Body Line

‘Just one more little job for you,’ he said.

‘Yes, guv,’ she said smartly.

‘You made some friends at that hospital. Can you use the connection to find out the name of Sir Bernard Webber’s chauffeur? He’s a good-looking bloke, so you could pretend you fancy him, if that helps. And when you get his name, run it and see if he has a criminal record.’

‘I’m on it,’ she said cheerily; like a good lieutenant, not asking any questions.

Swilley came across. ‘That bank account, guv – it is Amanda Sturgess’s all right. They didn’t like telling me, but when I said I didn’t want to look at it, only know whose it was, they eased up a bit.’

‘Good. Thanks.’

‘What was that about a chauffeur?’ she enquired.

‘Bank account?’ said Atherton.

‘Gather round, people,’ Slider said. ‘It’s time I filled you in on recent developments – not the least of which is that we’re forbidden to do any more sleuthing until after Thursday morning, so you can all have early nights until then. But – and this is important – you’re not to speak about any of this to anyone. Not your mum, your aunty, your spouse, your lover and especially not the press. Because if one word gets out we could all end up in the Tower.’

Slider had not noticed how quiet the whole place had gone, but one by one the minions had departed. Connolly, almost the last, brought him the final piece of information: the man who chauffeured Sir Bernard Webber, when he didn’t drive himself, was Jerry McGuinness, forty-five or thereabouts, unmarried but according to rumour living with a woman, though no one had ever seen her, in a former farmhouse on Harrow Weald.

‘I’ve looked up the house on Google,’ Connolly said, ‘and it’s a desperate sort of a kip, middle a nowhere, down the end of a long track. Humpy little cottage covered in ivy, with a bunch o’ derelict sheds falling down all round it. Can’t see a woman living there voluntarily, but there’s no accounting for folly. Nobody’s sure exactly what he does,’ she went on. ‘He drives the hospital motors – there’s several, including a Beamer, guv – but apart from that there’s a feeling he’s Webber’s odd-job fixer and trusty bagman. Known to be well in with the big cheese, goes way back with him apparently. General opinion is he’s fit as a butcher’s dog, but a bit scary with it. Likes to give the girls a thrill, flirting with them, but doesn’t take it any further. For which they seem to be glad and sorry in about equal proportions.’

Butcher’s dog, Slider thought. Yes, that was apt. I am not the Butcher but the Butcher’s dog. ‘Interesting,’ he said.

She cocked a sympathetic eye towards him. ‘He’s got no record, guv. So we can’t check the murderer’s hand-print against his.’

‘It’s only what I expected,’ Slider said, and lapsed into silence.

At last she said, hopefully, ‘Is there anything else you want me to do, guv?’

‘No, thanks. Not just now,’ Slider said absently.

It wasn’t the answer she had wanted, but there was nothing for it but to shrug, turn away, and say, ‘Goodnight, then.’

Slider didn’t even hear her. Deep in the notes, he was unaware of his surroundings until, looking up, he found Atherton leaning on his door frame with an empty CID room behind him.

‘Not gone home? Did you want something?’

‘I know you’re about to do something,’ Atherton said, ‘and, at the risk of going all Rin Tin Tin about it, my place is at your side.’

Slider looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment. ‘There is something you can do.’

‘Hah!’ said Atherton. ‘I knew it. You’re going solo again, and after Mr Porson’s forbidden you!’

‘No, in fact Mr Porson said I can tie up loose ends. As long as I don’t frighten the horses.’

‘Loose ends? Horses? No still waters or barn doors in this cliche-fest?’

‘It cuts us out, you see,’ Slider said. ‘The big operation. Unless the Dutch courier sings about this end of the chain, and they’re not likely to press him on it when they want to wind it up the other way. And we can’t do anything this end, because we don’t know who the new courier is, or where he’s going out from. They won’t use Windhover again.’

‘No,’ said Atherton. ‘Too many eyes watching, now Rogers is a celebrity for being murdered.’

‘New courier, new boat, new harbour.’

‘Needle in haystack.’

‘And I don’t just want the courier. I want the brains behind it.’

‘So – what, then?’

‘We have to get the whole story, everything, from the beginning. From someone who knows. Someone with the moral courage to do the right thing.’

It didn’t take Atherton more than a few seconds to work it out. ‘You’re going to see Amanda Sturgess? You think she has moral courage? Or do you think she’s the brains behind it?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘I hope we will. And what do you want me to do? Come with you?’

‘No, I think she’ll talk better one to one. I want you to get Frith out of the way.’

‘I’m not going to befriend that ass’s arse.’

‘You can make it official. Find out how much he really knew about the whole business. That’s something that’s been exercising me. I think he was ignorant of it all, but I’d like to be sure.’

Atherton considered. ‘But you’ll give the secret signal if you get into trouble, so I can rush to the rescue?’

Slider raised an eyebrow. ‘What am I, a weakling? She may be tall, but I could take her any time I wanted.’

Atherton shuddered. ‘Choose another simile.’

‘Not that sort of taking.’

‘Even the thought of it . . .’

Amanda Sturgess looked terrible. She had aged ten years in a week. She was grey-faced and drawn and her eyes were haunted. Slider felt an inward quiver of satisfaction that he was on the right track. He had waited across the road in his car until he saw Frith stamp out, looking annoyed, to keep his enforced tryst with Atherton, then made his way through the windy darkness to the lit house. He rang, and she answered the door. The sight of him brought a sort of dread to her expression.

‘I’d like to talk to you,’ Slider said, quite gently.

She rallied. ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ she said, with an attempt at the old, cold arrogance. It almost worked.

‘You will talk to me,’ he said. ‘Either here or down at the station.’

‘You threatened me once before,’ she said, nostrils quivering. ‘You need to know that I am not a woman to be bullied.’

‘Then, in God’s name, how did you get mixed up with all this?’ he cried. Her face flinched as though he had slapped her. ‘They killed your husband!’

‘My ex-husband!’

‘And his girlfriend – an innocent woman. She had nothing to do with it, but they killed her anyway.’

‘Why should I care about her? She was a slut. She got what she deserved.’

‘You don’t think that,’ he said, looking at her seriously. She met his eyes, but her own grew nervous again, ‘And two others at least – the secretary and the nurse from Harley Street. How many more have to die?’

‘I don’t care,’ she cried weakly. ‘Go away and leave me alone!’ She tried to close the door, but he had his hand on it.

‘In your own self-interest, then,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think they know you are now the one weak link? How long before they come after you?’ She stared at him, holding on. Perhaps she even thought death would be a relief? No, she didn’t really believe she was in danger. But he had another lever. ‘What do you think will happen to your agency?’

That hit home. ‘You can’t touch that! You wouldn’t! We do good work. It’s important work.’

He inched closer and lowered his voice so that she had to stay near to listen. ‘Financed by criminal money?