When the others returned to their desks he called McLaren back. ‘Not you.’
McLaren looked helpful. ‘Want me to get you a cuppa from the canteen?’
‘No,’ said Slider. ‘Well, yes, actually, but that’s not why I called you. Tell me about this morning – the wrecking yard.’
‘Oh, yeah. Embry. He’s tasty. When we got back I ran him through records and he’s got a bit of form all right. Nothing for the last ten years, but that don’t necessarily mean he’s straight, only that he’s careful.’
‘What sort of form?’
‘Started with TDAs, some fights, bit of stealing – mostly car parts, he was car mad – when he was in his twenties. Then he settled down until he got done for ringing. It was a big operation spread out all over North London. Reckon he was the unlucky one – he got nicked as part of a sting, and put his hands up when a lot of others got away. Took the rap for them. Did fourteen months. Since then, nothing. But he might’ve earned the gratitude of a lot of big players for taking the fall. And he could’ve made some useful contacts inside. Dunno what he’s up to now. The wrecking yard looks legit, but if he’s Honest John, guv, I’m Madonna’s left tit.’
‘Leaving celebrity mammaries out of it for the moment, what did you find out about the number plate?’
‘He wasn’t best pleased it’d come back to him. He didn’t want to show us the CCTV tapes, but we had him cold. Applied a bit of muscle—’
‘As in?’
‘Just threats,’ McLaren reassured him. ‘You wouldn’t want to try beating him up with only the two of you. Got a face like a sack a spanners and a body to match. Anyway, we brought the tapes back. We got the bloke buying the plates. Embry said he didn’t know him, but I reckon he did. So Fathom’s looking further back, to see if he was in there before, but the tapes only go back six weeks. If the job was a long time in the planning . . .’ He shrugged.
‘But you say you got the bloke?’
‘Well, sort of. It’s gotta be him, right build and dark hair. But he knows the camera’s there. Keeps his head down, keeps kind of rubbing his nose and scratching his eye, sort o’ thing, so you can’t see his face.’
‘So you’ve come back with nothing?’ Slider said impatiently.
‘No, guv. There’s something. I’ll show you.’
‘That’d be nice,’ said Slider patiently. He followed McLaren to the tape room, where Fathom, looking too big for the furniture, was working his way through the back videos.
‘Got the one with chummy’s face, Jezza?’ McLaren asked.
Fathom swapped cassettes and started fast-forwarding. McLaren, watching, excavated sandwich remains from the recesses of his mouth. Then he sucked pickle off his finger and pointed. ‘There. Play it from there, Jez. Watch, guv. Just a minute – bit more – now!’
Fathom froze the frame. As the frustratingly canny customer turned away from the counter, there was a single frame of his face in profile. ‘Got him!’ Fathom said with quiet triumph.
‘It’s not Frith,’ Slider said. It was a lean-faced man with thick dark hair, who could pass for Frith at a glance at a distance, but there was no doubt it wasn’t him. He looked older too – fifties, maybe – and harder. ‘You might have mentioned this at the meeting.’
‘Well, guv, it don’t mean Frith’s out of it,’ said McLaren. ‘All right, he didn’t buy the plates off Embry, but he could’ve bought ’em off this geezer. More likely he did, really,’ he argued, ‘because Frith’s got no record, so he probably wouldn’t know where to go to get stuff. Someone puts him on to this bloke –’ he stabbed at the frozen frame – ‘who gets him whatever he needs. Maybe he gets him the shooter as well. He’s a fixer.’
‘It’s a theory,’ said Slider. ‘But then why would Frith go to Stanmore?’
‘Same reason,’ McLaren said promptly. He had evidently been thinking about it. ‘He’s got to take the shooter and the plates back to the fixer. We don’t know any other connection between Frith and Stanmore, so it makes sense it’s the fixer, which we know
Fathom said eagerly, ‘Maybe Embry’s still the armourer, and this bloke’s the go-between. I’d swear Embry knows him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was supplying a lot of stuff out of that yard.’
‘If they were working together, why would Embry CCTV him?’ Slider objected.
