Quite Ugly One Morning (10 page)

He toyed briefly with the idea of paying Darren to kill her too, but decided it was a non-starter. People were always paying to have their spouses bumped off, and they were always getting caught too, because the whole thing was so screamingly obvious. Stephen Lime, Darren Mortlake and Julie Marron were three points on a triangle no one was ever going to draw because there was no apparent connection between even two of them. Stephen Lime, Darren Mortlake and Tina Lime was a different story.

But the thought of employing specialist services led him to an idea that offered an equally effective but even more satisfying result.

He knew his wife was always screwing around on him, he knew she liked young, athletic, well-spoken (‘posh’) men; he even knew some of their names. He just couldn’t prove anything. So he decided he would pay someone to seduce her and tip him the wink as to when he could unexpectedly stumble upon them.

The ideal candidate turned out to be an SHO at St George’s, skint because of a recent divorce, divorced because he was fucking anything in a nurse’s uniform every night he was on-call. Stephen brought Tina along to a hospital ball and let nature take its course. The over-sexed little bastard insisted on getting to screw her undisturbed for a few days before Stephen was allowed to catch them at it, but what the hell, it was the result that mattered.

And besides, he also chucked in some highly illustrative Polaroids as an added bonus, which helped Lime slaughter her in the divorce without it even getting near a courtroom.

Parlabane was steaming around the kitchen, draped in a towel stolen from Le Pare Hotel in West Hollywood, having very recently emerged from a too-warm bath, his white bits pink from the heat. He was about to use his newly-purchased tin opener upon a newly-purchased tin of beans, which he planned to heat in his newly-purchased pot, when the doorbell rang.

He was still too damp to be able to throw some clothes on, so he pulled the front door slightly ajar and leaned his head around it.

Jenny Dalziel was standing there in the unexpectedly simple garb of blue jeans and a self-coloured green T-shirt, a blue denim jacket slung over her shoulder. He hated the word ‘strapping’ because it seemed to have rather uncomfortable S&M connotations, but there was little other way to describe her. Seeing her divested of her plain-clothes policewoman suits and leisure attire colour schemes that forced Parlabane to avert his eyes, he was able to appreciate Jenny’s athletic shape, but was slightly concerned that – as he was only wearing a towel – his appreciation might start to show.

‘I was in the neighbourhood,’ she said. ‘Wondered if you fancied coming out to play. And as I can see you’ve just washed your hair, it looks like you might be out of excuses.’

Parlabane ushered her into the kitchen and went off to his bedroom in search of another towel and an acceptably clean shirt.

‘What did you have in mind?’ he shouted through to her.

‘Just the usual. Drinks and scintillating conversation.’

‘You might have to just make do with the conversation part. I’m still waiting for a money transfer from my bank in LA, and my credit card is beginning to buckle under the strain.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I could stand you a couple of beers.’

‘It’d have to be a couple of tomato juices.’

‘Oh come on, you big poof. A few pints won’t hurt you.’

He returned to the kitchen in a pair of black jeans with a sharp fold across both thighs from suitcase imprisonment, and
a reddish tartan shirt that his Angelino friends had uniformly found quite horrifying.

Jenny was looking disapprovingly at the constituent parts of his planned evening repast. ‘OK. Looks like a change of plan might be called for here. Put on something less embarrassing and I’ll buy you a curry.’

‘So I see you let your suspect walk,’ said Parlabane between mouthfuls of pakora.

‘He wasn’t
my
suspect, but yes. Had to. Some smart-arse suggested we check the cornicing above the mantelpiece for hairs, and bugger me with a blowtorch if we didn’t find a couple. We make our man at least six-five, and he’s got brown hair with some truly appalling silver highlights. Suspect was about five-ten and his curly locks were jet black. He was missing the correct finger, though. We do pay attention to these little things. We’re not the East Midlands Serious Crime Squad.’

‘McGregor given up the burglary theory yet?’

‘Getting there fast. I think the needle and the potassium chloride made a big enough hole in his picture to force a change of heart. He’s not telling the media that, though. He reckons that the baddies will dig in deeper if they know we’ve worked out the real story. Unfortunately, as there’s nothing else to tell the press, our lengthening silence since letting the burglar go is bound to tip them off eventually.’

‘So no new leads? Still no witnesses?’

