A Good Way to Go Page 6

  ‘I’m not easily pounce-able,’ he assured the man yet did as he had been told. A few minutes later, walking along the corridor of the personnel department behind a blue-suited woman – a Ms L. Williams according to her own pass – McLusky quietly wondered what five floors full of employees could be doing in the computer age if you supplied two products and sent out bills only every three months. Once seated in the glass cube of her office he asked the question in another way. ‘I suppose selling energy is not a simple business?’

  ‘Far from it, inspector. It’s immensely complex, fiercely competitive and lies absolutely at the heart of our economy. Without us everything stops. To make sure it doesn’t is what we are here for.’ Ms L. Williams smiled, but not too much, having already been told what the inspector’s visit was about.

  ‘Thank you, perhaps I’ll read the brochure for myself later. And what part did Barbara Steadman play in all this?’

  ‘It’s hard to take in. I didn’t know her well but I had come across her at some meetings and several functions.’ Her eyes left McLusky’s for a split second as they flicked to the computer screen at the corner of her desk. ‘Mrs Steadman was management, head of domestic telesales.’ She added, helpfully, ‘Acquisition and retention.’

  Acquisition and retention of customers, he assumed. ‘Any problems at work?’

  ‘No, quite the opposite, she was doing extremely well and will be difficult to replace. Her salary reflected that.’

  ‘That would have been my next question. How much did Mrs Steadman earn?’

  ‘That really is confidential, Inspector. You might send a written request for that kind of information but it’s company policy not to reveal to outsiders …’

  With difficulty McLusky managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes to the ceiling. It never ceased to amaze him what some people considered too sensitive to reveal to the police, even in a murder investigation. He spoke with the patience of a ticking time bomb. ‘Barbara Steadman was murdered and I am hunting for her killer. I know what type of underwear she preferred, I have watched her naked body being cut open and I can tell you that her liver weighed two pounds and four ounces. By the end of this investigation I will know more about her than she ever did herself. How much did she earn?’

  Ms Williams didn’t blink. ‘Ninety-six K a year.’

  ‘And after bonuses?’

  ‘Last year just under a hundred and sixty.’

  McLusky thought of John Steadman and wondered what the man’s own pension plan looked like. ‘Did Mrs Steadman have direct contact with customers?’

  ‘Not personally, no. Her department did of course.’

  ‘Have there been any disputes she was involved in? With customers, I mean.’

  ‘She didn’t deal with things like that. Her work was more strategic planning, Inspector, not running after customers waving red bills.’

  ‘Did she have enemies in the company? Did she tread on any toes to get where she was?’

  ‘Not that I am aware of.’

  ‘Or was Mrs Steadman particularly friendly with anyone?’

  ‘Again, I am not aware of any personal attachments within the company.’

  ‘Lonely at the top, was it? Did she have lovers?’

  ‘You mean did she have affairs? I really wouldn’t know, Inspector. This isn’t a corner shop, you know. If Mrs Steadman was conducting an extra-marital affair I’m sure she had the … the means to conduct it discreetly. Not that it’s a shooting offence but we don’t encourage employees to bring their private lives to work.’

  Private lives, lonely deaths. McLusky wasn’t sure he believed that a complete separation of private life and work was such a good idea. You worked for a company for years and all they knew about you was what you were worth to them, of the rest they were ‘not aware’. Standing in the rainy street near the Western Energy building, trying to remember where he had left his car, he thought that leaving your private life at the door for the duration of your working day felt too much like suspended animation.

  When he remembered where he had left his car his vague hope that it had been stolen was dashed. The old Mazda sat untouched by the kerb, scratched, lopsided and with the keys in the ignition.