‘To make sure he’d got something on him,’ McLaren said. ‘Insurance, in case anything comes back to him. Which it has.’
‘It’s all pure speculation,’ said Slider. ‘However, you can take a print of this still and see if the local police know him. I don’t know anyone up there so you’ll have to do it tactfully. And find out if they’re watching Embry for anything. McLaren, that’s you. Fathom, you can get on to the firearms section and see if there’s anything leading back to Embry or his yard.’
As he returned to his own office, Slider was thinking that it could just be – and it was much simpler, wasn’t it? – that it was Numberplate Chummy who did the murder, and not Frith at all. But that left them further from the solution than ever, because they had no idea who Numberplate Chummy was or what his connection with Rogers might have been. At least they knew Frith was acquainted with the doctor and hadn’t liked him.
Swilley caught up with the trolley dolly, Sue Hardwicke, at Heathrow, coming in from another long haul flight. She turned out to be endearingly middle-aged and unglamorous, except that her make-up was so thickly applied it looked as if a sharp rap on the back of her head would make the whole lot fall off in one piece, like a Greek theatre mask. As she clicked along on her swollen ankles, towing her little black suitcase, her exhausted eyes met Swilley’s blankly at first, and then as she was stopped, with faint irritation.
Swilley introduced herself and said, ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.’
As she stopped, the rest of the crew steamed past her, with a glance of sympathy but an evident desire not to be delayed themselves. Layovers were precious and too short anyway.
‘What about?’
‘It’s concerning the death of David Rogers.’
‘Who?’
‘Haven’t you seen the newspapers?’ Swilley countered.
‘Haven’t had time. I’ve been working. Was he a passenger? Why are you asking me? Did I serve him with something? You ought to speak to the airline. We just hand the food out, you know – we don’t cook it.’
‘Doctor David Rogers was murdered on Monday.’
She looked alarmed at the word, and then a sort of enlightenment crossed her face, followed by caution. ‘I don’t know Dr Rogers. I’ve never met him.’
‘But you do know who he is,’ Swilley said. ‘Does it help if I tell you that Robin Frith came in this morning to give a voluntary statement? We know about your relationship with him.’
Her rigid alertness slumped. ‘Oh good God,’ she muttered. ‘Now what?’ She eyed Swilley cautiously. ‘Look, I suppose we’d better talk, but can we keep this discreet? I’ve got a lot to lose. I’ll take you to the staff lounge, but don’t tell anyone you’re police, all right?’
She walked rapidly and Swilley had to hurry to keep up with her. There were keypad doors, stairs and corridors, and finally a rather bleak, windowless lounge, smelling faintly of old coffee, with the sort of mean furniture that was designed to meet a budget rather than any human need. Swilley felt sorry for Mrs Hardwicke. She had a hard-worn housewifely look about her, and no sense that she was getting much pleasure out of life.
When they were settled at a table in a quiet corner, and Sue Hardwicke had a paper cup of coffee in front of her, she opened the conversation with, ‘Look, I know who you mean, David Rogers. Amanda’s ex. The woman Robin lives with. But I really didn’t know him. You say he’s been murdered?’
‘Yes, early on Monday morning.’
She thought for a second. ‘I was flying back from Dubai. You can check that if you want. Why would you think I had anything to do with it?’
‘I don’t,’ Swilley said. ‘But I believe you saw Robin Frith that morning. I’d like you to confirm the times.’
She looked puzzled. ‘He was waiting for me at home when I got in. My husband – well, he was away. He works away a lot, same as I do.’ She seemed embarrassed. ‘Look, I know it’s not exactly . . . I mean, having an affair – it looks bad. But we both have complicated lives. Robin and me. You’d have to know the circumstances. Amanda and Terry, they don’t know. Though they’re not exactly snow-white lambs themselves, you know.’
Swilley was amused and, despite herself, touched. ‘I’m not here to judge you, Mrs Hardwicke,’ she said seriously.
‘Oh, please, call me Sue. Everyone does – and I mean, absolutely everyone.’
