that last bit, and she and Atherton looked into each other’s eyes.
‘I hate to interrupt this episode of
Oprah,’
Slider said, ‘but could you concentrate on the problem in hand? Have you looked for a birth certificate?’
‘Yes, but we haven’t found one,’ Atherton said. ‘It’s possible it’s in the safe. Any word on when that’s going to be opened?’
Slider shook his head. ‘Some time tomorrow is the best I can get out of them.’
The phone on Atherton’s desk rang and he answered it. ‘No, he’s here.’ He handed it over. ‘For you, the front shop.’
It was Sergeant Paxman, who was manning the front desk. ‘Someone here to see you, about the Cornfeld case.’
‘On my way,’ said Slider.
CHAPTER FIVE
Get Thee to a Mummery
The public access to the police station was a square room with the big, high desk across one side and a bench running round the other three. On the bench were two rather hopeless-looking young males with chronic sniffs and terminally baggy trousers, and, sitting as far away from them as possible, a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed though in cheap clothes, with a large shopping bag on her knee. She had grey hair with a few blonde highlights, done in the eternal short, rollered perm of the Decent Working Classes, and her face was tidily made up with blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick. She and her kind were the backbone of the country and Slider hoped it was her he was down here to see, and not one of the sullen youths.
Paxman pointed her out discreetly. ‘Says she knows Cornfeld.’
‘How did she know the name? We haven’t released it yet.’
‘She didn’t. She says she thinks she knows deceased, wants to be sure.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Hammick. Maureen. Mrs,’ said Paxman.
Slider resisted the urge to say, ‘Lot. A. Thanks,’ and went out to accost the woman. ‘Mrs Hammick? I’m Detective Inspector Slider. I believe you wanted to talk to me.’ She lifted suffering eyes, and he said, ‘Would you like to come somewhere a bit more private?’ and led her through into one of the interview rooms. He chose No. 1, which was marginally less repulsive than No. 2. They both smelt of sweaty feet, but someone had thrown up in No. 2 yesterday and it took time for the vomit stink to fade completely.
As soon as the door closed behind them she said, ‘It’s about Chattie – Chattie Cornfeld. Someone said – they said she was – that she’s been murdered. Is it true?’
‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked neutrally.
‘A neighbour of mine was in the Wellington lunch-time and she said there were policemen there showing a picture of Chattie and asking if anyone knew her. She recognised her because she’s been with me when I’ve met Chattie in the street. But I thought maybe she’d made a mistake. I mean, she doesn’t know her well. So I thought I’d – but it
isn’t
her, is it?’
She looked at him with appeal, but not much hope. Silently Slider held out the photos. The woman took them, and her hand began to tremble. ‘You took this one from her bedroom,’ she said, as if that clinched it. ‘You’ve been to the house.’ She looked up at him. ‘She’s dead, then? She’s the one – the Park Killer’s latest victim?’
Slider nodded, reflecting how even at times of great emotion people couldn’t help talking like the tabloids. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ he asked gently. He pulled out the chair from under the table and she sat, blindly, her eyes fixed on the empty air, her hands moving in slow distress, massaging the handle of her shopping basket. Slider took the seat opposite, and was glad to see that, though deeply affected, she was not crying or heading for hysterics. A sensible, level-headed woman – could be a good witness, if she had anything to tell.
‘How do you know her?’ he asked, after a respectful moment.
‘I clean for her,’ said Mrs Hammick.
Well, that accounted for the immaculateness of the house, anyway, Slider
‘I hate to interrupt this episode of
Oprah,’
Slider said, ‘but could you concentrate on the problem in hand? Have you looked for a birth certificate?’
‘Yes, but we haven’t found one,’ Atherton said. ‘It’s possible it’s in the safe. Any word on when that’s going to be opened?’
Slider shook his head. ‘Some time tomorrow is the best I can get out of them.’
The phone on Atherton’s desk rang and he answered it. ‘No, he’s here.’ He handed it over. ‘For you, the front shop.’
It was Sergeant Paxman, who was manning the front desk. ‘Someone here to see you, about the Cornfeld case.’
‘On my way,’ said Slider.
CHAPTER FIVE
Get Thee to a Mummery
The public access to the police station was a square room with the big, high desk across one side and a bench running round the other three. On the bench were two rather hopeless-looking young males with chronic sniffs and terminally baggy trousers, and, sitting as far away from them as possible, a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed though in cheap clothes, with a large shopping bag on her knee. She had grey hair with a few blonde highlights, done in the eternal short, rollered perm of the Decent Working Classes, and her face was tidily made up with blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick. She and her kind were the backbone of the country and Slider hoped it was her he was down here to see, and not one of the sullen youths.
Paxman pointed her out discreetly. ‘Says she knows Cornfeld.’
‘How did she know the name? We haven’t released it yet.’
‘She didn’t. She says she thinks she knows deceased, wants to be sure.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Hammick. Maureen. Mrs,’ said Paxman.
Slider resisted the urge to say, ‘Lot. A. Thanks,’ and went out to accost the woman. ‘Mrs Hammick? I’m Detective Inspector Slider. I believe you wanted to talk to me.’ She lifted suffering eyes, and he said, ‘Would you like to come somewhere a bit more private?’ and led her through into one of the interview rooms. He chose No. 1, which was marginally less repulsive than No. 2. They both smelt of sweaty feet, but someone had thrown up in No. 2 yesterday and it took time for the vomit stink to fade completely.
As soon as the door closed behind them she said, ‘It’s about Chattie – Chattie Cornfeld. Someone said – they said she was – that she’s been murdered. Is it true?’
‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked neutrally.
‘A neighbour of mine was in the Wellington lunch-time and she said there were policemen there showing a picture of Chattie and asking if anyone knew her. She recognised her because she’s been with me when I’ve met Chattie in the street. But I thought maybe she’d made a mistake. I mean, she doesn’t know her well. So I thought I’d – but it
isn’t
her, is it?’
She looked at him with appeal, but not much hope. Silently Slider held out the photos. The woman took them, and her hand began to tremble. ‘You took this one from her bedroom,’ she said, as if that clinched it. ‘You’ve been to the house.’ She looked up at him. ‘She’s dead, then? She’s the one – the Park Killer’s latest victim?’
Slider nodded, reflecting how even at times of great emotion people couldn’t help talking like the tabloids. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ he asked gently. He pulled out the chair from under the table and she sat, blindly, her eyes fixed on the empty air, her hands moving in slow distress, massaging the handle of her shopping basket. Slider took the seat opposite, and was glad to see that, though deeply affected, she was not crying or heading for hysterics. A sensible, level-headed woman – could be a good witness, if she had anything to tell.
‘How do you know her?’ he asked, after a respectful moment.
‘I clean for her,’ said Mrs Hammick.
Well, that accounted for the immaculateness of the house, anyway, Slider
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