wallet.’
The phone rang. It was Cameron to say that he had nothing yet to add to yesterday’s conclusions. Death had been caused by the blows to the head: three of them, forceful and probably delivered rapidly given the small spread of the injuries – which by the way matched the superficies of the bronze statuette, so there seemed no doubt it was the murder weapon.
While Cameron was talking to him, Slider saw, through his open door, Connolly come back in, and beckoned to her. She came in and waited until he finished the call, then said, ‘Did you want something, boss?’
‘Yes – is Bailey annoying you?’
‘No, boss. He’s just an eejit.’
‘I can give him a formal warning.’
‘God, no – no need. I can take care of it.’
‘I won’t have you harassed.’
She grinned. ‘I know some fellers who wouldn’t be long putting manners on him for me, if need be. I’ve only to ask.’
‘Now I’m wondering whether he needs protection from you,’ Slider said.
‘Female of the species, sir,’ she said, and went perkily out, leaving Slider feeling better about her.
Nicholls, the relief sergeant on duty downstairs, rang through. ‘Bill, there’s a bloke come in, says he’s a friend of your deceased. Says he was supposed to have seen him last night. Any use to you?’
‘Could be,’ Slider said. ‘Might be a chance to get a handle on the man, maybe even some leads. We don’t even know the next of kin yet.’
‘Shall I put him in an interview room?’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Like a 1950s BBC newsreader.’
‘Better not, then. Might fry his circuits. Can you have someone bring him up here?’
‘Will do.’
FOUR
Private Citizen
T he man who was escorted upstairs by a uniformed officer was one Reginald Plumptre. He spelled it for them carefully. ‘But it’s pronounced “plumter”. Most people try to make me a plum tree,’ he added with a shy whimsy.
He was tall and thin, what Slider’s father would have described as ‘a long drink of water’. He appeared to be in his sixties, or perhaps older – it was harder to tell these days, when old people were so much more active. He was bald on top but had good thick linings all around at ear level, making it look as if he’d stuck his head in a bowling alley ball-polishing machine. He was wearing a conventional grey suit and a red tie, both of which seemed to have seen long service, but his cufflinks and watch looked quietly expensive and he spoke with an RP accent. Slider put him down as one of the army of office workers who had retired on good pensions before the bottom fell out.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Slider, and this is Detective Sergeant Atherton. How can I help you, Mr Plumptre? Won’t you sit down?’
Plumptre hesitated, looking at Slider but not at him, his eyes absent with some suppressed agitation. ‘I have to ask you first,’ he said, ‘is it true? I saw something in the paper – I can’t believe – it seems too … Is Lionel really dead? Someone killed him?’
‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ Slider said. ‘Please sit down.’
Plumptre’s legs took the initiative, and he collapsed into the chair. He put hand to his head as if steadying it. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he muttered shakily.
‘Would you like a glass of water, or a cup of tea, or something?’ Slider asked.
Plumptre visibly pulled himself together, sitting up straighter, licking his lips, clasping his hands together across his front. One of the old school: he was here to do his duty and would jolly well do it. ‘No – thank you – no. I’m quite all right. It’s a shock, that’s all. You never expect something like that to happen to someone you know.’
‘You knew Mr Bygod well?’ Slider asked, to get him started.
‘He was my friend,’ Plumptre said. ‘A good friend and a very fine man. I can’t believe anyone would be so wicked as to harm him. I was supposed to be seeing him two nights ago, but even when there was no answer at
The phone rang. It was Cameron to say that he had nothing yet to add to yesterday’s conclusions. Death had been caused by the blows to the head: three of them, forceful and probably delivered rapidly given the small spread of the injuries – which by the way matched the superficies of the bronze statuette, so there seemed no doubt it was the murder weapon.
While Cameron was talking to him, Slider saw, through his open door, Connolly come back in, and beckoned to her. She came in and waited until he finished the call, then said, ‘Did you want something, boss?’
‘Yes – is Bailey annoying you?’
‘No, boss. He’s just an eejit.’
‘I can give him a formal warning.’
‘God, no – no need. I can take care of it.’
‘I won’t have you harassed.’
She grinned. ‘I know some fellers who wouldn’t be long putting manners on him for me, if need be. I’ve only to ask.’
‘Now I’m wondering whether he needs protection from you,’ Slider said.
‘Female of the species, sir,’ she said, and went perkily out, leaving Slider feeling better about her.
Nicholls, the relief sergeant on duty downstairs, rang through. ‘Bill, there’s a bloke come in, says he’s a friend of your deceased. Says he was supposed to have seen him last night. Any use to you?’
‘Could be,’ Slider said. ‘Might be a chance to get a handle on the man, maybe even some leads. We don’t even know the next of kin yet.’
‘Shall I put him in an interview room?’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Like a 1950s BBC newsreader.’
‘Better not, then. Might fry his circuits. Can you have someone bring him up here?’
‘Will do.’
FOUR
Private Citizen
T he man who was escorted upstairs by a uniformed officer was one Reginald Plumptre. He spelled it for them carefully. ‘But it’s pronounced “plumter”. Most people try to make me a plum tree,’ he added with a shy whimsy.
He was tall and thin, what Slider’s father would have described as ‘a long drink of water’. He appeared to be in his sixties, or perhaps older – it was harder to tell these days, when old people were so much more active. He was bald on top but had good thick linings all around at ear level, making it look as if he’d stuck his head in a bowling alley ball-polishing machine. He was wearing a conventional grey suit and a red tie, both of which seemed to have seen long service, but his cufflinks and watch looked quietly expensive and he spoke with an RP accent. Slider put him down as one of the army of office workers who had retired on good pensions before the bottom fell out.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Slider, and this is Detective Sergeant Atherton. How can I help you, Mr Plumptre? Won’t you sit down?’
Plumptre hesitated, looking at Slider but not at him, his eyes absent with some suppressed agitation. ‘I have to ask you first,’ he said, ‘is it true? I saw something in the paper – I can’t believe – it seems too … Is Lionel really dead? Someone killed him?’
‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ Slider said. ‘Please sit down.’
Plumptre’s legs took the initiative, and he collapsed into the chair. He put hand to his head as if steadying it. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he muttered shakily.
‘Would you like a glass of water, or a cup of tea, or something?’ Slider asked.
Plumptre visibly pulled himself together, sitting up straighter, licking his lips, clasping his hands together across his front. One of the old school: he was here to do his duty and would jolly well do it. ‘No – thank you – no. I’m quite all right. It’s a shock, that’s all. You never expect something like that to happen to someone you know.’
‘You knew Mr Bygod well?’ Slider asked, to get him started.
‘He was my friend,’ Plumptre said. ‘A good friend and a very fine man. I can’t believe anyone would be so wicked as to harm him. I was supposed to be seeing him two nights ago, but even when there was no answer at
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