blessing.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Slider, with irony.
‘It may not be another dead red herring end,’ Atherton reasoned.
‘Likewise it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Give me the name and address.’
It was actually in Harrow Weald, and very easy to find: Slider turned off the A410 Uxbridge Road into the High Road, and there it was, on the left, opposite the bus depot, above a shop. It was very eye-catching, the London stock bricks having been cleaned of generations of soot so that it was the only upper storey in the terrace that was pale yellow instead of black. The name was painted on the window in large letters in black outlined in white, two words one above the other, curve and reverse curve so they made an open circle: MARICAS SOLICITOR. He wasn’t taking any chances on losing trade because someone couldn’t locate him.
Slider parked the car and walked back to the door, hospitably open, between a Chinese takeaway and a betting shop. Upstairs there were two offices, the reception office being the one with the painted window. Here a middle-aged woman wearing a heavy cardigan over her shoulders was typing so vigorously the empty sleeves swung and jiggled to the movement. She looked up with polite and friendly enquiry as Slider entered.
‘Mr Maricas? He’s expecting me. My name’s Slider.’
‘Oh, right.’ She came out from the desk and led Slider back down the passage to the closed door of the back room. She tapped and opened it. ‘Mr Slider for you,’ she announced.
The room couldn’t have been a greater contrast to Webber’s antique-furnished, thick-carpeted, gracious hidey hole. There was lino on the floor, a cheap, battered desk that looked as if it had been bought second-hand, some very incommodious office chairs, one with a large stain on the seat and the other with a cigarette hole, a table covered in box files and folders, and a plethora of filing cabinets, standing around awkwardly in every available space like people at a badly organized party given by someone they didn’t know very well. The window was smaller than the one at the front and so dirty that Slider could get no idea of what it looked over.
The man behind the desk stood up and shoved his hand out eagerly. ‘Henry Maricas,’ he said. Slider shook it – it would have been churlish not to – thinking this had been a bad day for someone who didn’t like touching members of the public. ‘Can I get you some coffee or something?’ Maricas offered with automatic hospitality.
‘Nothing, thanks. I’ve just had some tea.’
‘Oh. OK. Well, do sit down.’
Slider chose the seat with the hole in it – you never knew what that stain might be – and said, ‘You wanted to see me?’
Henry Maricas was younger than Slider had expected – probably in his thirties, but he looked even younger, because of his thin, eager face and the silky mouse-coloured hair worn a little too long, so that the forelock flopped schoolboyishly forward over his brow and had to be shoved back every now and then. His skin was transparently pale, so that you could almost see the blood running about under it, and his eyes, surprisingly, were very dark, almost black, and fringed with thick dark lashes. His suit looked rather worn and crumpled, and his long-fingered, knuckly hands looked grubby, but given the amount of dust lying around this room it was hardly surprising. When he had stood up, he had towered over Slider – a good six foot three, he thought – but he was too thin for his height, which added to the air of gawky youth. He was, indeed, so thin that Slider wondered if his business was not doing well enough to support him. But his accent was pure Eton-and-Oxford, and there was something about his manner which gave Slider the impression of one of a long line of legal beagles, a son who had gone into the family profession as a matter of course.
‘Well, not you specifically,’ Maricas said with an apologetic smile, ‘because I didn’t know you existed, so to speak, but someone from the case. The David Rogers case, I mean.’ And he glanced at the door as if to check that it was closed.
‘I am the investigating officer,’ Slider said, exuding calm. He felt absurdly fatherly already towards this nice young man. ‘I’d be happy to hear anything you have to say about David Rogers.’
Maricas nodded. ‘First I have to explain to you that I’ve been away – on holiday, in fact, skiing in Davos – my family always goes at this time of year. I only came back this morning, which was why I didn’t know anything about it – about Dr Rogers being dead. There’s only me and Maggie – my secretary –’ he nodded towards the other office – ‘and she didn’t know anything about my dealings with him so she didn’t alert me. It was only when I was looking through the papers today – she keeps them for me when I’m away, so I can check on anything that’s come up – that I saw the report that he’d been killed. Otherwise I’d have come forward right away.’ He frowned. ‘Or, I suppose I would. It’s hard to know what’s the right thing to do when it’s a case of murder. It was murder – I mean, there’s no doubt?’
‘There’s no doubt, I’m afraid.’
He gnawed a finger. ‘Then I suppose I ought to tell you first, before I do anything about it.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what your relationship was with Dr Rogers?’ Slider helped him along. He used that title since it seemed to be what Rogers had used with Maricas.
He pulled himself together. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll tell you the story from the beginning. You see, Dr Rogers came to see me about eight months ago. He was a walk-in – said he’d seen my sign from the road, and that he wanted someone to draw up his will.’
‘His will? You have his will?’ Slider couldn’t help himself. The whole business about the next of kin had been dragging at them since the beginning.
‘Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. He’d brought in his previous will, which left everything to his first wife —’
‘Amanda Sturgess.’
‘That’s right. But he’d divorced her and remarried and wanted to make sure his new wife would get his estate rather than Ms Sturgess. I explained to him that his old will would automatically be nullified by his remarriage, and that unless he had children or other relatives, his second wife would automatically inherit. But of course it’s always better to have it written down, and he said that’s what he wanted. He didn’t want there to be any doubt about it. So I made up the document for him. He didn’t have any other relatives, as it happened, so it was very simple, just leaving everything to his current wife.’
‘I didn’t know he had one,’ Slider said. Maricas handed the will to him across the desk, and he read it. It revoked all previous testamentary dispositions, named Henry John Duval Maricas as his sole executor, and left all his property, whatsoever and wheresoever situate, to his wife, Helen Marie Aldous of 23 Station Approach, Southwold.
Southwold. Southwold as in Suffolk. Now they had the Suffolk connection. Slider looked up. ‘The next of kin. You don’t know the trouble we’ve been to, trying to find out who his next of kin was. His ex-wife offered to arrange the funeral because we didn’t know of anyone else. Are you telling me this person doesn’t know about Rogers’s death yet?’
Maricas looked unhappy. ‘Well, I haven’t told her. I’ve explained why. If it had been a normal death or an accident I would have got on to her straight away today, as soon as I knew, but in the circumstances I thought I’d better speak to you first.’
‘I wonder
‘She may not know he’s dead yet. Not everyone reads the papers, you know. Or he might not have told her about me. People can be very funny about wills. They don’t like to think they’ll ever be needed.’
‘But I suppose he had a copy of it,’ Slider said. ‘I wonder why we didn’t find it. We had all the papers out of his house. His London house, I mean – presumably he owns the one in Southwold.’
‘He bought it, but he’d already gifted it to his wife, so it’s hers now.’
Hollis had been right, Slider thought. There was a whole other establishment – the ‘house in the country’. Probably all his missing gubbins were there. ‘Perhaps he keeps his copy of the will there,’ he said.
‘He told me that he was putting a copy in his safe at home. I just assumed he meant Hofland Crescent, because that’s the address he gave me as his. Southwold was always “my wife’s house”.’
‘We didn’t find a safe,’ Slider said, more to himself than to Maricas.
‘Presumably it was a concealed one,’ said Maricas, smiling a little, but still looking anxious. ‘He was a very cautious person.’
Slider nodded. They hadn’t stripped the house, because there had seemed to be no reason for it. If there was a safe there, what else might they find in it?
‘I haven’t told you everything yet,’ Maricas went on. ‘He said the reason he had come to me for the will was
