Foresight Saga

Where roads and railways cross old established ground, there are bound to be odd triangles left over, too small or too ill-favoured for development. This one was bounded in steel, concrete and noise, by the railway, Wood Lane and the A40 flyover.

Along one side of the plot was a motor repair workshop, occupying some old wooden buildings that seemed once to have been stables – three loose boxes, what had probably been the tack room, and a larger structure with big double doors, perhaps formerly a fodder store, now fitted out with a lube-pit and car lift. Beyond them were two crude concrete garages with up and over doors. Above the door of the tack room, now the office, was a board bearing a name painted in faded, peeling letters: E. Sampson.

On the side bounded by the high steel security fencing of the railway, two ancient, derelict car-body shells lurked under a vigorous overhang of buddleia. Rosebay willow herb and cow parsley, ghostly now at the season's end, sprouted through a muddle of metallic debris in the corner beyond them. It must have looked quite festive in midsummer.

Access to the yard was down a narrow track off Wood Lane, running between windowless rail depot buildings. The first few yards were tarmac'd, but beyond that it was bare earth. After several days of rain, track and yard alike were sodden and muddy.

The SOC unit had laid boards for safe passage, but multiple feet had muddied these too. Detective Sergeant Atherton picked his way delicately like a cat through broken glass, grumbling. He was wearing rather natty grey shoes. Detective Chief Inspector Slider, a country boy by birth, always had wellingtons in his car boot. He stepped more confidently, but he grumbled too.

'No CCTV cameras, no overlooking houses, no passing traffic or pedestrians. That means no witnesses.'

'Lots of tyre tracks,' Atherton offered.

Slider would not be comforted. 'Too many. Let's hope deceased is clutching a scrap of paper with the name of the murderer on it.'

Atherton nodded. 'It's always wise to write the name of your worst enemy on your cuff before going out. That's foresight.'

Slider smiled reluctantly. 'Cuff! You dear old-fashioned thing.'

The man who had found the body was squat and swart, probably in his fifties, though so weathered it was hard to tell. His expression was dour, his mouth a hard line, and he spoke tersely, in a roughened voice, never making eye contact, giving the impression that he did not often have call to communicate with other members of his species.

He was dressed in workman's dungarees, liberally streaked with oil and mud, over a chunky green sweater with a surprisingly cheery motif of red reindeer and white snowflakes. Slider suspected it had not originally been bought for him. The elbows were worn through, revealing some kind of grey undergarment. His hands, scarred and broken-nailed, were swollen and stiffened by hard work into the appearance of wooden clubs. Still, they were nimble enough while constructing a skinny roll-up, which he inserted into his prow and lit. It clung there, smoking sulkily, waggling as he spoke.

'Mr Sampson?' Atherton enquired. It didn't do to make assumptions.

Sampson scowled, nodding minimally. He poked his tongue out of the opposite side from the roll-up and removed a shred of tobacco from it.

'What does the "E" stand for?' Atherton wanted to know.

'Eli,' he acknowledged, with a look that said, Go on, then, make something of it. Give me an excuse.

With regard to the corpse in his yard, he was sullen. 'I don't know nothing about it,' he said. 'Ask me, someone's playing a joke on me.'

'A joke?' Slider said, pained.

'Trick, then. Having a go at me. Tryna get me into trouble.'

'Do you know who he is?'

'Never seen him before in me life.' He brooded a moment, then added, gratis, 'He's not from round here.'

'How do you know that, if you don't know him?' Atherton asked.

'Look at his close,' he said succinctly.

Slider admitted he had a point. The corpse was wearing a good-quality charcoal wool overcoat over a two-piece black suit and white shirt, tieless and open at the neck. His shoes were black leather, highly polished. His dark, grey-speckled hair, kinky like wire wool, was cut short. He was clean-shaven and gave off a faint aroma of expensive aftershave.

'Dressed up like he's going up the West End,' said Sampson.

'How long have you had this place?' Slider asked.

'Been here twenty year,' said Sampson. 'Ask my satisfied customers.'

It was his way of offering his credentials. Slider did not really suspect him of having put the body there. To call the police would be a bold double bluff, but it was rare even among professional criminals to find anyone willing to try it. On the whole they liked the more basic defence of being as far from the scene as possible. Being a good twenty miles away at the time was a lot simpler than arguing, 'If I was guilty, I wouldn't have called you, would I?'

That didn't mean he didn't know the deceased, or have anything to do with the death, of course.

He answered Slider's questions tersely, resentment bristling in every word. His business was servicing and repairing cars, his clients the unlucky souls who did not have the luxury of a warranty. The cars were mostly old bangers and rust-buckets, which he kept limping along for the owners, who relied on them for their own precarious livings. He was here most days, working, or tinkering about with his own motors – he bought old MGs and restored them as a sideline. He had been here until six last night, give or take, and had arrived at seven this morning to find the unwelcome visitor lying in the mud at the side of the yard.

'Took you long enough to call it in,' Atherton remarked. It was logged at seven twenty.

'Didn't know what to do. I knew you lot'd look at me suspicious. As if I'd plant a body in me own yard!'

