‘Are you Sophy Cooper-Hutchinson?’
‘Good God, no!’ she said, as if it was out of the question. ‘She’s my little sister.’
‘You must be Abigail, then,’ Slider said, produced his brief, and introduced himself and Hart.
Abigail looked alarmed. ‘Oh God, what’s she done now? If she’s got into trouble my parents will kill me. But I don’t see how I’m supposed to control her,’ she complained, her pretty face turning sulky. ‘She never listens to me. I’ve got a life of my own, anyway. Why should I have to hang around taking care of her like a nanny? It’s not fair. What’s she done, anyway?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know,’ Slider said. ‘She isn’t in trouble. We just want to ask her a few questions.’
‘God, that sounds ominous! That’s what they say on the TV, and the next thing there’s a chase and a gun battle.’
‘Well, this is real life, and believe me, it’s nuffing like TV,’ Hart said. ‘Is that her upstairs? Can we go up, then?’
‘I suppose so,’ Abigail said with a shrug, stepping back and abandoning all responsibility.
The retriever had long exchanged barking for sniffing Slider’s trousers with every intention of becoming his lifelong companion, and it frisked beside him as he stepped in. He had that effect on dogs, Hart noted.
‘Second floor, on the left,’ Abigail said. ‘Follow the noise. She’s supposed to be doing her practice but I wouldn’t bet on that.’
Slider climbed the stairs with the dogs surging about him, perhaps in the hope that he could be persuaded to take them out for a walk. Hart followed. The music grew louder, until the banisters trembled. At a turn of the stairs, when Slider was facing her for a moment, he raised his eyebrow enquiringly and she said, ‘It’s Foxxy Roxx. Wiv two exes.’
‘Where?’
‘Everywhere. It’s metal.’
‘Heavy metal?’ he said, to show he knew what she was talking about.
‘No, it’s more like Glam Metal,’ Hart said. ‘Still a bit crusty for a kid, though.’
‘You think she ought to be listening to Perry Como?’
She looked blank for a beat, and then said helpfully, ‘There’s a band called Epic Coma, but they’re more Gothic.’
‘How do you know all this metal stuff?’
‘Me bruvvers grew out of reggae.’
On the second floor the door to the left was open. Through it the music pounded, and they could see a slim young girl dancing about. She was wearing a black leotard and pink footless tights and a grey sweatband round her head, but above it her short coal-black hair stood up in waxed spikes, and she wore heavy black make-up about the eyes and near-purple lipstick. There was a heap of clothes on the bed, and her dance, all in time to the music, involved picking up garments, taking them to a full-length cheval mirror to hold them up against herself, and rejecting them on to a pile on a chair. She moved very well, Slider thought, and had obviously trained in dance, but ballet practice this was not. The contrast between the girlish occupation and the savage music was slightly disturbing.
The room was a cornucopia of possessions, electronic goods, sports equipment, hobby paraphernalia – evidence of past fads requiring considerable financial investment, before interest waned and a newer, shinier preoccupation took over. There were outgrown toys, ornaments, souvenirs, and clothes not only on the bed and chair but bulging out of the wardrobe and hanging on the back of the door. William Whiteley opened a department store with less stock, Slider thought.
He banged on the door, but she didn’t hear him through the music, which was beginning to give him a neck ache. But the dogs had surged past him and attracted her attention, and then she caught sight of him in the mirror and whipped round so hard it was practically a fouetté en tournant. In a gesture of unexpected modesty she clutched the garment she was holding to her front, high up at the neck. Her lips moved to say who are you, but their sound could not compete with Foxxy Roxx.
Slider held up his badge while Hart beside him lifted her hands in a placating, we-won’t-harm-you gesture, and then pointed to the CD player that was pumping out the decibels. The girl went to it crabwise, keeping her eyes on the intruders, and a moment later a blissful silence fell, surprising the dogs so much that one of them barked involuntarily, and then looked embarrassed.
‘Sophy Cooper-Hutchinson?’ Slider said with comfortable formality. ‘I’m sorry if we startled you. Your sister let us in and told us to come up. I’m Detective Inspector Slider from Shepherd’s Bush police station, and this is Detective Constable Hart.’
‘But I haven’t done anything!’ she cried, dropping the dress she had been holding. She had a tattoo like a pattern of thorns growing up around her neck from under her leotard, unpleasantly violent-looking against her young skin. She saw Slider notice it and said impatiently, defensively, ‘It’s just a transfer. It washes off. I’ll take it off before my parents get back. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘Was that what you were doing with Zellah Sunday night – giving each other transfers?’ Hart said.
‘Oh, she’s so lame, she wouldn’t even do that, in case it wouldn’t all come off,’ she said contemptuously, and then with an instant change of tone and sentiment, ‘But it’s cool, she’s my mate, she can do what she likes. It’s a free country.’ Slider was still blinking at this volte-face when her face changed again. She scowled and demanded, ‘What is this? What do you want, anyway?’
‘So you haven’t heard about Zellah, then?’ Hart asked.
‘Heard what? What are you talking about?’
She was no more than averagely pretty, Slider thought, so perhaps her extreme make-up was her way of giving herself distinction; but under it he saw no fear or consciousness in her expression. She genuinely didn’t know – and was probably not interested to know, either, which was that generation’s least attractive feature.
‘When did you see her last?’ he asked.
‘See her last? Oh fuck, she’s not run away, has she?’
‘Just answer the question, please.’
‘Yeah, and can the language, babe,’ Hart added for him.
She looked wary now. ‘Well, she came over for a couple of days. Her mum and dad knew about it. She stayed Sunday night and last night and went home this morning.’
Slider shook his head. ‘Don’t you know it’s a very serious matter to lie to the police?’
‘I’m not lying,’ she said, her eyes flitting from Slider to Hart and back.
‘We know you are, love,’ Hart said, ‘so don’t make it worse for yourself. We know Zellah wasn’t here this morning. She was found dead yesterday.’
‘Dead?’ Sophy received the word with absolute blankness. ‘You’re joking.’
Hart winced on Slider’s behalf. ‘It’s nuffing to joke about, is it, girl? She was murdered. Somebody strangled her. Got it? Now are you going to sit down and answer our questions and try and help your mate, or d’you wanna get nicked for obstruction? It’s up to you.’
‘She can’t be dead,’ Sophy said, but she sat down on the bed, her demeanour compliant now. ‘She’s younger than me.’
A glance at Slider told Hart he wanted her to ask the questions, so she sat on the chair, pushing the clothes to one side, while he remained standing by the door. The poodle and whippet took the excuse to jump up on the bed, but the two bigger dogs remained on faithful-hound duty at Slider’s feet.
‘Never mind that,’ Hart said. ‘Just tell us about Zellah’s visit. We know what her mum and dad thought was happening, but what did you really plan on doing?’