Gone Tomorrow (26 page)

‘You talk such unreconstructed cobblers sometimes,’ Slider said. ‘It’s quite refreshing.’

On pressing the bell and announcing their business, they had the gate opened for them by some unseen remote hand. The front door did the same ghostly gape just as they reached it, snapping to behind them with a heavy clunk of dropping tumblers, leaving them in a small vestibule. Before them glazed doors gave a view of a beautiful hall of black-and-white marble tiles, pillars, gigantic chandelier, and a splendid staircase. A man was approaching them through the hall, and opened the glazed doors with a slight bow of the head. He was dressed immaculately in a butler’s jacket, but he had a security guard’s eyes, and there was something definitely un-Gordon Jackson about his build. Hudson over a lifetime of cleaning cutlery never lifted
as much metal as this man must have had to, to achieve that boulder-in-a-bag look.

‘Mr Bates is expecting you,’ he said, and gestured for them to follow him across the hall. All three of them were wearing rubber soles – probably for the same professional reasons – and in the absence of their footfalls Slider could hear through the white silence of air conditioning the very faint whine of a security camera tracking them. Rich man’s toys? But a house like this must be something of a target to burglars. And there were one or two fine pieces of furniture in the hall and old paintings on the staircase wall.

They climbed in Indian file on the crimson carpet which ran up the centre of the staircase. On the first floor the man opened a door and admitted them to a room which was rather surprising in its modernity. The floor was of bare, shining pale wood, the walls distempered white – the better, Slider supposed, to show off the modern paintings hung all around in plain polished steel frames. He didn’t know anything about modern art, but he could see they were originals and therefore, presumably, valuable. A modern settee covered in scarlet cloth was against one wall, a spiky halogen standard lamp angled over it like a predatory bird. A massive glass coffee table stood before it, and on the other side were two leather-and-steel chairs so determinedly modern it was impossible to think of anyone sitting in them. They looked more like hide-covered Zulu shields bent in the middle.

The windows were completely covered in a thin white material which let in light but kept out the sun (for the sake of the paintings, perhaps?); not in the form of blinds but actually stretched taut and fixed somehow to the window frames themselves, so they were obviously a permanent fixture. It was not unattractive, though Slider thought it claustrophobic; but this was not the sort of room one would linger in anyhow. In the bay of the window was a desk of blonde wood, with a computer terminal standing on it, and the rest of the room was bare but for two enormous parlour palms in brushed-steel pots. The empty space, the blonde wood and the sunken halogen ceiling lights all made it look like a modern art dealer’s gallery, and Slider wondered briefly if that was how Mr Trevor Bates made his money.

It was a room for having meetings in, that was all. Or perhaps
it was an observation cell? There was no large suspicious mirror, but there were security cameras: three, small and discreet, tucked into the angle between the wall and the ceiling and covering the whole room; and Slider wouldn’t have given a tenpenny piece for the chance that there weren’t hidden microphones too. He drew Atherton’s attention to the cameras with a flick of his eyes, and he nodded slightly. Neither of them was tempted to speak or move around. They stood where they had been left, looking at the pictures; and a few moments later the door opened again and a man came in.

Atherton could tell immediately from the suit that it must be Trevor Bates. He was not above medium height, but carried himself very upright. His body was well muscled but not out of proportion: the sort of figure a tailor would enjoy making for. His face was lean and firm, with a good straight nose, strong chin and prominent cheekbones, a face remarkable enough to have been called good-looking, though it was not conventionally handsome. His skin was pale and curiously clear, stretched lucently over those good bones like an advertisement for inner cleanliness, and decorated with one or two small freckles.

His suit – everything about his dress – was expensive, smart and conventional. The only unusual thing about him was his hair, which was a vigorous, dark red, brushed straight back from his face, and grown – thick, glossy and neatly trimmed – to shoulder length. The effect was startling, and probably it was done deliberately to put the opposition at a disadvantage: it was not what any chief executive would expect to have come walking in at his office door.

‘Gentlemen,’ Bates said, pausing inside the door and surveying them. Posing so they could look at him? Slider wondered. ‘I am Trevor Bates. What can I do for you?’

