sort they go for. And if she preferred butch men to the sort of sensitive love he could offer – well, that type of jealousy can be worse than the other sort.’
‘Interesting,’ Slider said.
CHAPTER FOUR
De mortuis nihil nisi bunkum
Phoebe Agnew’s parents, it seemed, were both dead, and her next of kin was her only sister, Chloe, married to a Nigel Cosworth and living in a village in Rutland.
Atherton was impressed. ‘It’s quite hard to live in Rutland. Turn over in bed too quickly and you end up in Leicestershire.’
The local police were breaking the news to her. Porson had held off from issuing a press statement until that was done, so the media frenzy had not yet materialised. The paragraph in the
Standard
did not name Agnew, only said that a well-known journalist had been found dead at her home in West London and that the police were treating the death as suspicious. The late editions of the tabloids were still running the ongoing search for two teenage girls who’d run away with some ponies that were going to be slaughtered (‘The story that has everything,’ Slider said), while the broadsheets were obsessed with another Government minister sex scandal and the Balkan crisis in about equal proportions.
‘I suppose the
Grauniad
will run the obituary tomorrow,’ Atherton said. ‘After all, she was one of theirs. And I suppose when the details get out they’ll all be panting for it. We’ll have the Sundays crawling all over us. The rape angle always gets ’em.’
‘Her having her hands tied doesn’t make it rape,’ Norma pointed out. ‘She had dinner with this geezer, and they were old mates. It was probably how they liked to do it.’
‘Well, said geezer is obviously the next port of call,’ Slider said. ‘Have you located him?’
‘Josh Prentiss? Yes, he’s still at work,’ said Norma. ‘D’you want him brought in?’
‘You haven’t said anything to alert him?’ Slider asked.
‘No, boss. I just asked for him, said it was a personal call, and got myself accidentally cut off when they put me through.’
‘Good. I’d like to confront him myself. First reactions and so on. Meanwhile, I’d like someone to go over and talk to his wife, get her slant on it before she knows what he’s said. Yes, all right, Norma, you can do that. Anyone who’s not house-to-housing can make a start on going through her paperwork. You’ve got it all here now?’
‘Sackloads of it,’ Anderson said.
‘Weeks of work,’ said McLaren.
‘There’s one thing, guv,’ Mackay said. ‘You know there were two filing cabinets? Well, they were stuffed so full you could hardly get them open, all except for one drawer. In that one the files were hanging quite loosely. The desk drawers were the same – jammed full of papers. It occurs to me that maybe some big file was taken out of that one drawer by chummy.’
‘Possible. Any way of knowing which one?’ Slider asked. ‘Labels on the drawers? Was the stuff alphabetical or anything?’
‘You kidding?’ Mackay said economically.
‘Okay,’ said Slider, ‘keep that in mind as you go through. Try to classify the stuff and see if there’s anything obviously missing. It may not mean anything, though. There were a lot of papers loose on the desk, as I remember, and they might have been what made the space.’
‘Anyway,’ Anderson said, ‘if it was a sex thing, he’s not going to go looking through her files, is he?’
‘Probably not,’ Slider said, ‘but it’s as well to keep an open mind.’
It hadn’t snowed, but the sky had remained lowering, and its unnatural twilight had blended seamlessly with the normal onset of winter dusk. It seemed to have been dark all day, with the lights in shop and office windows making it darker by contrast. ‘It’s like living in Finland,’ said Slider gloomily.
Atherton glanced at him. ‘SAD syndrome,’ he said. ‘Sorry Ageing Detective.’
‘Oh, thank you!’
Rush hour was winding itself
‘Interesting,’ Slider said.
CHAPTER FOUR
De mortuis nihil nisi bunkum
Phoebe Agnew’s parents, it seemed, were both dead, and her next of kin was her only sister, Chloe, married to a Nigel Cosworth and living in a village in Rutland.
Atherton was impressed. ‘It’s quite hard to live in Rutland. Turn over in bed too quickly and you end up in Leicestershire.’
The local police were breaking the news to her. Porson had held off from issuing a press statement until that was done, so the media frenzy had not yet materialised. The paragraph in the
Standard
did not name Agnew, only said that a well-known journalist had been found dead at her home in West London and that the police were treating the death as suspicious. The late editions of the tabloids were still running the ongoing search for two teenage girls who’d run away with some ponies that were going to be slaughtered (‘The story that has everything,’ Slider said), while the broadsheets were obsessed with another Government minister sex scandal and the Balkan crisis in about equal proportions.
‘I suppose the
Grauniad
will run the obituary tomorrow,’ Atherton said. ‘After all, she was one of theirs. And I suppose when the details get out they’ll all be panting for it. We’ll have the Sundays crawling all over us. The rape angle always gets ’em.’
‘Her having her hands tied doesn’t make it rape,’ Norma pointed out. ‘She had dinner with this geezer, and they were old mates. It was probably how they liked to do it.’
‘Well, said geezer is obviously the next port of call,’ Slider said. ‘Have you located him?’
‘Josh Prentiss? Yes, he’s still at work,’ said Norma. ‘D’you want him brought in?’
‘You haven’t said anything to alert him?’ Slider asked.
‘No, boss. I just asked for him, said it was a personal call, and got myself accidentally cut off when they put me through.’
‘Good. I’d like to confront him myself. First reactions and so on. Meanwhile, I’d like someone to go over and talk to his wife, get her slant on it before she knows what he’s said. Yes, all right, Norma, you can do that. Anyone who’s not house-to-housing can make a start on going through her paperwork. You’ve got it all here now?’
‘Sackloads of it,’ Anderson said.
‘Weeks of work,’ said McLaren.
‘There’s one thing, guv,’ Mackay said. ‘You know there were two filing cabinets? Well, they were stuffed so full you could hardly get them open, all except for one drawer. In that one the files were hanging quite loosely. The desk drawers were the same – jammed full of papers. It occurs to me that maybe some big file was taken out of that one drawer by chummy.’
‘Possible. Any way of knowing which one?’ Slider asked. ‘Labels on the drawers? Was the stuff alphabetical or anything?’
‘You kidding?’ Mackay said economically.
‘Okay,’ said Slider, ‘keep that in mind as you go through. Try to classify the stuff and see if there’s anything obviously missing. It may not mean anything, though. There were a lot of papers loose on the desk, as I remember, and they might have been what made the space.’
‘Anyway,’ Anderson said, ‘if it was a sex thing, he’s not going to go looking through her files, is he?’
‘Probably not,’ Slider said, ‘but it’s as well to keep an open mind.’
It hadn’t snowed, but the sky had remained lowering, and its unnatural twilight had blended seamlessly with the normal onset of winter dusk. It seemed to have been dark all day, with the lights in shop and office windows making it darker by contrast. ‘It’s like living in Finland,’ said Slider gloomily.
Atherton glanced at him. ‘SAD syndrome,’ he said. ‘Sorry Ageing Detective.’
‘Oh, thank you!’
Rush hour was winding itself
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