As he was passing through behind the shop on his way back upstairs, Nicholls popped his head out and said, ‘Oh, Bill, there you are. There’s a guy wants to see you about the Wilding case.’
‘Did he ask for me by name?’
‘Officer in charge. But I think he’s pukka. Looks like a cit.’
Slider sighed. ‘All right. Shove him in . . . what’s empty?’
‘This time o’ day? All of them. Have number two – no one’s thrown up in that since the weekend.’
‘Always grateful,’ Slider said.
He was not sure, when he first caught sight of the man, that Nicholls’ description was accurate. He looked more like a nutcase than a cit, though Slider had to confess that that was mostly because the man was wearing shorts, and he had a pathological suspicion of grown men who wore shorts in urban areas. He was tallish, scrawny, in his forties, with scanty hair and, as if to compensate, a large beard, above which an all-weather tan matched the brown of the sinewy legs exposed between shorts and sandals.
‘The name’s Eden,’ he said briskly, extending his hand towards Slider.
Slider never liked touching members of the public if he could help it, and used his own hand to gesture the man to a seat, avoiding the contact.
‘Detective Inspector Slider. What can I do for you, Mr Eden?’
‘They tell me you’re the person in charge of the case – the murder – that poor girl on Old Oak Common? I thought it was my duty to come forward, though I don’t know whether my information will be of any help or not.’
‘You have information about Zellah Wilding?’
‘Yes, if that’s her name. At least, I suppose it was her I saw. On Sunday night.’
‘Why didn’t you come forward before now?’ Slider asked sternly.
The man bridled. ‘I’ve been away for a few days. I went away early on Monday and I’ve only just got back.’
‘How come you didn’t hear about it? Don’t you watch television or read the newspapers?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, sounding annoyed, ‘I’ve been walking in the Lake District, camping out, and no, I don’t read the papers when I’m away. I like to commune with nature and get away from civilization. And I must say I don’t like your attitude. It’s only when I saw the police tape round the area and my neighbour told me what had happened that I heard about it, and I thought perhaps my information might be useful to you. But I can go away right now if you’re going to talk to me like that.’
‘Please tell me what you know, Mr Eden. Whether you think it’s important or not. You say you saw Zellah Wilding on Sunday?’
‘I tell you, I don’t know if it was her,’ he said, unmollified. ‘I was coming home late on Sunday night. I’d been to see a friend for supper, and we’d sat talking longer than I realized, and I only just got the last train. I walked home from East Acton Station – I live in Braybrook Street, on the corner of Wulfstan Street?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Well, I wasn’t really noticing anyone consciously, you understand, because I was thinking about my holiday, and thinking I’d better pack before I went to bed as I had to get up so early, and how I ought to set both alarm clocks, because I’m a sound sleeper, and I wasn’t going to get much sleep as it was because I was so late.’
‘Yes, I understand. Go on. What did you see?’
‘Well, when I turned into Braybrook Street there was a young girl sitting on the grass on the other side of the road, putting her shoes on. A girl in a very short skirt and one of those tops that leaves the middle bare.’
‘Did she have a pendant round her neck?’
He considered. ‘Yes, I think so. Some kind of ornament, some dangly thing. Anyway, she put her shoes on, then stood up, and just stood there, as if she was waiting for someone. She looked across at me as I came along, and I looked away – avoiding her eyes, you see, so I didn’t get a really good look at her. I took her for a prostitute, if you must know,’ he added, blushing again, ‘and I wanted to make sure she didn’t come over and bother me. Because they can be very nasty, especially if they’re drunk. Foul mouthed, you know. I don’t like bad language.’
‘Did she look drunk?’
‘I can’t really say. I didn’t stare at her. She looked the sort that might be drunk. Blonde hair, and those very high heels, and the skimpy clothes, like I said. Anyway, just then a car went past me, and she looked at it and started walking after it. It slowed down, and stopped under the railway bridge, and she went up to it.’
‘Did she run?’
‘No, just walked quite quickly, tottering on those heels, you know. When she reached it the door opened and she got in.’
‘Did you see who was in the car?’
‘Well, no. I wasn’t really looking, you see. I got the impression it was a man.’ He screwed up his face as if that would help memory. ‘In my mind it’s just a shape inside the car, but a bigger shape than if it was a woman. A tall man, probably. That’s all I can say.’
‘All right. So she got in the car, and it drove off?’
‘No,’ he said, sounding annoyed. ‘I didn’t say that. It didn’t drive off. She got in, and it just stayed there, under the bridge. It’s dark there, because there’s no street light nearby, so I thought it was another of those kerb crawlers. We had trouble that way a while back, people picking up prostitutes and doing it in their cars under the bridge. Disgusting! And leaving their condoms lying around afterwards for anyone to see! I complained to the police, if you want to know, and we had a patrol car come round at night for a couple of weeks and eventually they moved on, the girls did. That was back in the spring. It’s been all right since then. So I thought, hello, it’s starting up again. Which was why, when I went upstairs to my bedroom, I looked out of the window to see if the car was still there.’
‘And was it?’
‘Yes, it was. I was quite upset about it, I can tell you, thinking we were going to have all that trouble again, those foul-mouthed girls shouting things at you as you went past, making fun of you, throwing those things in the garden. One of them put one through my letter-box once, because I’d told her to clear off. Made me feel quite sick, having to deal with it. And once you’ve got them hanging around, the drug dealers come next, and your life isn’t worth living. So that’s why I was looking out from behind the curtain, with the light off, so they wouldn’t be able to see me. The car was still there, and as I watched, the door opened on the passenger side again and she got out – the same girl.’
He looked at Slider for encouragement.
‘Yes?’
‘And she sort of stumbled away from the car – trying to hurry, you know, over the grass, but in those heels – and she put her hands to her face, as if she was crying. Or she might just have been rubbing her eyes, of course, but given what happened later, maybe she was crying.’
‘What did happen later?’ Slider asked.
He stared. ‘Well, she was murdered, wasn’t she?’
‘You saw that?’
‘No!’ He was indignant. ‘You said she was murdered, not me.’
‘Please, just tell me what you saw,’ Slider said patiently.
‘Well, that’s all,’ Eden said reluctantly. ‘I stopped watching then. I mean, I wasn’t that interested. I didn’t know she was going to be murdered, did I? It wasn’t my fault.’
‘Of course not,’ Slider said soothingly. ‘Nobody said it was. You saw her get out of the car and run away—’
‘She didn’t run, really. Just sort of – hurried, but clumsily. Those heels . . .’