‘Sex and money. My bet’s on money. It smells of money to me, and this –’ he tapped his considerable beak – ‘doesn’t often let me down. And he was getting through it all right. Clubs, champagne, big house, fancy suits.’
‘All the usual suspects,’ said Slider. ‘It’s never hard to find out where it goes. It’s where it comes from we don’t know.’
Porson actually paused in his astonishment. ‘He was a doctor,’ he said. ‘Blimey, even GPs trouser a hundred and fifty kay these days! Never mind specialists. There was an article in the Sunday paper about these society gynaechiatrists making two and three million a year.’
‘Well, no doubt we’ll find out when his papers come over,’ Slider said.
‘And who gets it now he’s snuffed it. Was he married?’
‘That seems to be a moot point.’
‘Well un-moot it then, quick as you like,’ Porson barked. ‘What are you hanging around here gossiping with me for?’
Atherton sauntered into Slider’s office whistling ‘I’ve got plenty of nuthin’.
‘If that’s your shorthand way of making a report,’ Slider began.
‘So far, nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything, and Rogers seems to have been a sweet old-fashioned type who did not have CCTV to back up his burglar alarm.’ He sat down in his usual spot on the windowsill. ‘My internal gypsy seer predicts we won’t find the shooter, so what now?’
‘We have to go round the back way. Up Motive Alley. As Mr Porson neatly summed it up, it comes down to sex or money.’
‘Which are not necessarily mutually exclusive categories.’
‘Sex seems the least likely. There doesn’t seem to have been a wife on site, and a disgruntled lover doesn’t usually hire a hit man.’
‘Unless the hit man was the disgruntled lover.’
‘Don’t get clever.’
‘Too late. And what about revenge? Best eaten cold, as we’re told. That fits in with a hit man. Furious wife brooding over her wrongs, slowly coming to the conclusion that the man’s a wart and the world would be better off without him? Especially if there’s an inheritance involved.’
‘There was no attempt to make it look like an accident or suicide,’ Slider pointed out. ‘Killing him to inherit his money wouldn’t work if the killing was traced back to the legatee.’
‘Big if. I’m just saying don’t rule out sex, especially as the Dirty Doctor seemed to be having a lot of it.’
‘You know me,’ said Slider. ‘I never rule out anything. Well, let’s do some background checks on Catriona Aude to begin with, so we can get her out of the way. Then we’ll start on the doctor. We don’t even know yet who his next of kin was. Who’s in charge at the site?’
‘I left Mackay on it. Norma’s coming back – via the sandwich shop in Goldhawk Road.’
‘Good thinking.’
‘That’s why I get the big money,’ said Atherton.
THREE
Deliver Us from Ealing
‘Ade comes up clean, guv,’ Connolly said, leaning on his doorpost.
Coming back from far away, Slider hadn’t made sense of her sentence at first, and his drifting mind latched on to detergent. Comes up clean? Had there been a spillage in the CID room?
‘Hmm?’ he said neutrally, marking time.
‘She’s no criminal record,’ Connolly elaborated, and he fetched up to reality with a bump. ‘No large chunks a jingle floating around. Owes a coupla hundred on her credit card. No big recent purchases. And she rents: shares with three others, in Putney. I know the street, guv – I looked out that way when I first came to London – and it’s a bit of a kip, so she’s not spending on property. She works for Tangent Publishing in Brompton Road. Editorial assistant, which means she’s the office dogsbody and paid a pittance for the hope o’ glory. Fifteen thousand. And that’s before tax. So she has to make ends meet by stripping two nights a week.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The woman’s twenty-seven! She’d want to cop on to herself before it’s too late.’
‘Did you speak to someone at Jiffies?’
‘The manager. Name a Williamson. A fine class of a man: pays the girls minimum wage and lets them keep their tips. He says no carry-on with the customers is allowed, but he doesn’t know what they get up to in their free time.’
‘A cautious citizen.’
‘It’s members only, so they get a big take at the door, and then there’s the price of the drinks – which you’d want to have seen,’ Connolly said. ‘So they must be raking it in. Wouldn’t want to get into trouble with the peelers for promoting prostitution.’ She checked her notes and went on, ‘Rogers was a newish member, joined last November. He gave another club – the Rochelle in Mayfair – as a reference. I checked with them. He’s been a member there three years.’
‘The Rochelle?’ Slider queried. It was new since his Central days.
‘High-end strip joint, with a casino attached. Members only. All crimson velvet and chandeliers – it’d appal you. Even the bouncers have double-barrelled names.’
‘So watching strippers is not a new hobby for Rogers,’ Slider mused. Could there have been something seedier in his background? Some little hobby or habit he could have been blackmailed for?
Connolly shook her head sadly. ‘What is it about men and nipples?’
Slider declined the bait. ‘So you think Aude’s out of it?’
Connolly was flattered to be asked her opinion. ‘She’s not deep in debt, and she’s not living on the pig’s back. Her story checks out, and I can’t find any medical connection. And flat-sharing’d make it hard to get up to any carry-on without getting caught out.’
‘All right. I don’t want to waste any more time on her if she’s just an accidental bystander. But we’ll need to keep tabs on her, in case we have more questions. Has she got family?’
‘She has parents, according to HR at Tangent. They’re her next of kin. They live in Guildford.’
‘That’ll do. See if she can go and stay with them for a few days when she comes out of hospital tomorrow. I know Mike Polman at Guildford. He owes me a favour. I’ll ask him to keep an eye on the house. She ought to be safe enough there.’
It was late when McLaren stuck his head round the door to say, ‘The first of the papers have come in from the house, guv.’
‘Right,’ said Slider, glancing at his watch. ‘Let’s have a quick look.’ So far, from the site they had culled a big zero. The street search had produced no gun or discarded clothing, and the canvass had drawn a blank. Nothing for which to pull an all-nighter. He might as well send them all home and save the overtime for another day.
He didn’t expect great things of the first bag, but there was treasure of a sort: the doctor’s birth, marriage and divorce certificates, tidily together in one envelope, taken from the top desk drawer.
‘Born fourth of June 1962 in Greasley in Nottingham,’ Atherton read out over Connolly’s shoulder. ‘Father’s down as clerk, insurance office. Humble beginnings for the Dirty Doctor.’
‘He was married in June 1988 to Amanda Jane Knox-Sturgess of The Lodge, Quickmoor Lane, Sarratt,’ Connolly continued. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Hertfordshire,’ said Atherton. ‘Carrot country.’
‘Ah, she’s a culchie, so!’ Connolly said innocently.
‘It’s a very expensive village,’ said Slider corrected. ‘The local church is one they used in Four Weddings and a Funeral. Waiting list from here to maternity. Lots of money around. Old families. County types. Plus, these days, commuting masters of the universe.’
‘Her father’s down as a solicitor,’ Atherton said. ‘That plus “The Lodge” suggests money all right.’