  Afternoon had turned to evening and the skies had cleared by the time McLusky left Albany Road Station that day. He started the engine, then just sat in the driver’s seat, for a moment undecided. He knew there was no food at home and lunch was a long time ago but shopping and cooking seemed altogether too much effort. Fish & chips from Pellegrino’s was often his answer to this recurring problem or, lazier still, cheesy chips at Rita’s near his flat, but he felt too restless even for that tonight. He drove to a sandwich bar near the harbour where he could be sure of a doorstep egg-and-bacon sandwich with brown sauce that would not be subject to geometric mutilation. He’d wave away the offer of tea or coffee; he was saving his thirst for a few pints at the Barge Inn opposite his flat in Northmoor Street. Yet when he found himself back behind the wheel of his car it seemed to develop a will of its own. Instead of heading for Montpelier and the pub he found himself again driving down the now lamp-lit Feeder Road alongside the shadowy canal to Netham Lock. Traffic on the road was sporadic. He left his car unlocked just beyond the bridge.

  A narrow slipway led him down to the edge of the canal opposite the lock-keeper’s cottage. A lantern illuminated the area directly in front of the closed lock. No light showed behind the cottage’s windows. With less traffic noise around he could hear the small watery sounds in the dark. The buoy no longer marked the spot where Barbara Steadman had been murdered but McLusky thought he could tell exactly where it had floated, marking the evil that was hidden below the surface, marked so it would be found. Was the killer trying to say something? Was the manner of the killing meant to signify something? Surely the manner of her death and the way the body was left meant something to the killer, but what and how?

  Not a good way to go, the pathologist had said. He made a mental note to ask him just what constituted a good way to die. Most of us hoped to die peacefully in our beds, possibly surrounded by our loved ones after a long fulfilled life, yet he doubted many lives were blessed with that kind of ending. Most ended in hospital beds, many on hospital trolleys, unobserved by loved ones. Most people died at three in the morning, because it was always darkest before the dawn. McLusky had attended many murder scenes in his time at CID which had given him a mental catalogue of bad ways to go, with vivid pictures that refused to fade. He remembered the smells that went with them, too. Barbara Steadman’s death smelled of wet rubber, damp canvas and of canal water. It was an earthy, not unpleasant smell. Perhaps that was what one ought to aim for, he thought, a death that smelled pleasantly, earthy, that didn’t reek of disinfectant or scream with blood.

  McLusky’s eyes had been fixed on the empty spot on the water. Now he looked up. He had no idea how long the figure had been standing there, on the opposite bank. It looked to him like a man in a hooded top or coat. It was hard to make out since the figure remained a few feet outside the pool of light created by the lantern in front of the cottage. The figure stood tall, motionless, looking directly at him across the width of the dark water. McLusky could see the light skin tone of the face but could not make out sex or age. Then the man, surely a man, lifted one hand and briefly held up one finger.

  McLusky called across. ‘I’m a police officer. Stay there, I want a word.’ But even as he started up the path towards the level of the bridge he could see the figure turning away, retreating into the darker shadows of the towpath opposite. ‘Wait, I want to talk to you!’ McLusky called but his voice was swallowed up by a passing lorry. He began to jog across the bridge and down behind the lock-keeper’s cottage. By the time he stood breathless on the towpath it was empty.

  SIX

  ‘I walked along for a bit, checked the moored boats and the vegetation, but he’d gone.’

  They were sitting in Austin’s blue Nissan Micra, parked opposite the St
eadman house. Austin had insisted on travelling in his own car and McLusky had reluctantly joined him. He hated being driven, especially in tiny cars. Austin waved away the inspector’s wordless offer of a share in his chocolate bar. ‘He probably made off across the playing fields.’

  ‘It was pretty dark down there and I didn’t have my torch. I could easily have walked past him if he hid in the bushes. The thing was, when he was still opposite me, just before he ran off, he made some kind of gesture. Like giving me the finger but I think it was his index finger. As though he was admonishing me. Or pointing towards heaven. Then disappeared in a puff of smoke. I should have been quicker off the mark there.’

  In his frustration McLusky stuffed the entire chocolate bar into his mouth with three angry bites.

