Fell Purpose

‘And he went mad with rage,’ Fathom went on, ‘and decided to punish her.’

‘You don’t punish someone by strangling them,’ Slider said. ‘Strangling is always intended to kill.’

‘Perhaps,’ Atherton said – and the tone of his voice told Slider that he wasn’t happy thinking this – ‘he decided she was so far gone in sin it was the only way to save her soul.’

Slider wasn’t happy thinking it, either, because there was something about Wilding’s towering person and character that made it seem plausible. Each man kills the thing he loves – and who had loved Zellah more? ‘There’s still the problem of the tights,’ he said.

‘As I said before, there must be lots of pairs around at home,’ said Atherton.

‘But if he went home to get a pair,’ Slider said, ‘how did he know where she would be? And in any case, why would a man in a homicidal rage bother, when he’s got a pair of large, strong hands at the end of his arms?’

There was a little silence. The hands came before Atherton’s mind’s eye, strong and grimy with a workman’s little nicks and scratches. Had he got those from carpentry? But it was true, he wouldn’t need to go and fetch a pair of tights. ‘Unless,’ he said slowly, ‘he’d already had enough evidence that she was going to hell in a hand basket, and he took the tights along with him in case execution proved necessary. In which case it wasn’t just spur-of-the-moment homicidal rage.’

‘In which case,’ Mackay agreed, ‘he’s seriously bonkers.’

‘It’s a lot of suppositions,’ Slider said. ‘But there are certainly important questions to ask him. The trouble is, we don’t know where he is, do we?’

‘The old bat next door said they’d probably gone to his wife’s sister’s,’ Atherton said, ‘so we’ll start by trying to find her.’

‘How?’

‘Bit of this, bit of that,’ Atherton said airily. ‘The wonders of the internet, plus the Wildings’ address book. Leave it to me.’

‘That’s what I was thinking of doing. But make it quick, wonder-fingers. If – and it’s only an if, but all the same – if Wilding did kill Zellah, he’s dangerously deranged, and his wife could be the next target.’

‘If it had been me,’ Atherton said, departing, ‘she’d have been way up the list.’

Meanwhile, Slider went to see Porson.

The new Wilding development caused the Syrup’s massive eyebrows to hurtle together above his nose as if for comfort. ‘This is not good,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it. A man driving secretly round the streets at night, and not telling us. And then flitting. He’s got something to hide, all right.’

‘And then there’s Michael Carmichael,’ Slider said. ‘He denied knowing Zellah, then said he hadn’t seen her for two months. Why? We know he was with her that evening and that they had a row, after which she walked off. And local residents in the Old Oak Common area said they heard a motorbike roaring round late that night. It could have been Carmichael looking for Zellah to finish the row, having fetched his bike and gone after her round by road. He finds her, they go at it again, and he ends up strangling her, the only way to shut her up.’

The eyebrows huddled even closer together. ‘That’s plausible. But it would have to be a really serious row to go that far. And what about the tights? Where would he get those?’

‘The tights are always a problem,’ Slider said.

‘Not with Ronnie Oates,’ Porson said. ‘If we assume he went out looking for his own brand of fun and took them with him.’

‘But he’s never done that before.’

‘He’s never had to. Prozzies have tights to hand.’

‘Then why would he assume this time he’d need to take his own?’

‘I don’t know,’ Porson sighed. He walked over to the window, scratching gently at his scalp as if he hoped to stimulate thought within. ‘Damn it, Slider, now we’ve got three suspects! Normally you’d be grateful for one, but now we’ve got a plethora.’

Slider was so startled the Syrup had used the right word in the right context, and pronounced it correctly, that he couldn’t immediately assemble an answer.

‘Wilding’s got the best motive,’ Porson went on. ‘Righteous rage, possessiveness, thwarted love and all that sort of thing. But Carmichael is young and we’ve been told he’s got a temper, and they were argy-bargy-ing. On the other hand, Oates doesn’t need a motive. She’s his random victim. And he’s got previous. All right, he’s not murdered before, but it’s the same method. You can’t teach an old leopard new spots.’

Slider relaxed, back in the comfort zone.

‘I don’t know,’ Porson concluded unhappily. ‘You’ll have to go after all three of ’em until something breaks. If it was Wilding, he’ll have tried to cover his tracks. But the criminal always makes one carnal error. With Carmichael it’ll be more a matter of breaking him down and catching him out. As for Oates—’

Porson’s door was almost always open, and at that moment Hollis appeared in the doorway and tapped politely to attract their attention. He looked tired, and his tie had been loosened and pulled awry, while his impossible hair was at its liveliest, suggesting a certain degree of frustrated finger-raking had recently taken place.

‘They told me you were here, guv,’ he said to Slider, but his eyes moved on to Porson. ‘Ronnie Oates has confessed.’

Porson looked as if he’d been thrown a lifeline. ‘That’s more like it. Confession is as confession does. I don’t like it when they don’t cough. What sort of state’s he in?’

‘He’s fine, sir,’ Hollis said. ‘Quite cheerful. Thinks himself no end of a buck, if you want my opinion.’

‘Good. We don’t want the defence claiming we beat it out of him.’

‘No, sir. He’s all right. Better than me.’

Porson looked at his watch. ‘Has he had anything to eat?’

‘Not since breakfast, sir, though he’s had several cups of tea.’

‘All right. This is what we’ll do. Read him his rights, get him a solicitor, and make sure he gets a good lunch before the brief arrives. Whatever he likes best. Keep him in a good mood. Then get him to do it again on tape with the solicitor present. That way there’s no argument.’ He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow and round his neck. Behind him the window was open, but not a breath of air came through, and the sky was blankly grey. ‘Meanwhile, follow everything up, get everything corrobolated, leave no grindstone unturned. If we’re going to stand Ronnie Oates up against the bleeding hearts brigade, we need a cast-iron case, no loose nuts.’ He put his handkerchief away. ‘Too damned hot today. Wouldn’t be surprised if it rained later. Oates is in the coolest place – can’t accuse us of cruelty. Well,’ he concluded in a bark, ‘what are you standing there for? Get on with it!’

Slider turned away. He wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t a storm later, and not only meteorologically. This case was like a typical British summer, he thought. Three hot days and a thunderstorm – with a period of unease in between.

‘I’m going to leave Oates to you,’ he said to Hollis as they walked down the corridor. ‘Can you manage that and office manager?’

‘Yes, guv,’ Hollis said, with a question naked in his face.

‘I’m going to interview our friend Carmichael,’ Slider said. ‘As the Old Man says, we don’t want any loose ends.’

‘Curiosity,’ said Hollis gravely, ‘got the early cat the cream.’

THIRTEEN

Another Day, Another Dealer

Running was Carmichael’s undoing. DI Phil Warzynski at Notting Hill accepted it, when Slider phoned him, as proof of villainy, and with his good word in support the duty muppet coughed up a warrant to search the flat. Hart and McLaren came back with cheering news. They had found things of interest.

‘It weren’t a bad pad,’ Hart commented. ‘Clean, done up nice. I dunno if he spends much time there, though. There wasn’t many clothes, no telly, just a sound system and some CDs. No food to speak of in the fridge, just the empties of a six-pack and a Chinese takeaway in the bin. He must have gone out last night and took it back in with