer, retreated, advanced again until it was just behind the door. Slider rang again, then knocked for good measure, and the dog exploded with urgency.
At last there was movement inside, and the door was opened by a girl with wet eyelashes and a towel wrapped in a turban round her head. Beside her a golden retriever was woofing madly. Behind her an elderly mongrel of largely Labrador descent was scenting the air and wagging its tail, and further back still a grey whippet and a black toy poodle lurked, poised for flight. The music sounded louder now, but was still distant, upstairs somewhere.
‘I’m sorry, did you ring more than once?’ she said with the instant, confiding friendliness that Slider thought her generation’s nicest trait. ‘I was washing my hair, I couldn’t hear for the water.’
‘Are you Sophy Cooper-Hutchinson?’
‘Good God, no!’ she said, as if it was out of the question. ‘She’s my little sister.’
‘You must be Abigail, then,’ Slider said, produced his brief, and introduced himself and Hart.
Abigail looked alarmed. ‘Oh God, what’s she done now? If she’s got into trouble my parents will kill me. But I don’t see how I’m supposed to control her,’ she complained, her pretty face turning sulky. ‘She never listens to me. I’ve got a life of my own, anyway. Why should I have to hang around taking care of her like a nanny? It’s not
‘Nothing, as far as I know,’ Slider said. ‘She isn’t in trouble. We just want to ask her a few questions.’
‘God, that sounds ominous! That’s what they say on the TV, and the next thing there’s a chase and a gun battle.’
‘Well, this is real life, and believe me, it’s nuffing like TV,’ Hart said. ‘Is that her upstairs? Can we go up, then?’
‘I suppose so,’ Abigail said with a shrug, stepping back and abandoning all responsibility.
The retriever had long exchanged barking for sniffing Slider’s trousers with every intention of becoming his lifelong companion, and it frisked beside him as he stepped in. He had that effect on dogs, Hart noted.
‘Second floor, on the left,’ Abigail said. ‘Follow the noise. She’s supposed to be doing her practice but I wouldn’t bet on
Slider climbed the stairs with the dogs surging about him, perhaps in the hope that he could be persuaded to take them out for a walk. Hart followed. The music grew louder, until the banisters trembled. At a turn of the stairs, when Slider was facing her for a moment, he raised his eyebrow enquiringly and she said, ‘It’s Foxxy Roxx. Wiv two exes.’
‘Where?’
‘Everywhere. It’s metal.’
‘Heavy metal?’ he said, to show he knew what she was talking about.
‘No, it’s more like Glam Metal,’ Hart said. ‘Still a bit crusty for a kid, though.’
‘You think she ought to be listening to Perry Como?’
She looked blank for a beat, and then said helpfully, ‘There’s a band called Epic Coma, but they’re more Gothic.’
‘How do you know all this metal stuff?’
‘Me bruvvers grew out of reggae.’
On the second floor the door to the left was open. Through it the music pounded, and they could see a slim young girl dancing about. She was wearing a black leotard and pink footless tights and a grey sweatband round her head, but above it her short coal-black hair stood up in waxed spikes, and she wore heavy black make-up about the eyes and near-purple lipstick. There was a heap of clothes on the bed, and her dance, all in time to the music, involved picking up garments, taking them to a full-length cheval mirror to hold them up against herself, and rejecting them on to a pile on a chair. She moved very well, Slider thought, and had obviously trained in dance, but ballet practice this was not. The contrast between the girlish occupation and the savage music was slightly disturbing.
The room was a cornucopia of possessions, electronic goods, sports equipment, hobby paraphernalia – evidence of past fads requiring considerable financial investment, before interest waned and a newer, shinier preoccupation took over. There were outgrown toys, ornaments, souvenirs, and clothes not only on the bed and chair but bulging out of the wardrobe and hanging on the back of the door. William Whiteley opened a department store with less stock, Slider thought.
He banged on the door, but she didn’t hear him through the music, which was beginning to give him a neck ache. But the dogs had surged past him and attracted her attention, and then she caught sight of him in the mirror and whipped round so hard it was practically a
Slider held up his badge while Hart beside him lifted her hands in a placating, we-won’t-harm-you gesture, and then pointed to the CD player that was pumping out the decibels. The girl went to it crabwise, keeping her eyes on the intruders, and a moment later a blissful silence fell, surprising the dogs so much that one of them barked involuntarily, and then looked embarrassed.
‘Sophy Cooper-Hutchinson?’ Slider said with comfortable formality. ‘I’m sorry if we startled you. Your sister let us in and told us to come up. I’m Detective Inspector Slider from Shepherd’s Bush police station, and this is Detective Constable Hart.’
‘But I haven’t done anything!’ she cried, dropping the dress she had been holding. She had a tattoo like a pattern of thorns growing up around her neck from under her leotard, unpleasantly violent-looking against her young skin. She saw Slider notice it and said impatiently, defensively, ‘It’s just a transfer. It washes off. I’ll take it off before my parents get back. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘Was that what you were doing with Zellah Sunday night – giving each other transfers?’ Hart said.
‘Oh, she’s so lame, she wouldn’t even do that, in case it wouldn’t all come off,’ she said contemptuously, and then with an instant change of tone and sentiment, ‘But it’s cool, she’s my mate, she can do what she likes. It’s a free country.’ Slider was still blinking at this volte-face when her face changed again. She scowled and demanded, ‘What
‘So you haven’t heard about Zellah, then?’ Hart asked.
‘Heard what? What are you talking about?’