  ‘What made you go back there at that time of the day in the first place? Did you think we had missed something?’

  McLusky worked hard to free his teeth from the caramel goo of the chocolate bar before answering. ‘I often do that. Go back on my own when it’s quiet. After the circus has packed up and the gawpers have gone home. You can’t really see a place properly while it’s infested with personnel. So I go back when it’s quiet. Get a feel for the place. It helps me think. Sometimes. Not this time. I ended up running up and down the towpath, effing and blinding.’ After which he had driven home and drunk several angry pints at the Barge Inn.

  ‘Talk about disappearing acts. You should have seen Fairfield this morning.’

  McLusky leant back against the passenger door to get a better look at Austin. ‘Should I? I haven’t seen her at all since I got back.’

  ‘I think that’s because she’s avoiding you. She was walking down the corridor, I was some way behind her, I’d just dropped some files off in your office. You were coming into the corridor, talking to Dearlove. The moment she heard your voice she did an about-turn and darted back into her office.’

  McLusky had lost Louise Rennie in the drug-white snows of the last winter. Austin had been the only soul whom McLusky had told about finding Kat Fairfield in bed with Louise who at the time he had – wrongly as it turned out – thought of as his girlfriend. He had felt he just had to tell someone. Immediately afterwards he had threatened Austin with justifiable homicide should he spread it around the station. ‘Fairfield on the run. That’s gratifying to know.’ He winkled a cigarette from a battered packet.

  ‘Do you mind not smoking in the car?’ Austin asked. ‘Eve is giving me hell about the smell.’

  ‘Another bloody no-smoking zone. You might have told me before you made me come along in your car.’

  ‘I thought you were cutting down. You just had a chocolate bar.’

  ‘Yeah, but after eating you need a fag, don’t you? It aids digestion.’ With a groan he levered himself out of the car. ‘OK, I’ll pollute Steadman’s air instead. Let’s see if we can rattle the man. I think I detect less than perfect grief there.’

  McLusky lit a cigarette and waited for a delivery van to pass before crossing the street. The van slowed in front of him and turned into the drive of Steadman’s house.

  Austin blipped the central locking. ‘Dauphin deli and caterers. No supermarket own-brand for John Steadman, I’m sure.’

  ‘Posh, are they?’

  ‘A round of their sandwiches and you’ll be remortgaging the house.’

  ‘Count me out, then, I’m renting.’

  ‘Given the Steadmans had been living quite separate lives,’ Austin mused, ‘what if Barbara was planning to go her own way altogether and leave dear John to it? Take half the house and his writing hut?’

  ‘Now that would be upsetting the prof’s regime. She’s not going anywhere now. Peace and quiet for Mr Steadman. Let’s see how the professor is consoling himself.’

  The delivery man, carrying a green plastic tray full of goods, was just being admitted by Steadman when they reached the porch. ‘Morning, Mr Steadman, mind if we come in too?’ McLusky didn’t wait for an answer and followed the delivery man into the hall.

  Steadman was visibly annoyed. ‘Close the door behind you, Sergeant, before any more people stray in.’

  The caterer stood with his heavy load in the hall. ‘Straight into the kitchen, sir?’

  Steadman nodded at him. ‘If you would. No, this way, Inspector,’ he said to McLusky who was following the delivery man’s broad back along the passage to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, the kitchen will do for me,’ McLusky said over his shoulder and carried on. ‘I know my place.’

  Steadman took a deep breath during which he fixed Austin with an exasperated stare.

  ‘After you, sir,’ Austin said with exaggerated politeness.

  The kitchen was classic country house style, yet, despite stone-flagged floor, scrubbed oak table and Aga, managed to look curiously sterile, like the kitchen of a show home. The caterer knew his way around and sorted the delivery away, including champagne and a side of smoked salmon that went into the fridge. McLusky pretended to take a close interest in the delivery, following the man around and ignoring the fuming Steadman until all had disappeared into fridge, freezer and pantry.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Steadman.’ The caterer had his pad signed and was left to find his own way out.

