The Murder Exchange by Simon Kernick Page B

past six months at Arcadia. The list
had been supplied by the proprietor of Elite A, a Mr
Warren Case, himself a one-time doorman. We'd
interviewed Case, who could fairly be described as
a man of many sovereign rings, the previous afternoon
at his home, an untidy third-floor flat in
Barnsbury which also doubled as Elite A's offices.
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Case had shown us Elite A's certificate of incorporation
and VAT registration both with his name on
it, and had provided us with a list containing nine
names. Two of them had already been interviewed
during the course of the investigation, and another
had left the country for Australia more than a
month before the murder and was, as far as Case
knew, still there. He'd given us the addresses of
everyone else and then we'd been on our way. As
we'd left, I'd asked him how well he'd known Roy
Fowler. 'Well enough to know that he was a slimy
cunt,' he'd replied evenly. Which was probably a
fair enough description, but made me think that if
you've got a man like Case saying that about you,
then you've really got problems. Although, of
course, at that time I didn't know the half of it.
    We hadn't phoned ahead to warn any of the
interviewees we were coming, which was not
untypical practice in a murder inquiry. It was
unlikely that any of them would know anything of
real help, but if they did and they didn't want to
talk, a surprise visit would help to prevent them
making up a convenient story. However, it also
meant that, like Jean Tanner, they might not be
there when we called, particularly on a hot
summer's day like this one, and not surprisingly
the first two on the list weren't, while the third was
just going out as we arrived. He'd only worked
with Matthews on a handful of occasions, and
claimed he couldn't really recall too much about
him. 'He was a bit of a wanker, I remember that
much,' he told us, which wasn't exactly news. Him
and Fowler must have been a right pair of cards.
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By the time we left him it was gone one o'clock
and food called. We stopped at a Greek-owned
sandwich place off the Finchley Road, and ate in
relative silence, both feeling worn down by the
drudgery of detective work.
    'You know, don't get me wrong, Sarge,' said
Berrin between mouthfuls of turkey, salad and mayo
baguette, 'but I thought that there'd be more excite
Uitiu to murder investigations. I don't mean that it
should be fun or anything, but it just seems to be the
same sort of monotony that you always get.'
    I chewed thoughtfully on my ham and pickle
sandwich. It was quite tasty except for the fact there
was too much fat on the ham. 'Dave, if it was really
like it was on The Sweeney, no-one would ever
leave, would they?'
    'I know. I just wish it felt like we were getting
somewhere, that's all.'
    He had a point, and at that moment I felt the
same way. It would have been a good day to sit out
in the garden with a decent book, catching a bit of
sun and letting the world drift idly by. Or maybe
even to take my daughter out somewhere, making
the most of the fact that she was still young enough
not to look at me with a teenager's wincing embarrassment.
But I'd learnt long ago that you don't
do policework for the laughs or the job satisfaction.
You do it for the desire to put away criminals,
which basically is an end in itself. I could see,
though, that Benin, who was still new enough to
think there was a lot more to it than that, was
flagging and needed a bit of an interest injection.
    'This Jean Tanner's got herself a nice pad,' I said,
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taking a sip from my mineral water and wishing it
was beer. 'How much do you reckon it's worth?'
    'Just the location's got to be worth a fair bit. The
thing is, we don't know what her actual place is
like.' *
    'Well, say it's a one-bedroom flat. It's a nice area
of Finchley, it's still got to be worth - shit, I'm no
estate agent, help me out here.'
    Two hundred grand. Maybe more.'
    'And it's probably bigger than one bedroom. I
don't reckon we'd be looking much short of