He walked past them and stopped again, turning to face them so he was now cut out against the diffused light from the window. Good entrance, Slider thought. Definitely theatrical. Bates had what horsemen call ‘presence’, that indefinable quality that commands your attention and makes you keep looking. And indeed there was something horselike to Slider, the countryman, about that fleshless, clean-cut head and the thick backswept mane of hair. But there was nothing horselike about his eyes: grey, hard and intelligent, a businessman’s eyes.

Slider introduced himself and Atherton. Bates nodded but did not ask them to sit down. ‘I shan’t take much of your time,’
Slider said. ‘I’m sure you must be a very busy man.’ He moved his gaze round the room. ‘Wonderful paintings. Is this your line of business – fine art?’

‘I collect paintings. Sometimes I sell them.’ He had a strong and vibrant voice like an actor’s, and a neutral accent which told nothing about where he came from; but he spoke very precisely, as though he had often to talk to people whose English was not their first language. ‘Call it investment rather than business. Investment and a hobby.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Slider said. ‘You obviously know how to keep them and display them, so I wondered. What is your line of business, sir, if I may ask?’

Bates made a tiny movement of impatience, which Slider knew he was meant to see. ‘Property, mostly. You had something you wanted to ask me?’

‘Yes, sir. The name and address of your driver, if you’d be so kind.’

‘My—?’ Bates looked astonished, his eyebrows making perfect arcs above his eyes; but the eyes themselves were unmoved.

Atherton took over the tale. ‘When you went to visit your tailor yesterday morning, the man who was driving your car was wearing a particular leather jacket, and we’re rather anxious to ask him where he got it.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting he stole it?’ Bates said. ‘I trust my driver implicitly.’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Atherton said. ‘It’s just that it is very like the jacket worn by the victim in a case we are investigating, and we hoped that if we could trace the jacket to its source we might find out something more about the victim.’

‘Victim? Do you mean he’s dead? It’s a murder case you’re talking about?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Slider said. Bates waited with still eyes and Slider supplied the data silently requested. ‘Lenny Baxter was the man’s name.’

‘Oh, yes, I saw something on television about it.’

‘Did you know him, sir?’ Slider asked.

‘No, I’ve never met him,’ Bates said with calm indifference.

‘I recognise
you,
though, now I come to study you.’ He looked at Slider thoughtfully for a moment and then said, ‘Well, I doubt whether the information you want about the jacket will help you. You see, I gave that particular item of clothing to my driver.’

‘Did you, sir?’

‘Yes, I bought it for myself in a rash moment, but when I got it home I knew it wasn’t really me. I very rarely dress casually – I prefer a suit, whatever I’m doing. So I gave it to Thomas.’

‘When would that be, sir?’

‘About two months ago, perhaps. Does it matter?’

‘It may do. Where did you buy the jacket?’

‘In the States. I can’t remember where exactly.’

‘Could you please try?’

‘It was somewhere in Boston. A small shop in a side street. I had some time to kill between meetings and wandered in just to amuse myself. I bought the jacket on a whim, almost instantly regretted. I took it home with me but never wore it.’

‘Why
did
you buy it?’ Atherton put in, with an air of frank, clothesman to clothesman enquiry.

Bates frowned just slightly, as though the question were an impertinence, and then said, ‘I liked the smell. There’s something about new leather, don’t you think?’

‘It’s the best reason for buying a new car,’ Atherton said.

Bates smiled, but did not thaw. ‘Quite. Well, gentlemen, if that’s all?’

‘Almost all,’ Slider said apologetically. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have the receipt, I suppose?’

‘I’m sure not. Why?’

‘So that we can trace the shop or perhaps the maker. It seems a coincidence that our victim was wearing a jacket just like it—’

‘Hardly,’ Bates said shortly. ‘These things are mass produced, after all.’

‘But not in this country. And we have been given to understand that this jacket was not made for export.’

‘Even if you’re right about that – which, frankly I doubt,’ Bates said impatiently, America is not exactly inaccessible, is it? Your man probably went there on holiday like thousands of others.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Slider said. ‘It’s just that we have to
check all possible avenues. I’m sorry if it seems pointless to you, but there it is. We have to be thorough.’

