Cynthia Harrod-Eagles - Body Line

Recent Titles by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles from Severn House

THE COLONELS DAUGHTER

A CORNISH AFFAIR

DANGEROUS LOVE

DIVIDED LOVE

EVEN CHANCE

HARTES DESIRE

THE HORSEMASTERS

JULIA

LAST RUN

THE LONGEST DANCE

NOBODYS FOOL

ON WINGS OF LOVE

PLAY FOR LOVE

A RAINBOW SUMMER

REAL LIFE ( Short Stories )

The Bill Slider Mysteries

GAME OVER

FELL PURPOSE

BODY LINE

This first world edition published 2010

in Great Britain and in 2011 in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

915 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright 2010 by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Harrod-Eagles, Cynthia.

Body line. (A Bill Slider mystery)

1. Slider, Bill (Fictitious character)Fiction.

2. MurderInvestigationFiction. 3. PoliceEngland

LondonFiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

823.914-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6957-9 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-301-4 (trade paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0002-9 (e-book)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being

described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this

publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons

is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

For Ali and Giles, with love.

ONE

The Wrath of Grapes

Y ou look terrible, Slider said as Atherton slid into the car.

I feel terrible. Id have to be dead three weeks to feel better than this, Atherton said. His voice gave him away he sounded as if hed been smoking forty a day for a week. You, on the other hand... he added resentfully.

You shouldnt mix your drinks, Slider said mildly.

Im sorry, but I cant sit in a jazz club and sip wine. It isnt hip.

If you were any more hip you wouldnt be able to see over your pelvis.

With Emily away in Ireland covering the elections, and Joanna doing a concert in Harrogate, Slider and Atherton had had an all-too-rare-lately boys night out. They had gone to Ronnie Scotts for a Charlie Parker evening: Gilad Atzmon on sax, with a septet backing. Later on some of the Central boys coming off duty had arrived and the session had turned into a long one, moving from Ronnies to the flat of one of them nearby.

It was a good evening, though, Slider said.

Atherton agreed. I cant remember when I last heard live jazz.

When I worked Central, I often used to slip into Ronnies at the end of a shift. Heard all the greats back then met quite a few of them, too. The atmospheres not the same, though, now theyve banned smoking.

True. Without the fog you can actually see the performers across the room.

Yes, but... Slider let it hang.

I know, said Atherton. Its weird. I hated smoky pubs and bars, but without smoke... Its like waking up with someone you picked up when you were really, really drunk.

Its a long time since I did that, said Slider.

At least you went home to a bed and a missus. The kits had been shut in on their own all day, so when I got home they wanted a vigorous workout. They were wall-of-deathing round the house until dawn. Once every circuit theyd land heavily on my stomach and bawl, Get up and play!

Atherton had inherited two Siamese, Shredni Vashtar and Tiglath Pileser, from his previous relationship. They had originally been intended to cement it ha ha. Fortunately, Emily loved cats; and even more fortunately she was a freelance journalist and worked from home a lot. The kits liked company.

Well, you smell nice, anyway, Slider said, catching a breath of Athertons expensively subtle aftershave. Maybe too nice for police work. A blast of Old Corpsebuster can make a big difference to that all-important first impression.

Oh, blimey, its not a stinker is it? Atherton said. They were on their way to a murder shout.

I dont know anything about it, only the address. Three Hofland Crescent.

Wheres that? It doesnt ring a bell.

Back of Sinclair Road. I know where it is, but I dont think Ive ever been there.

So it could be anything. Could be something thats been down a cellar for a week, Atherton said. And I havent had any breakfast yet.

Maybe just as well.

Shepherds Bush was not beautiful, but it had something to be said for it on a bright, breezy March morning. Clouds were running like tumbleweed across a sky of intense, saturated, heraldic azure. The tall, bare planes on the Green swayed solemnly like folkies singing Kumbayah. All around, the residents young, old and middling were sleeping, getting up, planning their day, thinking about work, school, sex, shopping, footie. Some were perhaps dying. One was dead in what the police called suspicious circumstances, and that, fortunately, was unusual. Homicide, even in the most crowded capital in Europe, was not the great eraser.

The Monday morning traffic was squeezing down the side of the Green to the West Cross roundabout, and piling lemming-like beyond it into Holland Park Avenue. The right turn lane at the roundabout was clear except for a pair of ditherers. Tourists! Slider said, gave them a couple of bloops and swung round into Holland Road. A moment later Atherton roused himself from his torpor to say, Heres Sinclair Road. So wheres this crescent?

It was misnamed not a crescent at all, but a little snip of a straight road leading off Masbro Road at an angle. They had to leave the car in the only space left in Masbro Road and walk the rest. It was bitterly cold, despite the sunshine. The icy wind was coming down direct from the north, which accounted for the searing clarity of the sky, but it meant there was nothing between the Arctic floes and Sliders skin except some wholly inadequate clothing.

Seduced by the sun, Atherton hadnt worn an overcoat either. He shivered beside Slider like a fastidious cat. PCs Renker and Gostyn, on duty at the barrier closing off the crescent, were bundled into multiple layers, and stood massively impervious to the wind-chill factor as weather forecasters so blithely called it these days. They smirked a little as they moved the barrier to let them through. Beyond it, there were unit cars and the forensic waggon blocking the road, and other uniforms keeping the curious residents and the press back from the blue-and-white tape which made a clear space in front of the house.

The sight of the house made Slider forget the cold for a moment. While the other side of the street consisted of a perfectly standard row of 1840s artisan cottages, their destination was one of a terrace of four Regency villas, harmonious in proportion, exquisite in detail, white-stuccoed, with the original fanlighted doors, and a little wrought-iron balcony at each first-floor window. Its a gem, he said, pausing in admiration.

Unexpected, said Atherton, who had had to start noticing architecture since he had been working with Slider.

Theyre earlier than anything else around here, Slider said. They must have been here first when Shepherds Bush was still a country village. Theyd have had a view over the fields in those days.

Must be worth a fortune. I had a look at a cottage like one of those , Atherton said, jerking his hand over his shoulder, for Emily and me, but they were going for nearly seven hundred thou, and theyre just two-up, two-down.

I think we can surmise that our victim is a man of means, Slider concluded.

Well, thank God for that. Maybe we wont need the industrial strength cologne after all.