‘Don’t take the piss. Nobody pitched up at any of the local A&E departments missing a finger, either. So what about you? Did you speak to the other Dr Ponsonby?’

‘It’s Dr Slaughter,’ Parlabane corrected.

‘Patients must bloody love that.’

‘Yes, I’m sure the jokes are a daily source of amusement to her. Hearing the same shitey remark for the nine hundredth time must be like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.’

‘Yeah, well enough of that. What did you get, scoop? And no holding back. Remember who’s paying for your Chicken Jalfrezi.’

Parlabane washed down the last of his starter with a gulp of lemonade. Indian cooking hadn’t really caught on in LA – confused local connotations were an obstacle – and consequently this was the first curry he had embarked upon
in close to two years. His tastebuds were enjoying the hearty reacquaintance.

‘Well, the big story is that the late Dr P had a major, wide-screen, full-scale gambling problem,’ he said. ‘Chucking away two or three hundred a throw at the height of the fun.’

‘That what torpedoed the marriage?’

‘I’d mark it down as symptom rather than cause, although it certainly speeded up the dénouement. Working at that rate, he had them skint and owing in no time. Around the time of the big split, Daddy – Professor P – paid off the outstandings and arranged for himself to take a direct and large bite of young Jeremy’s monthly wage packet to settle the bill. Then they went their separate ways and Jeremy moved into the Maybury Square place, prop: Prof Ponsonby. The Prof also hits him for market-rate rent.’

‘But with the debts cleared, Jeremy’s gambling problem presumably disappeared overnight,’ Jenny said.

‘Oh yes, of course. Just like that. They always do.’

‘So did you see any bookies?’

‘Just two, both names Sarah gave me. There’s unlikely to be any more because you have to be a very regular customer before they’ll let you run up the kind of credit he did. Naturally, they were both a wee bit broken up about the bad news. I think they’ll be sending wreaths.’

‘Did he owe them a lot?’

‘Not a cent. But his custom was still valued and regular. Not quite laying out five hundred a time, but still plenty of fifties and single tons, and even the occasional couple of hundred. His luck had been marginally better of late, but they were both still making a handsome profit from him.’

‘But he really didn’t owe them when he died?’

‘Ah, that’s the interesting bit, Detective. He was laying down only cash bets. His choice, too. They’d have been only too willing to let him run up a tab, but he was sticking with paper. Now, it could be that he had learned his lesson about betting on the never-never, but nonetheless . . . cash doesn’t know where it came from, and cash can’t tell you where it’s been.’

‘Whatever are you insinuating?’ Jenny asked, dryly mock-innocent.

‘Well, I didn’t get a long look, and as I remember, things were not at their tidiest, but his flat wasn’t exactly threadbare. Looked like a new TV that the hatstand had disembowelled.’

‘Widescreen, NICAM digital stereo,’ Jenny confirmed. ‘As was the video. Tasty Linn Hi-Fi in the other corner too.’

‘Not bad for a guy who’s having his wages siphoned and is still throwing a lot of money after three-legged donkeys. He had a girlfriend on the go too. I wonder what he spent on her?’

Jenny nodded. ‘I interviewed her the other day.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Young, attractive, but a bit too good-as-gold and frilly-knickered for my taste, to be honest. She was very upset, but then I suppose her ticket to Morningside had just got cancelled.’

‘That’s most sympathetic of you, Jenny.’

‘Oh well, for fuck’s sake. It’s so pathetic. Have you any idea how many guys end up with that kind of woman? They want some weedy bimbette who’ll look up to them because their little dicks go limp at the thought of a relationship with an intellectual equal.’

‘Jesus, I should introduce you to Sarah. You’d both have lots to talk about.’

Jenny shook her head and waved dismissively, as if clearing distractingly angry thoughts from her mind.

‘Well anyway, she didn’t mention anything about bookies, horses or gambling. But she didn’t say he was rooked either. Plenty of dinners out at impressively pricey restaurants.’

‘But did she say whether he was acting weird, had something on his mind?’

‘I’m sorry to put it this way Jack, but my impression was that she was too fucking dippy to notice. Well, possibly that’s unfair, but I certainly didn’t get the idea that it was a very deep and involved relationship. If he had a problem, she’d have been the last person in the world he’d have let on to about it.’

