‘Where do Londoners go to kill themselves?’ Slider asked.
‘The river,’ said Connolly.
‘Or the railway,’ Mackay added.
‘There’s plenty of railway right next to the murder site,’ McLaren pointed out.
‘And a dog returns to his vomit,’ Atherton said.
‘Must you?’ Hart complained, still bun in hand.
‘That’s a good point,’ Slider intervened. ‘If he doesn’t go home, he might go back to the scene of the crime, whether he did it or not. It was the last place she was alive.’
‘We’ve still got it taped off,’ Atherton pointed out.
‘Better alert the uniforms there to keep an eye out for him,’ Slider said. ‘Connolly, run down and do that, will you? Impress on them the importance of nabbing him if sighted. Is that everything covered? Can anyone think of anything else?’ No answer. ‘Right, then, let’s get organized. And meanwhile,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I’d better go and see Mr Porson about the extra expense.’
‘Not our fault, guv,’ Hart said smartly. ‘It was that organ, Organ, for letting him go. What a dipstick!’
‘Organ Organ?’ said McLaren eagerly. ‘That’s as bad as Michael Carmichael.’
Hart gave him her most exasperated huff. ‘You’re so slow, you should have your own time zone.’
Atherton appeared at the door to Slider’s office where he was toiling over the essential paperwork. ‘I was thinking it was time to go home.’
‘Hmm?’ Slider looked up vaguely. ‘So, go.’
‘But you’ve got my woman. I can’t have her back until you go home and release her.’
‘Point,’ said Slider.
‘I thought that if we went together, I could pick her up and drive her home. She was going to get a taxi, but . . .’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘And then I thought, how about picking up some fish and chips on the way? I’m certainly starving and you must be too.’
‘Fish and chips,’ Slider said. He imagined the smell – the crisp batter, the fragrant chips, the delicate hint of vinegar – and his stomach groaned audibly. ‘What a good idea.’
‘It was one of mine,’ Atherton said modestly. ‘Of course it’s good.’
Slider stretched crackingly. ‘I can do the rest of this tomorrow.’ He put his pen down, stood up, reached for his jacket, and the phone rang.
‘Leave it,’ Atherton urged. ‘You’re not here. If you’d been fifteen seconds nimbler on your feet you’d have been halfway down the corridor by now.’
‘It might be important,’ Slider said.
‘A ringing phone is like an unopened letter,’ Atherton said. ‘Leave it long enough and it doesn’t need answering.’
But Slider had already picked it up.
‘Bill! How’s life?’ It was Freddie.
‘You should ask someone who has one.’
‘I didn’t think you’d still be there.’
‘Then why did you phone me?’
‘Don’t be so literal. I’ve done your post.’
‘Oh,’ said Slider, and sat down. ‘It’s Freddie Cameron. He’s done the post,’ he said to Atherton.
‘Can’t it wait?’ Atherton complained from the depth of his day-long hunger.
‘Who’s that, Atherton?’ Freddie heard him. ‘I’d have thought he’d be down at the gym or something by now.’
‘Why the gym?’
‘Exercise. Healthy mind in a healthy body. I assume he’d pick one he has a chance at.’
‘Listen, insult him on your own time. I want to go home,’ Slider said. ‘Any surprises in the post?’
‘Not insofar as the murder’s concerned,’ Freddie said. ‘The cause of death was the strangulation all right, as I said at the time.’
‘I knew you’d be right. I have complete faith in you.’
Cameron expanded on the warm zephyr of regard. ‘Raised venous pressure, if you want a precise cause of death. Most lay people think the cause of death in strangulation is hypoxia, but in fact in a case like this—’
‘Freddie, it’s me.’
‘Oh, sorry. My long way round of telling you considerable force was used. The hyoid and cricoid were both fractured. Obstruction of the carotid arteries was severe enough to cause cerebral ischaemia, and there was bleeding into the neck muscles.’
‘And the ligature was, in fact, the ligature?’ Slider asked.
‘Yes, no doubt about that. It woz the tights wot done it. And there are no signs of any other injury, or of poisons, drugs or excess alcohol. You’re looking for a strangler all right.’ It was important to say this, because there had been a case not so long ago where the strangling had been faked to conceal a death by poison.
‘Right,’ said Slider. ‘Well, thank you. It’s as well to have that cleared up. You sent the tights off for testing?’
‘Yes, of course, and all her clothing, but don’t get your hopes up.’
‘My hopes don’t know which way up is. Any defensive injuries?’
‘I’m afraid not, and nothing under the fingernails. I think she must have grabbed at the ligature instead of trying to fight him off. Big mistake, of course,’ he added sadly. ‘I imagine the attacker was so much bigger and stronger than her that she was overwhelmed very quickly, and had little chance to resist.’
That rather ruled out Carmichael, then, Slider thought. He was neither tall nor heavy. Though he did have strong biker’s hands. Ronnie Oates was not tall or muscular, either, though he might have the proverbial strength of the madman. But Wilding was a big man in every dimension. Damn. He really didn’t want it to be Wilding. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just one thing – the reason I thought I ought to ring you tonight rather than waiting until tomorrow, in case the consideration changed anything.’
‘I was wondering.’
‘She was pregnant.’
‘Come again?’
‘You heard me.’
Slider stared at nothing. Oh, this was a whole new can of worms, kettle of fish, any receptacle you liked of any multiple zoological specimens you cared to name. ‘How long?’ he asked at last.
‘About eight weeks,’ Cameron said. ‘I’m sorry, Bill.’ He knew his friend would mind. It always made things worse when the victim was pregnant – two lives taken at one blow.
‘It’s all right,’ Slider said automatically. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘I sent a sample of foetal tissue off right away to the DNA lab for typing. Of course, it’s up to you whether you want to pay for the express service. I just sent it with the standard forms. I don’t know what stage your investigation is at . . .’
‘More suspects than you can shake a stick at,’ Slider said rather absently.
‘That bad, eh? But this might filter them out somewhat, perhaps?’ Slider didn’t answer, and he went on, ‘Well, I’ll love you and leave you. I’m off home to the memsahib. We ought to get together some time, you know. Have dinner, or what-not. When the rush is over.’
Slider pulled himself together. ‘If we wait that long we’ll both be dead. Let’s make it sooner rather than later.’
‘Right-o. Be in touch.’
And he was gone. Slider replaced the receiver and looked up at Atherton, who was straining at the leash with curiosity.
‘She was pregnant. Eight weeks pregnant.’
Atherton sighed with what appeared to be immense satisfaction. Strange how his reactions were so different, Slider thought; but then he had never had any children – or not that he knew about, as he always said when asked.
‘Now we’ve got a game,’ Atherton said. ‘That’s a whole new tin of sardines. DNA will out. You always said the problem with Carmichael was the lack of a motive. Now you’ve got one, hot and strong.’
‘But she’s only two months pregnant, and he hadn’t seen her for three months.’