Bates gave a perfunctory smile. ‘Of course you do. It’s your job.’

‘Can you remember the name of the shop? Or even the street?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well, if it should come back to you, perhaps you’d let us know. And if you could just give us the name and address of your driver – Thomas, you said his name was?’

‘No, I don’t think I can do that. I have a duty to protect my employees—’

‘From helping the police?’

‘From needless annoyance. I’ve already told you that I gave the jacket to Thomas. He knows nothing more about it than that.’

‘He may have known the victim, Lenny Baxter.’

‘Why on earth should he?’ Bates said impatiently. ‘That’s a nonsensical thing to say. Like suggesting that all the people who wear Marks and Spencer shirts must know one another.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Slider said steadily, ‘we would like just to speak to him. I’m sure you can have no reason to want to prevent that?’

The still grey eyes met his for a moment, and then he seemed to shrug faintly. ‘Of course, if you insist. His name is Thomas Mark, and he lives in my staff quarters here.’

‘May I see him now?’

‘He is not in the house at present,’ Bates said. ‘He is out on business for me. However, if you really feel you need to see him, I can send him down to the police station when he returns.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Slider said.

‘And now, if you will excuse me,’ Bates continued, stretching out his arm in an ushering gesture, ‘I am a very busy man, and there is obviously nothing more I can do to help you.’

At the door Slider said, ‘If you should find the receipt, sir, or remember the name of the shop—’

‘Yes, I’ll telephone you.’

Bates opened the door, and the butler type was standing outside, waiting to see them out. How had they arranged that? Slider wondered. Perhaps he had been watching the meeting on camera somewhere nearby.

When they were outside in the street and away from electronic eyes, Atherton turned to him and said, ‘Phew! Sent away with a flea in our collective ear.’

‘No use in being a high-powered businessman if you can’t face down a couple of coppers.’

‘Well, the jacket seems to be a dead end,’ Atherton said. ‘Another dead end, I should say, in a Hampton Court Maze of them.’

‘What did you think of him?’

‘Mr Bates? Bit of a poser. But sharp. Well, he must be to have done so well for himself, considering there was a time in his life when he must have been called Master Bates.’

‘Yes, a handicap for any child. He had a lot of security equipment.’

‘So does every house in that bracket.’

‘And a security guard for a butler.’

‘Better he takes care of himself than gets burgled or done over and wastes our time.’

‘True again. Still, I confess to just a teensy touch of curiosity about Mr Bates. You go on back to the factory. I’m going to see a bloke I know in the property world.’

‘It’s no use setting your heart on that house,’ Atherton advised. ‘You’ll only be disappointed.’

Ben Tarrant was tall, good-looking, in his early thirties, and an estate agent, but still Slider liked him. He gave Slider an excellent cup of coffee, leaned back comfortably in his swivel chair and said, ‘Oh, the Aubrey Walk house? Yes, I know it well. I didn’t sell it myself, more’s the pity, but I had a look at it for another client of mine. We were outbid, though. Quite handsomely. It’s a very nice property. Eight bedrooms, all
en suite,
plus staff bedrooms on the top floor. Four recep, not counting the entrance hall – including a thirty-foot drawing room –
and a swimming pool and gymnasium in the basement.’

‘So Mr Bates has plenty of money?’

‘Oh, yes. He undertook extensive renovations, and put in all the latest security electronics. Heavy stuff.’

‘I saw some of them. Why so particular?’

Tarrant shrugged. ‘He’s a rich man, which makes him a target. And I think it’s rather a thing with him, anyway.’

‘Privacy?’

‘Yes, that, but also the gadget side of it. Boys’ toys, you know? You often find your wealthy bachelor goes in for that sort of thing.’ He laughed. ‘I’m a bit of a hi-fi fanatic myself.’

‘So Bates is unmarried?’

‘As far as I know. Mind, this is all hearsay – I don’t know the man personally. But for a mega-rich guy, his name has never been linked with any famous woman, as far as I know. I mean, he doesn’t turn up at gala openings with a Liz Hurley on his arm, as you’d expect.’