Game Over (13 page)

‘The missing file?’

‘Possibly. But that could be another red herring. His ex-lady friend was going out with Freddie Bell—’

That caught his attention. ‘Tasty!’

‘But we think she was still seeing Stonax.’

Porson got the point at once. ‘Oh, Freddie Bell would love that.’

‘Question is, would he be devoted to her enough to hit his rival?’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to find out. We’ll let them think we’ve bought the story, anyway, hold on to Borthwick as long as we can. I want to give you time to look into every asset of Stonax’s life.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Slider was at the door when Porson said quietly, ‘What about the other business?’

‘Sir?’

‘You had a little outing yesterday.’ Slider turned back reluctantly. The old man always knew everything. ‘Any luck?’

‘No, sir.’

Porson seemed to sigh. ‘I can’t expect you to take it lying down, like a sitting duck. You’re a tethered goat, and Headquarters’ve got no right to make you a sacrificial lamb, in my book. But bigger things are at stake here than either you or I know about. We’ve been pacifically told not to investigate, and if you pee on some SO’s carpet, they’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks. I won’t be flavour of the month either,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. Like a good general, he thought about his troops first.

‘Whatever I did, it was without your permission, sir, and behind your back. You didn’t know anything about it.’

‘Didn’t know anything about what?’ Porson barked.

‘Yes, sir.’ He paused to see if anything else was coming, and headed for the door again.

This time, Porson said very quietly, but with feeling, ‘For God’s sake be careful. This bastard’s dangerous. You’re not in the Job to get your head blown off.’

To which no reply was needed.

Dave Borthwick looked as though he hadn’t slept. His face was both puffy and drawn. His hair, too long, thinning on the top, hung down in limp and greasy strands, and he smelled of sweat both old and new, as though he hadn’t changed his clothes in a couple of days. He had a full beard and a gold earring in the right earlobe, but neither feature managed to give him a buccaneer air. He was a big man, heavily built, both in the manner of muscles gone to seed and too much indulgence in fast food, pub snacks and beer. His sheer size and weight would give him the edge in a fight, but he didn’t look like a man who had much to do with edges in any aspect of his life. There was about him, to the experienced copper’s eye, the look of a whiner, the kind of small-time crook who thought the world owed him a living, and that it wasn’t coming up to scratch.

Slider felt that whoever had chosen Borthwick as accomplice had got the wrong man. This was not a hero ready to throw himself on the grenade. Atherton described him as thixotropic: turns to jelly when agitated. But Slider supposed they hadn’t had any choice.

He went in to the interview almost with relish. ‘Well, Dave – d’you mind if I call you Dave?’ He didn’t give Borthwick a chance to answer. ‘This is a bit of a turn up, isn’t it? You’re in a lot of trouble, you know. A lot of trouble.’

Borthwick’s eyes flitted about like moths round a table lamp. ‘I never done nothing. You got nothing on me.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Slider said dismissively. ‘We’ve got everything on you. In case you hadn’t noticed, one of your tenants got murdered yesterday.’

Panic and self-righteousness competed for control of Borthwick’s features. ‘Bloody ’ell, what’s goin’ on?’ he cried in what sounded like genuine pain. ‘Just because some geezer gets offed! Whajjer come down on me for? I never even knew the bloke. All the people ’at live in that house, and just because I got a bit o’ form . . . You lot are all the same. I been clean for four soddin’ years, but you lot can’t ever give a bloke a fuckin’ break. I never done
nothing
! What . . . what . . .?’

Slider intervened before he exploded. ‘Shut up, Dave,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘To save you wasting your breath, I feel I should tell you that a man in motorbike leathers and a helmet with a dark visor was seen leaving the house just about the time of the murder, and we’ve found leathers and helmet in your place that match the description. Also there were marks and smears of oil on the victim’s clothing where his pockets were searched. Now, in case you don’t know it, the oil in a motor quickly picks up impurities – dirt, soot, tiny specks of swarf – and the pattern of those impurities is unique to that machine. It’s like DNA for motorbikes, if you like. You know what DNA is, don’t you? It stands for Do Not Argue, because there’s no getting away from it. It’s the ultimate proof. And would it surprise you very much to learn that the oil from the victim’s clothing matches the oil from your bike?’ He hadn’t had the report back yet, of course, so he couldn’t say that it
did
match, but linguistic subtlety would be lost on Borthwick anyway.