'Did you touch him, or move him?' Slider asked.

'Never went near him,' Sampson said, 'only to see he was dead and not drunk or whatever. I could see he was dead all right, without touching him. So I went in me office and had a fag while I thought what to do. I was shook up. Then I rung you lot.'

He hadn't seen any strangers hanging around lately. And the only people who'd been in his yard in the last week had been his customers coming and going, all people known to him. 'Why'd anybody come down here, unless they was looking for me?' he said logically.

Another point, Slider allowed. The opening to the track was unobtrusive, and didn't look as if it led anywhere but behind the blank warehouses.

A tube train rattled past, down in the cutting beyond the security railings. Overhead, the sky was grey and messy, like wet dishrags, but too high for rain. The wet spell was passing over. 'You're pretty isolated here,' Atherton remarked, glancing about.

'That's the way I like it,' Sampson said. 'I like me own comp'ny.' He glowered at the police and the SOC crowd infesting his space. He jerked his thumb towards the corpse. 'What was he doing here, that's what I want to know.'

'That's what we all want to know,' Slider said.

'He never brought no motor in,' Sampson observed. 'That one's mine,' he pointed to a beat-up Ford Focus which he'd parked in one of the garages, 'and that one I'm working on.' He indicated a frail-looking Cortina, practically a museum piece, which was in the shop. 'So what'd he do, wander in here drunk?' he concluded irritably.

Slider beckoned LaSalle over and left him with Sampson, while he followed the boards across to where the forensic pathologist was kneeling beside the body. The SOC unit had laid tarpaulins around it, and Freddie Cameron had the protective suiting on, but he still looked less than happy. 'Mud,' he said by way of greeting as Slider reached him. 'I hate mud. Slipped off the damn board walking up here, now I've got wet knees. And I'm particularly fond of these trousers.' He looked penetratingly at Slider's wellies. 'Foresight is a lovely thing.'

Hear a new word and you'll hear it again within the day, Slider thought. 'I never leave home without them,' he said.

'Smug bugger!'

'How did he die? He looks peaceful enough.' The corpse was supine, arms to his sides, and his clothing was not torn or disordered.

'Broken neck,' Cameron said, pointing out the unnatural angle of the head. 'I don't know if there are any other injuries – that will have to wait until I've got him back and stripped.'

Slider studied the face. A man in, he guessed, his mid to late fifties; a firm face, naturally sallow, and weather-tanned; a strong fleshy nose and chin, large ears with big earlobes. A face of resolve, he thought: someone who knew what he was doing, a businessman, perhaps – a small trader. The clothes were nice but he didn't have the air of a mogul.

Cameron went on: 'There are no defence wounds.' He lifted a hand. 'Well-kept fingernails. Doesn't look as though we'll find a handy skin specimen of the assailant under them.'

The sleeve tipped back a little with the movement, revealing a handsome watch. Cameron caught Slider's glance. 'Patek Philippe,' he said. 'Very nice. The sort you don't own, you just look after it for the next generation. Still showing the right time.'

Atherton leaned closer to examine it. 'It's a Calatrava,' he concluded.

'Expensive?' Slider asked.

'They start about five thousand. Connoisseur's choice,' Atherton said. 'Not your usual swank-pot's show-off job. Interesting.'

'Doesn't seem as if robbery from the person was the motive, then,' said Slider.

'You say that,' Freddie Cameron answered, 'but all his pockets are empty.'

'How empty?' Slider asked.

'Completely. Not a sausage. No wallet, cash, keys – not even a handkerchief. And what gentleman goes out without a hanky?'

'We don't know that he was a gentleman,' Slider said, 'watch or no watch. But I take your point. In any case, we know he didn't walk in here. Look at his shoes.'

'Good quality. Leather soles,' Atherton observed.

'But no mud,' Cameron said.

'Quite,' said Slider.

Hart, coming up behind them, caught the exchange. 'Someone could a' driven him here, then whacked him.' She jerked a thumb backwards towards Sampson. 'Laughing Boy over there, maybe. He looks tasty. And his is the only motor here.'

Slider shook his head. 'There's no mud on the soles of the shoes,' he said. 'So he couldn't have stepped out of a car, even if he was driven here. He couldn't have moved anywhere in this yard under his own motive power without getting mud on the soles.'

'So he was dumped?' Atherton concluded.

'That would be my guess. Killed somewhere else, pockets emptied, driven here and bundled from the car.'

'But why dump him here?' Hart asked, staring around.

'Ah, now you're getting onto the expensive questions,' Slider said, shaking his head. 'The Christmas and birthday questions. I'm not sure you can afford 'em.' He turned to Freddie. 'Time of death?'

'Between twelve and twenty-four hours ago, give or take,' Freddie said. 'Rigor's well established. Sometime yesterday, in all probability.'

'If Sampson's telling the truth, he has to have been dumped here between six last night and seven this morning,' said Slider.

'That's OK, time-wise,' said Freddie.

'But of course, he could have been killed earlier than six, and stashed somewhere else first, then moved after dark.'

