Hard Going Read Free Page A

cared. It was a melancholy moment.
    ‘Ah, there you are.’ Freddie disturbed his reverie. ‘Well, there were no other visible injuries, so I think you can take it it was the head trauma that killed him. Ceteris paribus and subject always to post-mortem.’
    ‘Ever my cautious Freddie,’ said Slider. But they’d had cases between them before, more than one, where all was not as it seemed. He walked to the desk. ‘And what was he doing, sitting there?’
    ‘That’s rather curious. It appears he was writing a cheque.’
    There it was on the desk, the cheque book, the edges of the pages stained with blood. The victim’s body had shielded it; but paper acts like a wick and had drawn it up from the wet blotter. A rather nice fountain pen, dark green marble effect with gold bands, was also lying there, uncapped. He had got as far as writing the date, Slider saw.
    ‘The pen was actually in his hand,’ Freddie said. ‘The right hand. It was hidden under his torso when he fell forward.’
    ‘So he was actually writing it when he was killed,’ Slider mused.
    ‘Yesterday’s date. If only the blow had miraculously stopped his watch as well, we’d have the exact moment of death pinpointed,’ Freddie said drily.
    Outside, Slider discovered his boss, Detective Superintendent Fred ‘The Syrup’ Porson, walking up and down, his autumn raiment – a beige raincoat of wondrous design, covered in flaps, straps and buckles – swirling around him like a matador’s cape. He had abandoned the eponymous wig when his dear wife died, but his bony pate served only to emphasize the lushness of his eyebrows, as lavishly overgrown as Sleeping Beauty’s hedge, and whipped up into peaks like hoary meringue.
    He was talking to Swilley, another of Slider’s DCs, who had to pace with him and looked as though she didn’t like being made to look foolish in that way. He swung round as Slider emerged with Atherton behind him, and barked, ‘Only just made it!’
    Slider was stung. ‘I came as soon as I heard, sir – or as soon as my lift arrived.’
    Porson waved that away. ‘Over there. Checkpoint Charlie.’ He gestured towards the next side turning. ‘Border between us and Hammersmith. Only just the right side of it, or they’d have got it instead of us. Thankful for small murphies.’
    Slider forbore to comment. Only the upper echelons could actually want a murder case.
    ‘I’ve already had friend Grunthorpe on the ear’ole to me this morning,’ Porson rumbled on. ‘In the person of DS Carthew of course. They think it ought to go to Hammersmith’s murder squad.’
    Grunthorpe was Porson’s equivalent at Hammersmith, and Trevor ‘Boots’ Carthew, his right hand man, was famous for his dedication to his master’s interests. Grunthorpe was known to be always on the lookout for prestigious cases to boost his reputation – or easy ones to boost his clear-up rate.
    Slider frowned. ‘But the deceased wasn’t anyone important, was he?’
    Porson shrugged. ‘Not as far as I know, but that’s irrevelant. I think they’re jealous about the Corley case. Touch of the green-eyed wassname.’ In his impatience with life, Porson’s way was to take random swipes at language, like a bored waitress wiping tables in an airport eatery. ‘We did ourselves a bit of bon with that, and they want some of what we’ve got. Give ’em half a chance and they’ll be all over this like a cheap rash. So I want the investigation done by the book and double-quick time. Don’t want any excuse for Mr Wetherspoon to cast nasturtiums on our efficiency. What’s it look like so far?’
    Slider shrugged in his turn. ‘No obvious signs of burglary. And it doesn’t look professional.’
    ‘Domestic? Blast,’ said Porson.
    Slider concurred. Human passions took a lot more fathoming out, and amateurs didn’t tend to have their prints or DNA handily on record. They might be more liable to leave traces behind, but you had nothing to compare them with