‘Oh, is that how you’re playing it? Well, watch your step. Make sure she doesn’t use our computers.’
‘She won’t, sir. But it’s useful extra manpower. And no overtime.’
Porson was not beguiled. ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ he said. ‘And you’d better not, either, if you know what’s wise for you.’ He got up and surged restlessly to the window and back. ‘If you’re wrong about Sturgess being in on it, you’ll have wasted a lot of time while the killer was getting away.’
‘We’ve got nothing else to go on, sir.’
Porson drummed his fingers on the desk in thought. ‘You’ve got that hand-print off the bonnet of the parked car. You can rule Frith in or out once and for all if you get his fingerprints for comparison.’
‘I did think of that, sir. But even if Frith isn’t the murderer, he could still be involved in some way. And it doesn’t rule out Sturgess as the instigator. She could have used someone else to do the job, and Frith might or might not have been a go-between. And if we fingerprint Frith, he’s bound to tell her, innocent or guilty, which will warn her we’re looking at her.’
‘Innocent or guilty?’ Porson said. ‘There’s another possibility – that Frith was acting on his own – had you thought of that? Apparently Rogers wasn’t his flavour of the month.’
‘But if Sturgess is innocent, why is she lying to us and refusing to answer questions?’
‘Buggeration factor, plain and simple. That sort likes throwing her weight around.’ He thought some more. ‘In any case, I reckon she’s got to know something’s up by now. You told her you were looking at Frith when you asked her for his alibi. Get him in, get him printed, get it done.’ He looked at Slider cannily. ‘You’d have done it by now if you really thought he was the murderer.’
Slider was surprised for a moment by the insight. Yes, it was true. There was some part of him that had felt Frith wasn’t the killer, and that hadn’t wanted him ruled out because, frankly, they hadn’t got anything else. And if Amanda had used an unknown professional, how would they ever find him, or prove the link?
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to it.’
Emily had been in the game long enough to know that people were a lot more willing to talk to journalists than to the police. The idea of ‘getting in the papers’, which had horrified her grandmother’s generation, was now seen as an undiluted good, and people would cheerfully tell her things that would have made her blush if she had not got used to it by now. It had not only been because she was interested and thought she might get a story out of it eventually that she had wanted to take on the job, but because she believed she could actually do it better. Connolly might be chatty and Swilley strangely intimidating, but as soon as they revealed who they were, fifty per cent of members of the public – maybe more – would become reticent, while to Emily they would be ready to reveal anything up to and including their operation scars.
So it did not surprise her to find herself with an appointment to meet Mrs Rosalind Taylor for lunch on Friday. They met at the Red Lion in Kingly Street, Soho, a short brisk walk from Harley Street but nicely anonymous: a dark-panelled pub with a pleasantly light and airy saloon bar upstairs that served food.
Emily got there first and secured a corner table and a couple of menus. Just past the appointed time she saw a tall, well-dressed woman come up the stairs and look hesitatingly around. It had to be her. Emily met her eyes and nodded, and she came over.
‘Are you . . .?’ she began nervously.
‘It’s all right,’ Emily said. ‘Sit down. Can I get you a drink?’
Mrs Taylor sat, divesting herself in a measured way of coat, scarf, gloves, handbag. ‘Oh, just water for me, thanks. I can’t go back to work smelling of drink.’ She looked appraisingly at Emily. ‘I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff, but my bosses wouldn’t be happy about me talking to the press. Even about something so far in the past. They’re fanatical about discretion – to a ridiculous degree, in my view. If they even knew I was talking to you it’d be instant dismissal. So you must promise to keep my name out of it.’
‘Absolutely,’ Emily said with warmth. ‘I’d never be able to get anyone to talk to me if I couldn’t promise that. Shall we do the food bit now, and get it out of the way? Then we can talk.’
The waiter came up and took their order: Emily went for the old-fashioned sausage sandwich; Mrs Taylor rather doubtfully chose the scampi and salad. She was very thin and looked as though remaining so was probably another demand of the job. She seemed in her forties, though under the professional, enamelled make-up she might have been older. Her dark brown hair was innocent of any thread of grey, and was glossy and immaculately cut; she wore pearl earrings and a string of pearls around the neck of her blouse; her hands were well kept with short but painted nails, and a heavy diamond band next to her wedding-ring. And she exuded an air of calm and efficiency, so that to Emily she seemed perfect for a medical secretary.
‘So, Mrs Taylor,’ Emily began when the waiter had gone away.
‘Oh, please call me Ros. Everyone does.’
‘Fine, Ros, then. And I’m Emily.
‘You said – Emily Stonax – you weren’t related to—?’
‘Ed Stonax was my father,’ Emily said, trying not to sound stilted about it. But she still found it hard to talk about him, except to those who had been closest to her during the investigation: Atherton, Slider and Joanna. It was perhaps part of why she felt so strongly for them.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Ros said, holding her eyes in a way that suggested she was used to dealing with extreme emotions. ‘Was it tactless to mention it? But I thought him a fine journalist. You must be very proud to be following in his footsteps.’
‘I miss him,’ Emily said. ‘But let’s not talk about that. Tell me about when you were David Rogers’s secretary.’
‘Oh, I was never secretary to Mr Rogers. The papers at the time got that wrong, but it didn’t seem important to correct it. Let me explain. You see, there were three doctors sharing the premises. There was dear old Dr Freeling – he’s retired now. Lovely man, lovely to work for. I was his secretary. We had the ground floor. Private general practice. Then there was Mr Rogers and Mr Webber upstairs. They were old friends. We called Mr Rogers the Beauty Doctor.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a rather insulting nickname for plastics specialists who go in for that side of things rather than the reconstructive, but in his case we didn’t mean it unkindly. It was mostly because he was so handsome – goodness, you’d get goosebumps just looking at him! But he was nice with it. Always polite and pleasant, not arrogant like some of these good-looking men can be.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Emily said, since she seemed to want encouraging at that point.
‘He could wind anyone round his little finger. Well, I suppose in his line he really needed the bedside manner. His patients adored him. And then there was Mr Webber – Sir Bernard Webber he is now. The urologist.’ She wrinkled her nose a little. ‘He was supposed to be charming, too, but I never really took to him. Not that it mattered, because I had very little to do with him. And his secretary, Stephanie, spoke highly of him, but there was something a bit – I don’t know . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose he was more of a man’s man. He was one of these clubbable types, do you know what I mean? On all sorts of committees, had the ear of important people, knew how to get things done. I always picture him leaning on a bar in some golf club buying drinks and telling after-dinner jokes.’