Parlabane nodded. ‘But either way,’ he said, ‘no evidence from any quarter that the good doctor was enduring an ascetic existence. I’d love to see the bastard’s bank statements. There’s just no way this guy was clearing enough – after Daddy and the taxman got their slices – to cover what he’s been spending. My guess is Jeremy was being paid – in cash – for rendering discreet and very probably illegal services. The questions are what and for who.’

Jenny stared intently, not so much at him as through him,
her mind, like her eyes, looking beyond what was directly in front of her.

‘We didn’t find any cash in the house, Jack. Is your friend Dr Slaughter working at the hospital tonight?’

‘No, she was on last night. Why?’

‘There’s a phone at the back. Why don’t you call and ask her if she’d like to join us on a treasure hunt?’

Sarah stood in the centre of the living room, running a hand through her hair as she looked about her surroundings. Parlabane and Jenny stood back expectantly. Explanations had been brief, introductions barely necessary.

They had shifted the remaining furniture back and forth to expose different floorboards, looking for tell-tale signs of recent and regular lifting, but the only promising marks had been above where a leaking pipe join had been re-soldered. Parlabane had taken some ladders and a torch and checked out the elevated water tank cupboard, but had drawn another blank. Jenny’s examination of the cistern and removal of the cover down the side of the bath had proved equally fruitless.

‘You know, it is possible that the killer made off with it,’ said Jenny. ‘That could have been part of the job.’

‘Would you tell a contract hitman that there was an unquantified amount of cash – probably in used bills – hidden somewhere in the flat and expect him to recover it for you?’ Parlabane asked witheringly. ‘“Yeah, sorry, man,”’
he mimicked, ‘“there was only a fiver left, honest. Here it is. He must have spent the rest.”’

‘He could still just have happened upon it. He demolished enough possible hiding places.’

‘Well, let’s wait until we’ve definitely struck out before entertaining that helpful idea. Looking for a needle in a haystack is a frustrating task, but the sense of existential angst brought by the possibility that the needle has already been removed doesn’t exactly make it a hell of a lot more fun.’

‘I think we need to think about who he was hiding it from,’ said Sarah, demonstrating why she had been asked along. ‘Would it just be from sight, in case his girlie or his parents stumbled upon it in a visit? Or would he want it somewhere that, say, a burglar wouldn’t think to look, whether or not the burglar knew there was money to be had? Jeremy was very
systematic and liked to anticipate all eventualities. See, he’s not going to hide it inside something that someone might think worth stealing, for instance. He’d put it inside something you wouldn’t look twice at.’

‘He’d also want it somewhere easily accessible, as he would have been dipping into it regularly to pay for those bets,’ Parlabane offered.

‘The kitchen,’ Sarah said, and walked towards it. ‘Apart from the bathroom, which we’ve done, it’s the last place a burglar would expect to find something valuable.’

‘It was also the only place left undisturbed,’ Jenny said, following.

Sarah threw open all the cupboard doors and stood back, looking at what was inside them.

‘Pots,’ she said, then began pulling them out and removing their lids. Parlabane checked inside an old kettle that had been perched on top of the units, huffily looking down on the more modem model that had usurped its position. Empty.

Sarah knelt down before the cupboard under the sink and removed a bag of rags and wash-cloths, fumbling around inside then dumping it, dismissed, on the floor beside her. She sighed and looked back inside, peeking under the lid of a shoe box that contained some bristle-bare brushes and near-empty tins of Cherry Blossom. Then Parlabane was pleased to notice her brow furrow, and quickly realised what was wrong.

There were two big metal tins of Ariel Ultra sitting one in front of the other on a shelf, and a plastic refill pack beside them.

You didn’t buy a second metal tin of something that also came in plastic refill packs.

Sarah pulled out the back-most tin and opened it up, but it was full to the top of blue-speckled white powder. She grabbed the other one and lifted the lid, but that one was merely half-f of what it was supposed to contain.

‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘I just thought . . .’

‘Hang on,’ said Parlabane, who had dealt with a lot more devious bastards than Sarah ever had to, not least himself, and squatting down, plunged his hand into the fuller tin.

He grinned and looked up.

‘So how much are you prepared to pay for me
not
to make a joke about him laundering his money?’