  ‘Have you made any progress at all?’ Steadman challenged McLusky.

  ‘Early days, sir,’ McLusky said while pretending to take an interest in the furnishings. ‘Murder investigations take time.’

  ‘Then what can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh, just routine questions. Murder inquiries are full of routine. All of it boring but necessary. And very effective. We have a very good clear-up rate for murder. Not so good on burglary, I’m told, but murder, we’re very good at that. Actually,’ he turned to Austin. ‘you might make a start on questioning the neighbours. I’ll join you in a moment.’

  ‘Questioning the neighbours?’ Steadman asked as Austin left. ‘What about? What would they know?’

  ‘Oh, again, you see, it’s just routine, sir, nothing to worry about. Are you friendly with your neighbours? Was your wife?’

  ‘We never really had much to do with them. Our properties are far enough apart, it’s not like we’d chat over the garden fence, Inspector. That’s what large gardens are for, getting away from the neighbours.’

  ‘Is that what they are for? I often wondered,’ McLusky said. He had lived at his own address for over a year and had barely noticed his own neighbours even without the help of a few acres.

  ‘Do you have any idea where your wife went when she left the house?’

  ‘None. As I think I told you, she liked driving. She loved that car and she liked being on the move.’

  ‘Was your wife having an affair?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’

  ‘Do you know with whom?’

  ‘No. I said she was possibly having an affair, Inspector. Not that it would have made much difference.’ There was a pause. ‘I didn’t kill my wife in a fit of jealousy.’

  ‘It appears not. Who benefits from your wife’s death?’

  ‘I do. We have no children. I didn’t kill her for the money, either. My pension is quite adequate, I assure you.’

  ‘That must be gratifying. Yesterday you mentioned people who have access to the house.’ McLusky flicked open his notebook, found the relevant page. ‘You said several people had keys, you said cleaner, gardener and so on all have keys. Who is “and so on”?’

  Steadman caressed the slight stubble beyond his neatly trimmed beard. ‘Just … services. My wife was not a very domestic sort of person. She left that kind of thing to professionals. The laundry, for instance, there’s a laundry and ironing service she employed. They come into the house and hang up your cleaned and ironed clothes in your wardrobe and leave again. Pressing Business, that’s what the company is called. That’s it for people with keys. Gardeners, cleaner, laundry service.’

  McLusky snapped his notebook shut. ‘OK, that clears that one up at least,’ he said, hop
ing it would sound as though he had a long list of suspicious inconsistencies in his notebook.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Inspector, I would like to get back to my work now.’ Steadman indicated the direction of the summerhouse with a nod of his head. McLusky could just glimpse a corner of Steadman’s writing shack through the kitchen window.

  ‘Of course. It must be a great solace. Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry to have bothered you at what must be a difficult time for you.’ Especially with nothing but smoked salmon, venison pâté and champagne to sustain you, McLusky thought uncharitably. Steadman led him to the front door. ‘If you have any questions yourself, don’t hesitate,’ McLusky said.

  ‘There is one. My wife’s car. When can I pick that up?’

  ‘You’ll be informed when forensics have finished with it. I can’t say how long it might take, it all depends.’

  ‘On what, Inspector?’

  ‘On what they’ll find. Oh, I do have one more question,’ McLusky said, already outside. ‘Did you sleep with your wife the day she disappeared?’

  Steadman gave him an expressionless stare that lasted several seconds before he answered. ‘What could you possibly …’ He faltered.

  ‘Only there were “signs of recent intercourse”, as the pathologist would put it. Are you sure you don’t know whether your wife was having an affair?’

  ‘I have no idea. And I don’t want to know. Perhaps my wife’s driver would know. Why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘Knickers, sir?’ DI Kat Fairfield tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice but since Superintendent Denkhaus was standing with his back to her, pretending to enjoy the view from his office window, she briefly let her eyes go cross-eyed.