Kill My Darling by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Read Free Book Online Page B

of the people they had spoken to yesterday must have contacted the press, because they were out in force; and the residents of surrounding streets had followed the flashing blue lights for a good morning gawp. It was only lucky it was Monday and a school day, or there’d have been no getting through them.
    Barriers were in place and the car park was being kept clear for the police and associated vehicles. Two local bobbies were manning the access, and Slider had to tell them who he was. Ruislip fell within Hillingdon, a different part of the Met altogether.
    But Porson was there – good grief, did the man never sleep? – gaunt as the first Duke of Lancaster, swathed in his Douglas Hurd-style greenish greatcoat, the folds of which were so voluminous a Bedouin could have kept his entire family in there, and several of his favourite horses as well. He was talking to his Hillingdon counterpart, Det Sup Fox, known down the ranks as Duggie. Slider had thought for a long time his name must be Douglas, but in fact it was Clifford. But Fox was a very large man in all respects and had, apparently, noteworthy man-breasts.
    He also had the coldest eyes Slider had ever encountered. Slider could feel the frost creeping across his skin as the chilly grey orbs took him in, analysed him and filed him, probably under No Action Required. The Syrup swung round to see who was being freeze-dried, and his eyebrows went up in a greeting that was effusive by comparison.
    â€˜Ah, there you are. I’ve just been telling Mr Fox that you know this area like the back of your onions.’
    Fox looked pained. Not everyone could cope with Porson on an empty stomach.
    â€˜He’s very kindly going to hand the case over to us.’
    â€˜Very kind, sir,’ Slider said with an irony so deep Beebe couldn’t have reached it.
    â€˜We’ve got more than enough on our hands as it is,’ Fox said – though, given that Heathrow Airport was in his ground, that was probably no more than the truth. And then, perhaps feeling he had been ungracious, he said, ‘After all, you’ve done the preliminary work, and the investigation will mostly fall in your ground – tracing the last movements and so on. Makes sense for you to handle it. We’ll hand over as soon as you’ve got enough men here. Of course, Fred,’ he added to Porson, ‘we’ll give you any help we can. Can’t promise you any warm bodies, I’m sorry to say.’ He looked about as sorry as a lottery winner. ‘But smoothing the path, local knowledge and suchlike. Just ask. But as you say, your man here knows the ground . . .’
    â€˜We’ll manage. Thanks, Cliff. Appreciate your corroporation,’ Porson said with dignity.
    Slider left the mighty to confer at their exalted level, and went to find someone lowly to talk to. He spotted one of his own, DC McLaren, on the far side, nearest the woods, conferring with a Hillingdon detective, Pete Remington. He headed that way. There was something odd about McLaren that he couldn’t put his finger on. Also he would have wondered how McLaren had got here first, given that he didn’t live out this way, but he had other things on his mind.
    In response to his terse question, McLaren filled him in. ‘She’s in there, guv.’ He nodded towards the woods behind him. ‘Not far in, but off the path. Fully dressed, shoes and all.’ Shoes often went missing when a body was moved. ‘Looks like she was whacked on the head and strangled.’
    â€˜Who found her?’
    â€˜Local man, sir,’ Remington answered. ‘Name of William McGuire. Walking his dog early this morning – dog led him to her.’ It was funny – or perhaps not – how often this was the case. Without dog walkers, Slider wondered, how many bodies would remain undiscovered? ‘He lives in Lakeside Close,’ Remington went on. This was one of the little