Borthwick had lost his voice at last. He simply stared, appalled, his mouth open. Slider almost wished he would put up more of a fight. This was like taking sweeties from babies.

Slider went on, ‘Not only that, Dave, but while we were looking round your flat we found the money. Five hundred pounds in used notes under your mattress, and another thousand in a drawer in your kitchen. The drawer also contains,’ he added in deep pity, ‘the victims’ watch.’

It took time for this to filter through Borthwick’s mental rigidity. ‘The victim’s—?’ he said. ‘That watch was—?’ Slider nodded. ‘Bastards!’ Borthwick yelled suddenly. He heaved in his chair, and Atherton, standing behind Slider, took a step and said menacingly, ‘Sit down!’

Borthwick subsided but he had found his tongue. ‘I never did it, I swear on my mum’s grave! I never knew the bloke! Never even been
in
his flat. Some of ’em – that old Koontz bitch next door – there’s always something wrong. Mend this, fix that. Like I’m a bloody ’eaven slave. Called me up there to change a light bulb last week. I mean, what am I? I don’t get paid to run up and down after the likes of ’er!’ He recollected the specific from the general complaint that was threatening to carry him away. ‘But that Stonax bloke, he’s never once asked for anything, so I’ve never been up there, never. Never set foot in there.’

‘Funny you should say that,’ Slider said. ‘About the foot. It’s the one thing in your favour.’

‘What the
fuck
are you talking about?’ Borthwick cried in desperate bewilderment.

‘You’ve been set up, Dave, is what I’m talking about.’ He watched this sink in. ‘They want you to take the rap for them. And it’s not just any old rap, it’s murder in the course of a robbery, which is life, automatic. Am I getting through to you, Dave old pal? Even with remission you’ll be an old, old man by the time you get out. If you get out at all. You might die in there. Not nice places, gaols, you know.’

Borthwick was trying to think now, which was painful to watch, like a dog walking on its hind legs. ‘But – you
can’t
,’ he stumbled, ‘prove – I mean, I never done it so you can’t—’

Slider counted on his fingers. ‘Eye witness, oil matching your bike, money, victim’s watch. Plus you’re the man in charge of the security door, which was so conveniently not working that day.’

‘But that’s the ’ole point, that’s the thing. He—’ Borthwick stopped himself, but the protest had begun eagerly, even passionately.

Slider felt the thrill of knowing he had been right. He nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, it didn’t look like much, did it? But, come on, Dave, did you never think it was a lot of money for what they wanted you to do?’

‘It was business,’ he protested. ‘He said it was worth a lot to his business.’

‘It’s worth a lot for them to get you to do life for their murder. But is it enough for you?’ Borthwick stared, calculating. ‘Come on, Dave. Use your loaf. Tell me all about it. Why should you go down for them? They’ve set you up, and you’re not going to let them get away with it, are you?’

‘If I tell you,’ Borthwick said slowly, ‘and they find out . . . He looked like a right tasty bloke. I dunno . . .’

‘Twenty years inside,’ Slider said. ‘Minimum. And for what?’

‘All right,’ he said, and seemed to deflate, as if his sigh was letting more than air out of him. He didn’t seem to know where to begin, so Slider helped him along.

‘Where did you meet the man?’

‘In the pub,’ he answered easily. ‘I go down there most nights.’

‘Which one’s that?’

‘The Sally.’ This was what locals called the Salutation, an old-fashioned Fullers’ pub on King Street, practically opposite the end of Riverene Road.

‘That’s a bit posh for you, isn’t it?’

Borthwick shrugged. ‘It’s nearest. Anyway, I like a proper pint, not that pissy lager,’ he added, and went up a tiny notch in Slider’s estimation.

‘So how did you know this bloke?’

‘I never. He come up to me when I was sitting at the bar, and he says wasn’t I the caretaker at Valancy House.’

‘How did he know that?’ Atherton put in.

‘I asked him that,’ Borthwick said as if answering an accusation of stupidity. ‘He said he’d seen me go in and out. Anyway, he bought me a pint, and asked if I was interested in a business proposition.’

‘And you said yes, because you’re in a bit of financial trouble, aren’t you?’ Atherton put in. ‘All the paperwork in your flat seems to consist of betting slips and unpaid bills.’

