straight ahead, narrow passage hooking round them, one room at the front, one at the back, and the back-addition scullery beyond. But it was all on a tiny scale, like a human doll’s house. The front room into which she led them was about nine feet square, so that the small sofa, two armchairs and television arranged round the miniature fireplace (blocked in and fitted with a gas fire) took up all the available space, and four people sitting in the four available places could have linked hands for a séance without leaving their seats.
The furniture was old and had been cheap to start with, as had the carpet; and there were no pictures or ornaments to soften the furnished-let look. One of the shallow chimney alcoves had been filled in with shelves, which were stacked not with books, but with videos. The only reading matter in sight was a heap of holiday brochures dropped on the floor at the end of the sofa. The other feature of the room that jumped to Slider’s attention was that though the television set was at least five years old, the video player under it was brand new.
Carol Ann Shotter sat down, nervously tugging at her skirt. She had good legs in sheer black tights, Atherton observed, but she was too old by ten years for a mini that short. Perhaps it was professional kit. Her stretchy cotton top emphasised her bust, and she was well made up for a woman at home on sick leave. But the purported flu was not in evidence. Not so much as a sniffle.
‘I understand you’re Eddie Cranston’s girlfriend,’ Slider opened, not making it a question.
‘I – well – yes, I suppose so,’ she said with less than a whole heart. ‘I mean—’
‘He lives here with you, does he?’ She hesitated, and Slider pushed her a little. ‘Well, does he or doesn’t he? You must know, surely?’
‘Well, he sort of does and he sort of doesn’t,’ she said. ‘He’s got his own place, but he stays here a lot.’
‘I see. He’s here now, is he?’
‘He’s upstairs in bed,’ she said. ‘He’s not well.’
‘Oh dear,’ Slider said, ‘not this awful summer flu? You’ve got it yourself, haven’t you? But no, wait, there’s been a miracle cure!’
She looked at him with dislike. Are you being funny?’
‘Your boss says you phoned in sick on Tuesday, and you’ve been off since. But here you are, bright as a button, not a soggy tissue in sight.’
She roused herself to fight back. ‘What right have you got to go round asking my boss about me? You want to lose me my job?’
‘Not at all,’ Slider said politely. ‘I just wondered if your absence from work could possibly have anything to do with Eddie’s little adventure on Monday night?’
‘Look,’ she said – the first word in the vocabulary of capitulation, ‘I don’t know what this is about, but Eddie’s not done anything.’
‘Then there’s no reason he shouldn’t talk to us, is there?’
‘He’s ill in bed.’
‘Oh come on, love,’ Atherton said. ‘Do we go up there, or do you get him down? It’s up to you.’
She sighed. ‘I’ll go up and tell him.’
‘Just call him down,’ Atherton amended.
One more burning look, and she stalked past him to the foot of the stairs and shouted, ‘Eddie! Come down here. Come on!’
There was a long pause and then the murmur of a voice from above. Atherton, from his angle, could see a pair of male feet in socks at the top of the stairs.
‘Who d’you think? It’s the police.’
Another murmur.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, get down here! I’m sick of this.’
After a hesitation, the feet began to descend, and slowly a pair of black tracksuit bottoms joined them, and then a blue teeshirt with some dark hair peeking out at the neck, and then the face and head of Eddie Cranston, visible at last. He had the dark, ripe good looks and thick, black, swept-back hair of a complete bastard, along with a narcissistic suntan and the obligatory gold jewellery, including a watch so vast and covered in knobs
The furniture was old and had been cheap to start with, as had the carpet; and there were no pictures or ornaments to soften the furnished-let look. One of the shallow chimney alcoves had been filled in with shelves, which were stacked not with books, but with videos. The only reading matter in sight was a heap of holiday brochures dropped on the floor at the end of the sofa. The other feature of the room that jumped to Slider’s attention was that though the television set was at least five years old, the video player under it was brand new.
Carol Ann Shotter sat down, nervously tugging at her skirt. She had good legs in sheer black tights, Atherton observed, but she was too old by ten years for a mini that short. Perhaps it was professional kit. Her stretchy cotton top emphasised her bust, and she was well made up for a woman at home on sick leave. But the purported flu was not in evidence. Not so much as a sniffle.
‘I understand you’re Eddie Cranston’s girlfriend,’ Slider opened, not making it a question.
‘I – well – yes, I suppose so,’ she said with less than a whole heart. ‘I mean—’
‘He lives here with you, does he?’ She hesitated, and Slider pushed her a little. ‘Well, does he or doesn’t he? You must know, surely?’
‘Well, he sort of does and he sort of doesn’t,’ she said. ‘He’s got his own place, but he stays here a lot.’
‘I see. He’s here now, is he?’
‘He’s upstairs in bed,’ she said. ‘He’s not well.’
‘Oh dear,’ Slider said, ‘not this awful summer flu? You’ve got it yourself, haven’t you? But no, wait, there’s been a miracle cure!’
She looked at him with dislike. Are you being funny?’
‘Your boss says you phoned in sick on Tuesday, and you’ve been off since. But here you are, bright as a button, not a soggy tissue in sight.’
She roused herself to fight back. ‘What right have you got to go round asking my boss about me? You want to lose me my job?’
‘Not at all,’ Slider said politely. ‘I just wondered if your absence from work could possibly have anything to do with Eddie’s little adventure on Monday night?’
‘Look,’ she said – the first word in the vocabulary of capitulation, ‘I don’t know what this is about, but Eddie’s not done anything.’
‘Then there’s no reason he shouldn’t talk to us, is there?’
‘He’s ill in bed.’
‘Oh come on, love,’ Atherton said. ‘Do we go up there, or do you get him down? It’s up to you.’
She sighed. ‘I’ll go up and tell him.’
‘Just call him down,’ Atherton amended.
One more burning look, and she stalked past him to the foot of the stairs and shouted, ‘Eddie! Come down here. Come on!’
There was a long pause and then the murmur of a voice from above. Atherton, from his angle, could see a pair of male feet in socks at the top of the stairs.
‘Who d’you think? It’s the police.’
Another murmur.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, get down here! I’m sick of this.’
After a hesitation, the feet began to descend, and slowly a pair of black tracksuit bottoms joined them, and then a blue teeshirt with some dark hair peeking out at the neck, and then the face and head of Eddie Cranston, visible at last. He had the dark, ripe good looks and thick, black, swept-back hair of a complete bastard, along with a narcissistic suntan and the obligatory gold jewellery, including a watch so vast and covered in knobs
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