‘It makes sense. Unfortunately.’ They reached their floor. Slider paused. ‘On the other hand, it makes just as much sense that what he’s hiding is the murder.’
Hollis shrugged sympathetically. ‘We’ll have another go at him later. Maybe we can walk him up to it gently and get him to cough.’
‘Maybe,’ said Slider.
‘Or we could pretend this is the seventies and beat it out of him,’ Hollis said blandly.
‘Eh?’
‘Just joking, guv.’
Porson was not pleased. ‘He’s leading you round the Marlborough bushes. Where do we go from here? The clock’s ticking, you know, Slider. Sooner or later we’ll have to get him a lawyer, and then there’ll be no getting anything out of him. His brief’ll scream diminished responsibility and that’ll be that. Have we got enough to charge him?’
‘He’d still have to have a lawyer,’ Slider pointed out.
‘But at least we wouldn’t be on the clock.’ He lifted a hand and used the fingers for points. ‘We’ve got his usual
Slider shook his head. ‘We could charge him but it’s not enough for a case.’
‘On what we’ve got, a jury would go for him like buttered teacakes.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Slider said. ‘A good barrister would point out that everything we know could equally be explained by what he says being true. He could just as easily have found Zellah when she was already dead. Unless we can prove he was lying – if someone actually saw him doing something to the body. Or if we got anything off his clothes—’
‘Well, get on with that, anyway. Meanwhile, keep at him. A confession would solve all the other problems.’
‘I’m just giving him a rest, sir, then I thought I’d let Hollis have a shot. He knows him pretty well.’
‘Hmm. Does Hollis think he did it?’
Slider hesitated. In spite of everything, he had the feeling that Hollis had doubts. ‘He doesn’t think he didn’t,’ he said at last, and for a wonder Porson accepted that without comment.
When he got to his room, Connolly was there, fresh as a daisy and twice as tasty.
‘I had a crack at the barman at the North Pole, sir. Name of Dave Beswick. He knows Ronnie by sight – apparently he goes in there quite a bit. Your man says he’s never any trouble, sits over a couple of pints, doesn’t talk much. Beswick didn’t realise who he was until he saw the arrest on the telly with the mugshot. He never knew Oates had a past. Remembers the Acton Strangler case, but didn’t put the two together. Why was he called the Acton Strangler, anyway, when he was from East Acton?’ she diverted.
‘More euphonious,’ Slider said. ‘Like the Boston Strangler. The East Acton Strangler just doesn’t cut it.’
‘Does sound a bit culchie,’ she agreed.
‘What does this Dave Beswick think of Oates?’ Slider asked.
‘Only that he’s a quiet bloke, no trouble, sir. Thought he was a bit of a denser, that’s all.’
‘Did he give you any times?’
‘He said Oates went in about ten o’clock. They’d got extended hours for the Bank Holiday weekend, so closing time was midnight. Oates made two jars last till then. Didn’t speak to anyone while he was there, apart from Beswick, and then only to order the bevvies. Not much of a gas, your man,’ she added, with a cocked look at Slider.
‘Oates says he didn’t see Zellah when he went back to the fair after the pub, and we’ve got her having a quarrel and walking off about midnight, so it’s possible she had already gone at that point. He could be telling the truth.’
‘Does it matter, sir?’ Connolly asked. ‘After all, we know she wasn’t killed at the fair. Whether he followed her or went on his own, we know he was on the scene where she
‘True. But with someone like Oates you need all the confirmation you can get of anything he says. It’s the only way to filter fact from fantasy.’ He frowned, going over the interview again in his mind.
‘So – what now, sir?’ Connolly asked, after a moment’s sympathetic silence. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Re-interview anyone from the canvasses who said they saw anything, and see if they can identify Oates at the scene, and if so, get some times.’
‘Righty-o.’
‘Anything useful from the people ringing in?’
‘Not yet. The ones that seem genuine are people who saw Oates at the fair, but that doesn’t get us anywhere. The rest just seem like over-excitement.’
‘There’s a lot of it about. Keep fielding them, anyway. And you can go and see anyone from the canvasses you think is promising. Do you know where Sergeant Atherton is?’
‘He went to Ladbroke Grove to check the surveillance team, then he was going to interview the Wildings’ neighbours.’
‘Right.’
‘Are you going to have another go at Oates, sir?’
‘I’m going to let Hollis have a crack at him,’ Slider said. ‘I’m going to see a man about a horse.’
‘Sir?’
‘And a still life, and a whole series of nude women.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ she said uncertainly. You never knew with the CID geezers when they were joking and when they were serious.
‘Fun? I don’t know,’ he said. ‘How do you tell when a person is waving and when they’re drowning?’
‘You have me there, sir.’
‘It’s all right. You weren’t meant to understand,’ he said.
ELEVEN
Ars Longa, Vita Sackville-West
Markov, the art master, lived in a smart new block of six flats in Bravington Road, a run-down area now being renovated, which, being on the far side of the railway and the Harrow Road, came under the title of Kensal Town, though it was only a stone’s throw from Ladbroke Grove, and resembled it in style and demographic.
A quick bit of research on the St Margaret’s website – it still slightly amazed him that schools had websites – had armed Slider with the knowledge that Markov’s name was Alexander – Alex; he was thirty-eight, married to Stephanie, an intensive-care nurse manager at St Charles’s Hospital, and his hobbies were skiing, and holidays in Italy where he liked to sketch old masters in situ. A photograph showed him as handsome, smiling and debonair, and it was no surprise to Slider to read that his nickname among the girls was ‘Magic Markov’.
The three-storey block had replaced two large nineteenth-century houses, and the flats were of the sort termed ‘luxury’ by estate agents, because they had two bathrooms and the sort of street door you had to be buzzed in through. Where once there had been two front gardens, there was now a neat bit of paving with parking spaces marked off in brick. Only one was occupied – by a black Toyota, as Slider noticed automatically – so presumably everyone else was at work. He wondered briefly how much the parking habits of Londoners helped burglars in their trade.
He was duly buzzed in, and instructed to come up to the top floor, where Markov met him at the top of the stairs. ‘Just wanted to warn you we have to be quiet,’ he said in a low voice. ‘My wife’s a nurse and she’s on nights this week, which means she’s sleeping now, so I don’t want to wake her up. I hope you understand.’
‘Of course,’ Slider said. ‘It’s good of you to see me.’
‘Oh, no problem, no problem at all. I couldn’t be more shocked about poor little Zellah. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it on the television. But come in. If you don’t mind we’ll talk out on the balcony. We’re less likely to disturb Steph there.’
The flat, despite having developers’ proportions, was decorated in a modern and luxurious style, open-plan,
