‘Definite step up for the lad from Greaseborough,’ McLaren commented.
‘Greasely,’ Slider said. ‘Very different place.’
‘Come on, guv,’ McLaren objected. ‘It’s all “oop north” to us.’
‘Here, the doctor’s address book.’ Slider threw it to him. ‘See if you can find the ex-wife in it.’
‘Shame the marriage didn’t last,’ Connolly commented, opening the Decree Absolute. ‘They were divorced in September 1999.’
‘Eleven years isn’t bad in these debased times,’ Atherton said. ‘No other marriage certificates in the envelope. Can we assume he’s been fancy-free for the last ten years?’
‘Maybe the ex-wife will know,’ Slider said. ‘If there were children, she would probably have kept in touch. I’m hoping she’ll be able to tell us who the next of kin is, anyway.’
McLaren said, ‘Guv, there’s an address and phone number in here under A for Amanda, no surname. Grange Road, Ealing.’
‘Look it up, get a surname,’ said Slider.
‘Where’s Grange Road?’ Atherton asked. He didn’t know Ealing as well as Slider did.
‘On the Common.’
‘Common? Bit of a comedown from a lodge in Sarratt.’
McLaren, at his own desk, was not long in finding the property on the electoral register. ‘The name’s Sturgess, guv, no Knox and no hyphen.’
‘So she’s reverted, and simplified,’ Atherton said. ‘What does that tell us?’
Slider gave him a look. ‘That she’s called Amanda Sturgess. Don’t strain yourself.’
McLaren went on. ‘Also listed at the property is a Robin Frith.’ He looked up. ‘Either she’s letting a room, or she’s shacking up.’
‘Either way, definitely letting herself slip,’ said Atherton. ‘Not the conduct we expect from the best people.’
‘Ex wives can be bitter,’ Slider said, ignoring him. ‘Apart from the next-of-kin issue, she could be a suspect. We’ll have to visit her.’
Connolly was eager. ‘Oh guv, can I go?’
Slider looked at his watch again. ‘It’s after quitting time. I’ll go myself. Anyway, it’s out in my direction.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Atherton said. He caught Slider’s look. ‘What? It’s all right, I don’t expect overtime. Emily’s not back until tomorrow so I’ve got nothing to go home for.’
‘Play your cards right and you might get invited to supper,’ Slider said.
The house was a two-storey Victorian semi-detached – which description did not come near to expressing the size of it. Red brick and white stone edgings, enormous sash windows, a bay window on the ground floor; a small window in the tall, pointed gable indicated there would be servants’ rooms in the attic. Counting them, it would be a five-or six-bedroom house. And from the state of the outsides Slider could tell that all the houses along here had been refurbished. Given the proximity to Ealing Common they would be very expensive. Not so much of a comedown after all.
The woman who came to the door could only be Amanda Knox-Sturgess. Slider had subconsciously been expecting Penelope Keith from The Good Life, and she didn’t disappoint him. She was tall – too tall for a woman, probably five-eleven – with a long and prominent nose and not too much chin. Oddly, she still managed to look reasonably attractive despite these handicaps, and Slider put that down to her immaculate turnout. Her hair was brown and subtly highlighted, in a smooth short bob, held back by an Alice band; her make-up was perfect; and she wore a navy skirt, blue-and-white striped shirt, low-heeled court shoes, large false pearl earrings and a string of large pearl beads.
That she was not glad to be disturbed was immediately apparent.
‘Yes?’ she snapped, her face fixed in an expression of impenetrable hauteur.
‘Amanda Sturgess?’ Slider asked politely.
Her expression changed to one of suspicion and dislike. Her eyes flicked to Atherton, rapidly assessing his suit; and, strangely, this seemed to deepen her aversion. ‘If you’re from the Bible College, you’re wasting your time. My religion is not open to discussion.’
Slider winced. Oh, poor Atherton, he thought. The Hugo Boss wouldn’t be getting another outing any time soon. ‘We’re police officers, madam,’ he said, showing his brief, before she could slam the door. She inspected it without touching it; Atherton’s did not merit even a glance. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you but we’d like to speak with you. May we come in for a moment?’
Atherton noticed that, as well as using his most deferential tone, he had allowed a very slight hint of a country accent to creep in. He had used this before, to disarm ‘county’ types, but Atherton was never sure if it was deliberate or instinctive.
Perhaps Sarratt didn’t count as ‘county’. There was no thaw. ‘What about?’ she demanded.
‘I’d rather not talk about it on the doorstep, madam.’ Slider, gently persuasive.
‘Tell me what it’s about, or I shall close the door.’ Amanda Sturgess, magnificently unpersuaded.
‘It’s about your former husband, David Rogers.’
For a moment something flickered through her eyes that might have been alarm, but then there followed overt and sighing exasperation. Overdone? ‘What’s he been up to now?’ Interesting, Slider thought. He’d been up to things before? ‘As you point out,’ she went on, ‘he is my ex-husband. I know nothing about his present exploits. I can’t help you.’
‘We’re hoping you can help us with some background information,’ Slider said, and threw in another ‘madam’ for good measure. He had dropped the slight burr now, Atherton noted. Smart and workmanlike was the way to go with this dame. ‘We shan’t keep you long.’
He could do as good an unyielding as her any day, and did it now. Unwillingly, she let them in. The house had been refurbished to a high standard of what passed these days for luxury – that is, all the floors had been stripped and polished and left bare, the walls were painted white, the furniture was modern and minimal, and an extravagant number of walls had been knocked out, so that the downstairs into which they were led formed a vast L shape with the sitting-room, the short leg, leading through to a kitchen-diner that stretched across the whole back of the house, and had glass doors across most of the width. Slider guessed they would be both sliding and folding, so that in summer almost the entire back of the house could be opened on to the patio. If ever the weather was hot enough. For the rest of the year, it seemed to him, the set-up would be pointedly un-cosy. It struck him that the current fashion for vast open spaces inside houses was an import from a country with a very different climate. But of course, the Amanda Knox-Sturgesses of this world had never set great store by comfort.
Her heels clacked aggressively on the bare boards; Slider’s and Atherton’s police rubber soles were soundless behind her. No cat or dog came to greet them; the air smelled only of potpourri, not supper; there was no visible food preparation going on in the kitchen; and the sunless rooms were chilly. It was not Slider’s idea of a home; but he was a farm boy from the sticks, so what did he know?
She turned to face them at the point where the sitting-room turned into the dining end of the kitchen and, menacingly tall under the RSJ, said, ‘Very well. Please be brief. What has David done now?’
No please-sit-down, no cuppa. There was nothing for it: Slider said, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s dead.’
He was watching her face, and it went stationary with shock; though again he felt there was a flicker of something – guilt or fear? – before she regained her icy mask. ‘I suppose he crashed his car. He always was a careless driver,’ she said as if indifferently, but she was not unaffected. Her eyes seemed blank, and her voice was by the tiniest degree not steady. She sat abruptly in the nearest armchair. Thus licensed, Slider and Atherton sat too.