She turned to him with relief, glad to have the chance to justify herself. ‘He goes out in his car at night. Sneaks out straight from his shed – I’ll swear his wife doesn’t know he’s gone, because she never stirs once she’s in front of the telly. He goes down the shed of an evening, and then as like as not he creeps out and down the path to the side gate, and when I look out of the front window the car’s gone.’
‘Perhaps he has evening engagements,’ Atherton said mildly. ‘Social engagements.’
‘Not him. Refuses everything he’s invited to. Besides, when it’s one of his committee meetings or whatever, he goes out the front door like a Christian. No, this sneaking out he does is something shady, you mark my words.’
‘Now, Ruby—’
‘You don’t see it,’ she turned on him. ‘You wouldn’t notice anything if it was right in front of your face! But I’ve been watching him. Sneaked out on Sunday night, didn’t he? Down to the shed he went, but he wasn’t in there more than ten minutes when he sneaked out again, got in his car and drove off.’
‘Did he?’ Atherton said with interest. This was good – this was gold! ‘You wouldn’t know what time that was, would you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she frowned. ‘I suppose it might have been about half past five, that sort of time.’
‘And did you see what time he came back?’
‘No,’ she said with reluctance. ‘I was watching television in here – wasn’t I, Gordon? I looked out at about ten o’clock when I went to make a cup of tea, and his car wasn’t there then. And it wasn’t there when we went up to bed, which would be about half-past eleven. I said as much to you, didn’t I, Gordon? I said he was out again, on the prowl, didn’t I?’
‘Did you, dear?’
‘The car was back the next morning, but he could have been out all night for all I know, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Up to no good, you mark my words. Well, now they’ve gone, and good riddance to them, that’s what I say.’
‘Gone?’ Atherton said, trying to sit up and failing entirely.
‘Yes, left this morning, early. With bags. Gone to stay with her sister in Basingtoke, I wouldn’t wonder. That’s the only family I’ve ever heard her talk about. But it’s good riddance to bad rubbish as far as I’m concerned. I don’t care if they never come back.’
Skipped, by God, Atherton thought.
Outside, he realized the Wildings’ dark-blue Focus was not in its accustomed place and cursed himself for not having noticed that when he arrived. It was the unfortunately named PC Organ on duty on the door. It was a muggy day, and sweat was rolling round his neck under his chin, and a trickle was easing down his cheek from under his helmet. Atherton stood in front of him, to mask any possible reaction from the press – their interest in each other still seemed to be greater than in the possibility of a story, but you could never depend on the press to remain indifferent when you wanted them to.
‘What’s this about the Wildings leaving this morning?’ he asked, low but urgent.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Organ. ‘Went off about eight o’clock. I’ve got the key, though, if you want to go in. Mrs Wilding left it with me in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘She didn’t say, sir. Just in case.’
‘And when are they coming back?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘And where have they gone?’
‘She didn’t say. But they had overnight bags with them.’
Atherton rolled his eyes. ‘It didn’t occur to you to stop them, then?’
‘No, sir.’ He looked wounded. ‘I was here to keep the press from bothering them. I wasn’t told to stop them going out if they wanted.’
‘And it didn’t occur to you to let anyone know they’d gone?’
He looked even more wounded. ‘No, sir. Why should it? They’re the victim’s parents, not suspects.’
Atherton turned away.
‘Sir,’ Organ called after him. ‘Do I still have to stay on the door, now they’re gone? No one’s said anything.’
‘I think you might be on duty here a while longer, Constable,’ Atherton said.
TWELVE
What a Difference a Dray Makes
Slider would have liked to round things off by talking to Oliver Paulson – whose flat was only a hop, skip and jump from Bravington Road – but of course Paulson would be at work in the City, and would have to be an evening call. Instead, he decided to look in on his obbo team.
At present on duty outside Carmichael’s flat were Hart and McLaren, and as Slider came along he was pleased to see that they blended in with the background nicely. He only knew them because he knew them. McLaren was leaning against the wall between the two shops opposite, eating a drippy meatball sub, and given that everyone on London’s streets under the age of fifty seemed to be eating all the time these days, it made him inconspicuous. Hart had abandoned her smart work suits for a cropped top and a pair of hot pants, and if men walking past were looking at her it was not because they thought she might be a cop. She was wearing an iPod and earphones, an inspired piece of costume because it gave her an excuse to jiggle about a bit and disguised the fact that she was staying in the same place.
Slider didn’t want to go up to her and blow her cover, but he saw her spot him, so he went into the tobacconist’s next to the tarot shop under Carmichael’s flat, and bought a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. When he came out, he found Hart there, having sloped inconspicuously across.
She saw the cigarettes in his hand, as he had intended, and said, ‘Got a fag, mister? Go on, give us one. Be a sport.’
‘You’re too young to smoke,’ he said, and took his time unwrapping the pack to give her time to make her report to him.
It didn’t take long, however. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing in and nothing out. I wonder if he’s on to us?’
‘Surely not. You blend in so well,’ Slider said.
‘Not us,’ Hart said with superb self-confidence. ‘That pillock Fathom we took over from. Just one look at his shoes’d tell you.’
And then suddenly she wasn’t there. There was a little whisk of air, and she was running like a hare down the KPR. Across the road McLaren had also sprung into action, hurling the remains of the sub into a waste bin as he passed – it was that serious, then. Slider went after them, only then seeing their quarry, who must have come out of the flat door while Slider was concentrating on the cigarette pack. Evidently he had seen Hart clock him and, with admirable perspicacity, put two and two together and taken off.
Hart was fleet and nimble, but Carmichael was young and fit and a good runner, and she was only keeping up with him, until he started across the road towards Westbourne Grove, presumably hoping to cut through to the Portobello Road and lose them among the stalls. At that moment a flat-bed fruit and veg truck pulled out of the turning, heading him off and losing him most of his lead. He turned right instead, down Stanley Gardens. Slider, who was some way behind, turned down the parallel Ladbroke Gardens and then left into Stanley Crescent, hoping to cut off a corner. He saw Carmichael emerge from Stanley Gardens into the crescent. Carmichael spotted him and hesitated a fatal second, wondering which way to run, and by the time he turned left, away from Slider, Hart was on him.
She brought him down to the pavement with a satisfying smack, using the whole weight of her body. Carmichael was no taller than her, but he had a man’s weight and muscles against a woman’s, and by the time Slider reached them, his breath dragging at his lungs, Carmichael was in danger of getting away again. Movies always made subduing a struggling man look easy, but in real life Slider had seen one drunken sixty-year-old woman require the services of four burly policemen to hold her down. But with Hart lying full length on top of him, Carmichael was hampered for breath after his run, enough for Slider, and McLaren when he arrived seconds later, to grab an arm each and pin him to the ground.