Borthwick shrugged resentfully.

‘So what was this business, then?’ Slider asked.

‘This bloke said he worked for a security firm – Ring 4 – and he wanted to get the maintenance contracts for places like mine. He said it was worth a lot of money to his firm if he could get in, because there’s ’undreds of security doors around the area. And then there’s other stuff – CCTV an’ that – what people are putting in all the time. He said he just needed a foot ’old to get started.’

‘And that’s where you came in?’

‘I told him it was Wellings what put our doors in, and they still do the maintenance. So he said all I had to do was put the doors out of order, wait for someone to complain, and then call him to come in and fix ’em. Tell the tenants Wellings said they couldn’t come out for two days, but his firm guaranteed a one-hour call-out. Well,’ he added, ‘the residents couldn’t give a monkey’s who does the maintenance, it’s the company, JK Holdings, and they won’t care as long as it costs the same. So the bloke says he’d start off doing it cheaper than Wellings just to get ’em hooked, and there’d be something for me if he got the contract.’

‘And what exactly did he tell you to do?’

‘I was to pull the fuse so the doors didn’t work. When there’s a power cut or anything the locking system shuts off and they just open and close like ordinary doors – so people could still get in and out in an emergency.’

‘I understand. Then what?’

‘Well, I was to ring him on this number he give me, and he’d come round and fix it, sweet as you like. He’d give me a thou before, and the same after.’

Atherton intervened. ‘Two thousand? But there was only five hundred under the mattress.’

Borthwick looked sulky. ‘I put a bit on a horse. Bloke I know give me a tip. Pretty Polly, two thirty at Newmarket.’

Evidently it hadn’t won. ‘Did he say when all this was to happen, or leave it up to you?’ Slider asked.

‘Nah, he said it had to be when he was in the area so he could get there quick. So he said I should do it Tuesday. Said he’d be waiting somewhere near for me call. Anyway, I done my bit, and he comes all right Tuesday and his bloke fixes the door—’

‘His bloke?’

‘Well, he was like the manager or sales rep or summink, wasn’t he? He don’t do the work himself. He had his technical bloke in the van, waiting. Anyway, he fixes it, but Tuesday night when I get back from the pub it’s out again, and when I ring ’is number – nothing.’

‘There was no answer?’

‘It was turned off. It was a mobile. I keep ringing it, but nothing. And the bloody door’s still not fixed.’

‘What about the lift?’ Atherton asked.

‘It’s on the same system. One goes out the other goes out. The wiring’s shit in these old places, anyway.’ Borthwick looked bitter. ‘I’ll have them old bitches nagging me blue about it. I dunno what the bloke did to it, but it was definitely working all right after he left. Could have been just an accident, I s’pose?’ he said hopefully, looking from one to the other.

‘I don’t think so, Dave,’ Slider said kindly. ‘I don’t think the nice man gave you two thousand quid to get the maintenance contract. I think he fixed the door on a timer so it would go out when he wanted it to go out, so he could slip in and murder Mr Stonax when he wanted. And, of course,’ he added, as Borthwick paled at the reminder of the shit he was in, ‘so as to make it look even more as if you did it.’

‘Overkill, really,’ Atherton said, ‘seeing you had the victim’s watch. When did you take that?’

‘I never!’ Borthwick protested fiercely. ‘It was the bloke, in the pub, just when he was going, he said was I interested in nice watches, he had a mate brought ’em in from Switzerland, proper Rolexes real cheap. I said I might be. I mean, stuff like that, you can usually knock ’em out to your mates if they’re cheap enough. Well, I didn’t reckon they’d be genuine ones, but if they was
good
fakes . . . Anyway, he said he’d let me have one as a sample, and if I didn’t want any more, I could still keep it for meself, part of the fee for the job. So when he gives me the other grand, I says what about the watch, and he says he’s forgotten it, he’ll bring it me another time, next time he calls. Well, I thought that was that, y’know? And I wasn’t that bothered, tell you the trufe, but this morning I found he’d pushed it under the door, in an omberlope. Well, it looked a bit nice, like it
was
genuine, so I stuck it in the drawer. I was going to take it to my mate Timmy, see what he thought about it. I mean, the bloke said he could do ’em for thirty quid each, and I bet I could knock a lot of ’em out at fifty, maybe more,’ he concluded excitedly.