‘Not at the moment.’
The farewell handshake was being offered now. ‘If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to ask,’ Webber said, guiding Slider gently towards the door. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help catch the killer. For all his faults, David was a very loveable man, and a good doctor. I’m sad and dismayed at what has happened.’
A good doctor gone bad: that was the verdict. So Slider thought as he made his way out through the luxurious surroundings, which bore no resemblance to a hospital – well, they weren’t supposed to, were they? The wide front hall, with its reception desk and seating areas and floral arrangements, looked like the foyer of a very exclusive country hotel. A man in fine Arab robes was standing impassively in the middle of the floor. A thin, anxious man who was obviously his assistant or courier was talking to a receptionist at the desk while three of his wives sat resignedly on the reproduction Empire chairs and a chauffeur carried in amusingly copious luggage from the enormous Rolls Royce just outside.
Slider stepped round the sheik, who did not deign to notice he was in the way, and made his way back to his car, which was looking more of a carbuncle every minute. There was money to be made in medicine all right, and it was evident the Cloisterwood Hospital had found one way of doing it. David Rogers had presumably found another, but what was it? Cloisterwood was a washout. But there had to be something, some connection, with Stanmore. If the answer wasn’t here, he didn’t know where next to look for it. He got in his car, reaching the exit at the same time as an MPV which, surprisingly, stood back for him to go first – not what you expected of MPVs, especially when they were black S line Audi Q7s with blacked-out windows. Surely there should be another word for this kind of four-by-four, some title to suggest their sleek, powerful and threatening street presence. MPV was too school-run-mum. Must be the staff motor for the Arab gentleman, he thought. Or maybe transport for inferior wives. A man of that wealth would want the best even for the last car in his cavalcade. What it must be not to have to count the cost of anything, thought Slider, who had never in his life even flown business class, let alone first.
He had to stop for petrol, and took the opportunity to ring the factory to see if anything had happened. ‘Yes,’ said Atherton. ‘Something has. A bloke rang, says he’s a solicitor and he’s got something to tell about David Rogers. Seemed a bit cagey about it. Wants someone to go round.’
‘Tell him to come in,’ said Slider. ‘Where is he?’
‘Harrow.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m practically there,’ Slider said. ‘I suppose I could drop in on my way past.’
‘You sound glum. Webber no good?’
‘He was perfectly charming, but he says Rogers didn’t work for him and he hasn’t seen him or spoken to him for years. Disapproves of his womanizing.’
‘Brings the game into disrepute, eh?’ said Atherton. ‘So it’s another dead end?’
‘Took the words out of my mouth.’
‘Then you need a bit of cheering up. I was going to see the solicitor myself, but you have him, with my blessing.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Slider, with irony.
‘It may not be another dead red herring end,’ Atherton reasoned.
‘Likewise it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Give me the name and address.’
It was actually in Harrow Weald, and very easy to find: Slider turned off the A410 Uxbridge Road into the High Road, and there it was, on the left, opposite the bus depot, above a shop. It was very eye-catching, the London stock bricks having been cleaned of generations of soot so that it was the only upper storey in the terrace that was pale yellow instead of black. The name was painted on the window in large letters in black outlined in white, two words one above the other, curve and reverse curve so they made an open circle: MARICAS SOLICITOR. He wasn’t taking any chances on losing trade because someone couldn’t locate him.
Slider parked the car and walked back to the door, hospitably open, between a Chinese takeaway and a betting shop. Upstairs there were two offices, the reception office being the one with the painted window. Here a middle-aged woman wearing a heavy cardigan over her shoulders was typing so vigorously the empty sleeves swung and jiggled to the movement. She looked up with polite and friendly enquiry as Slider entered.
‘Mr Maricas? He’s expecting me. My name’s Slider.’
‘Oh, right.’ She came out from the desk and led Slider back down the passage to the closed door of the back room. She tapped and opened it. ‘Mr Slider for you,’ she announced.
The room couldn’t have been a greater contrast to Webber’s antique-furnished, thick-carpeted, gracious hidey hole. There was lino on the floor, a cheap, battered desk that looked as if it had been bought second-hand, some very incommodious office chairs, one with a large stain on the seat and the other with a cigarette hole, a table covered in box files and folders, and a plethora of filing cabinets, standing around awkwardly in every available space like people at a badly organized party given by someone they didn’t know very well. The window was smaller than the one at the front and so dirty that Slider could get no idea of what it looked over.
The man behind the desk stood up and shoved his hand out eagerly. ‘Henry Maricas,’ he said. Slider shook it – it would have been churlish not to – thinking this had been a bad day for someone who didn’t like touching members of the public. ‘Can I get you some coffee or something?’ Maricas offered with automatic hospitality.
‘Nothing, thanks. I’ve just had some tea.’
‘Oh. OK. Well, do sit down.’
Slider chose the seat with the hole in it – you never knew what that stain might be – and said, ‘You wanted to see me?’
Henry Maricas was younger than Slider had expected – probably in his thirties, but he looked even younger, because of his thin, eager face and the silky mouse-coloured hair worn a little too long, so that the forelock flopped schoolboyishly forward over his brow and had to be shoved back every now and then. His skin was transparently pale, so that you could almost see the blood running about under it, and his eyes, surprisingly, were very dark, almost black, and fringed with thick dark lashes. His suit looked rather worn and crumpled, and his long-fingered, knuckly hands looked grubby, but given the amount of dust lying around this room it was hardly surprising. When he had stood up, he had towered over Slider – a good six foot three, he thought – but he was too thin for his height, which added to the air of gawky youth. He was, indeed, so thin that Slider wondered if his business was not doing well enough to support him. But his accent was pure Eton-and-Oxford, and there was something about his manner which gave Slider the impression of one of a long line of legal beagles, a son who had gone into the family profession as a matter of course.
‘Well, not you specifically,’ Maricas said with an apologetic smile, ‘because I didn’t know you existed, so to speak, but someone from the case. The David Rogers case, I mean.’ And he glanced at the door as if to check that it was closed.
‘I am the investigating officer,’ Slider said, exuding calm. He felt absurdly fatherly already towards this nice young man. ‘I’d be happy to hear anything you have to say about David Rogers.’
Maricas nodded. ‘First I have to explain to you that I’ve been away – on holiday, in fact, skiing in Davos – my family always goes at this time of year. I only came back this morning, which was why I didn’t know anything about it – about Dr Rogers being dead. There’s only me and Maggie – my secretary –’ he nodded towards the other office – ‘and she didn’t know anything about my dealings with him so she didn’t alert me. It was only when I was looking through the papers today – she keeps them for me when I’m away, so I can check on anything that’s come up – that I saw the report that he’d been killed. Otherwise I’d have come forward right away.’ He frowned. ‘Or, I suppose I would. It’s hard to know what’s the right thing to do when it’s a case of murder. It was murder – I mean, there’s no doubt?’