Acton.’
‘Why did she leave there?’
‘She said she got fed up with the buses, wanted to work nearer home. She only lives in Abdale Road. She wasn’t in any trouble,’
he assured them earnestly. ‘This is a respectable house. We don’t have any trouble here, and we don’t take on dodgy staff. All my staff are very good people. Can’t afford otherwise. We get a nice class of customer in here – lots of money. They wouldn’t come in if we had riff-raff behind the bar.’
‘So it sounds as if the Eddie – Carol Ann romance might be a recent thing,’ Atherton said. ‘If Sonny Collins hadn’t heardabout it, and she’s only been working locally for a few months—’
‘Maybe. And if she’s a fully employed barmaid she isn’t one of his benefit babes,’ Slider said.
‘No wonder Karen Peacock got all uppity about her. Nothing like real superiority to get under a person’s skin.’
‘It wasn’t very superior of her to phone Karen Peacock up just to boast.’
‘She probably didn’t. I don’t gather that Karen is very bright. I expect she phoned with a message from Eddie about his alibi and Karen heard what she expected to.’
‘You can be quite psychological when you try, can’t you?’ Slider said.
The house in Abdale Road to which they had been directed was not one of the done-up-regardless ones. It was not a slum by any means, but it had the tell-tale marks of a rented rather than an owned property – the cheap paint job, the cracked concrete in the front patch, the chipped coping of the garden wall and the missing gate, the gay tussock of grass growing in the roof gutter. Landlord was written all over it. It had heavy but clean nets in the downstairs window, and the upstairs window had its curtains drawn.
‘House of sickness,’ Atherton observed. ‘Is she in bed, or has Eddie gone to ground up there? Or both?’
‘Why do you always ask rhetorical questions?’
‘Do you think we need back-up?’
‘Let’s hold our horses. We’re just asking questions at this stage. We don’t even know he’s in there. She might really have the flu.’
‘A flu that conveniently started on Tuesday morning. Suppose he panics and runs out the back?’
‘He can’t get anywhere. All the gardens back onto one another. He’d have to scramble through every garden right down the row and then shin over a ten-foot wall at the end. I think we’d hear him.’
‘I love your confidence.’
‘It’s not mine. I’m looking after it for a friend. Look, if she’s his alibi, he’s not going to run away, is he? If his story is he never done nuffing and she can prove it, he wants to be found in her house, doesn’t he?’
‘It’s a lot of “ifs”.’
‘Just knock on the door.’
Atherton still didn’t really expect the knock to be answered. He expected the upstairs curtain to twitch, followed by a muffled sound of feet running down the stairs and a rattle of the back door being opened. But after quite a short pause the door opened and a woman stood there with the half enquiring, half suspicious look any normal person wears in the circumstances.
‘Miss Shotter?’ Slider asked, showing his brief. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Slider and this is Detective Sergeant Atherton. Would you mind if we had a little talk with you?’
Carol Ann Shotter was in her late twenties or early thirties. She was a dyed blonde with a good figure, and her face missed being attractive by such mere millimetres that at a quick glance or in a poor light she’d have passed as a bit of a sort. There was a tension about her as her eyes moved quickly from one face to the other, but it was more a readiness for action than fear or guilt. She seemed not nervous, but watchful, expectant.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked, inevitably.
Slider smiled. ‘Just a few questions. I’d rather not ask them on the doorstep, if you don’t mind. Can we come in?’
She yielded. The house was laid out in classic London Dogleg – stairs
‘Why did she leave there?’
‘She said she got fed up with the buses, wanted to work nearer home. She only lives in Abdale Road. She wasn’t in any trouble,’
he assured them earnestly. ‘This is a respectable house. We don’t have any trouble here, and we don’t take on dodgy staff. All my staff are very good people. Can’t afford otherwise. We get a nice class of customer in here – lots of money. They wouldn’t come in if we had riff-raff behind the bar.’
‘So it sounds as if the Eddie – Carol Ann romance might be a recent thing,’ Atherton said. ‘If Sonny Collins hadn’t heardabout it, and she’s only been working locally for a few months—’
‘Maybe. And if she’s a fully employed barmaid she isn’t one of his benefit babes,’ Slider said.
‘No wonder Karen Peacock got all uppity about her. Nothing like real superiority to get under a person’s skin.’
‘It wasn’t very superior of her to phone Karen Peacock up just to boast.’
‘She probably didn’t. I don’t gather that Karen is very bright. I expect she phoned with a message from Eddie about his alibi and Karen heard what she expected to.’
‘You can be quite psychological when you try, can’t you?’ Slider said.
The house in Abdale Road to which they had been directed was not one of the done-up-regardless ones. It was not a slum by any means, but it had the tell-tale marks of a rented rather than an owned property – the cheap paint job, the cracked concrete in the front patch, the chipped coping of the garden wall and the missing gate, the gay tussock of grass growing in the roof gutter. Landlord was written all over it. It had heavy but clean nets in the downstairs window, and the upstairs window had its curtains drawn.
‘House of sickness,’ Atherton observed. ‘Is she in bed, or has Eddie gone to ground up there? Or both?’
‘Why do you always ask rhetorical questions?’
‘Do you think we need back-up?’
‘Let’s hold our horses. We’re just asking questions at this stage. We don’t even know he’s in there. She might really have the flu.’
‘A flu that conveniently started on Tuesday morning. Suppose he panics and runs out the back?’
‘He can’t get anywhere. All the gardens back onto one another. He’d have to scramble through every garden right down the row and then shin over a ten-foot wall at the end. I think we’d hear him.’
‘I love your confidence.’
‘It’s not mine. I’m looking after it for a friend. Look, if she’s his alibi, he’s not going to run away, is he? If his story is he never done nuffing and she can prove it, he wants to be found in her house, doesn’t he?’
‘It’s a lot of “ifs”.’
‘Just knock on the door.’
Atherton still didn’t really expect the knock to be answered. He expected the upstairs curtain to twitch, followed by a muffled sound of feet running down the stairs and a rattle of the back door being opened. But after quite a short pause the door opened and a woman stood there with the half enquiring, half suspicious look any normal person wears in the circumstances.
‘Miss Shotter?’ Slider asked, showing his brief. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Slider and this is Detective Sergeant Atherton. Would you mind if we had a little talk with you?’
Carol Ann Shotter was in her late twenties or early thirties. She was a dyed blonde with a good figure, and her face missed being attractive by such mere millimetres that at a quick glance or in a poor light she’d have passed as a bit of a sort. There was a tension about her as her eyes moved quickly from one face to the other, but it was more a readiness for action than fear or guilt. She seemed not nervous, but watchful, expectant.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked, inevitably.
Slider smiled. ‘Just a few questions. I’d rather not ask them on the doorstep, if you don’t mind. Can we come in?’
She yielded. The house was laid out in classic London Dogleg – stairs
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