'That's about the size of it,' Cameron agreed. 'Right, I'm ready to roll. I take it you'll want fingerprints, since there's nothing else to identify him by? OK. I'll take a DNA sample and do the teeth as well. And I'll report again, as soon as I've done a full inspection.'

'So what now?' Atherton asked as they turned away.

'A quick word with Bob Bailey,' said Slider, 'and then we might as well get some breakfast.'

He talked to Bailey, the Scene of Crime chief, about tyre tracks. 'If you can work out which was the latest one, before Sampson drove back in, it might help.'

'Won't be able to tell you more than the make. But I'll take a cast if there's anything clear,' he said. 'Course, it won't help until you get something to compare it to, but ...' And he shrugged.

Then Slider led the way back down to Wood Lane where all the official wheels were parked.

'Breakfast, where?' Atherton asked, when they reached the department car. 'There's nothing round here.'

'You'd be surprised,' said Slider. 'Chummy had the good taste to get himself dumped only yards from one of the best eateries in West London.'

'More foresight?' And then he stopped to look around disbelievingly. 'I find it hard to believe. What's the name of this gourmet establishment?'

'Sid's,' said Slider.

Sid's was in the centre of the flight of shops between the Westway and Du Cane Road.

'Been here donkey's years,' Slider said. 'It's an institution.'

'So is a mental hospital,' Atherton countered.

'Don't be sniffy until you've tried it.'

It was an unglamorous place, an old-fashioned transport caff, surviving through the nostalgia and dogged loyalty of the many commercial drivers who passed up and down Scrubs Lane. The original Sid was now in his eighties, and the heavy lifting was done by various children and grandchildren, but he was generally to be found stationed behind the griddle, flat cap on his head, cooking the endless relays of the famed all-day breakfast. His frying of an egg was poetry in motion.

But when Slider and Atherton went in, the griddle was manned by one of his sons, Young Barry, a tall, fleshy man in his fifties. 'Ullo,' he said pleasantly. 'Long time no see.'

The counter was being tended by Barry's daughter Tiffany, while Mrs Sid, a mere spritely seventy-nine, did the rest of the cooking.

'Ooh, look who it is. I 'ope we're not in dutch,' Mrs Sid said jocularly.

Tiffany was lively, with platinum hair and a lot of teeth, and was very popular with the customers. 'I hear you got a bit o' trouble up at Jacket's Yard,' she said.

Slider filed the name gratefully – it didn't appear on any maps. 'Who told you that?' he asked.

'Some drivers who were in earlier,' she said.

'Our Tiff gets to hear everything,' Young Barry observed. 'She gives 'em a smile and they tell her all their secrets.'

'No Sid today?' Slider asked.

'Dad's stopping upstairs,' said Young Barry.

'Not ill, I hope?'

'Nah, just his bronichals,' said Mrs Sid.

'So what'll it be, gents?' Tiffany asked.

'Breakfast for me,' said Slider.

'Double soss, bacon, egg and beans? Fried slice with it?'

'Please.'

'Same for you, is it?' She examined Atherton, noted his faint shudder, and added, 'We ha'n't got any tofu, darlin'.'

Slider smiled. 'She's got you down all right.'

She took pity on him. 'How about a nice bowl of muesli?' she offered. 'Home made. I make it up meself. All organic.' Atherton accepted gratefully.

They went and sat down. Across the other side, two lorry drivers were lingering over their tea and newspapers, and in a corner an old man was slowly consuming an all-day, eating the baked beans one by one to make it last. The morning rush was well over.

Tiffany brought their food, and two cups of tea that went with it, and said in a low voice, 'Is that right then, a dead body's turned up in Jacket's Yard?'

How did these things get out? Slider wondered despairingly. But it would be in the papers soon, anyway. And if they didn't find out who the corpse was, they'd have to appeal to the public. 'That's right.'

'It's not Eli, is it?' she asked anxiously.

'No, he's all right,' Slider said. 'You know him, then?'

'Oh yes. He comes in here sometimes, for his breakfast, or just a cuppa.'

'What's he like?'

'He don't talk much, but he seems decent enough. I'm glad it's not him. You don't like it to be someone you know. He was in for his breakfast Sunday, Eli. I don't think his wife's very kind to him. But you ought to talk to Grandad. He knows all about Jacket's Yard and everybody round here. Why don't you go up when you've finished your breakfast?'

'He's not too ill to see us?'

'Nah, he's fine,' Tiffany said. 'He'd sooner be down here, truth be told, but Barry said his coughing wasn't nice for the customers. He'll be glad to see someone – it drives him mad, not working. You go on up when you've finished. You can take his tea up, save me a trip.'

The flat above the shop, which had once been home to Sid and his family, was now part pied-a-terre and part store room. No one lived there now, but there was a small kitchen and a bed, if anyone needed an overnight doss, and the sitting room was still furnished, acting as a rest area for whoever was on duty downstairs.

Sid was on the sofa watching the racing, and the air was blue with cigarette smoke. He started up in alarm when Slider and Atherton came in, then relaxed when he saw who it was. 'Thought you was Young Barry,' he said with a shamefaced grin. 'He's always on at me about smoking.'

'Brought your tea,' said Slider. 'Mind if I open the window a bit?'