Dead End (11 page)

‘We don’t think so. It doesn’t look like it. The symptoms are wrong.’

She sighed. ‘Well, you must know, of course.’

‘I’m very sorry. It must have been a terrible shock for you.’

She sat forward a little, folding her hands together and trapping them between her knees in a rather girlish gesture. ‘It was, of course, but I must be absolutely frank with you and say that I didn’t like my father very much. I don’t think anyone did, except Buster. But then I don’t think my father wanted to be liked. Worshipped was good enough for him.’

‘Your mother must have liked him,’ he suggested.

‘Oh, I don’t think so. Swept off her feet by him, more like.’ She looked at him from under her eyelids. ‘He wasn’t a nice man, you know. He was mean and spiteful. He liked tormenting
people and playing them off against each other. He used to do it with Mummy and me, and with Mummy and Dodo—’

‘Dodo?’

‘That was Mrs Keaton – Doreen Keaton. I called her Dodo. She was our cook-housekeeper when I was little.’

‘You were – what – three years old when the Keatons came to work for your parents?’

She nodded. ‘We’d just moved into the Holland Park house. It’s the first home I remember – we were in a flat before, in Kensington. My grandfather died and left everything to Mummy, including the house. She was the only child, and my grandparents were only-children too, so I was very short of relatives. And then Mummy died when I was only nine.’

‘That’s very sad. I’m so sorry.’

She looked at him as if to see whether he really was, and then nodded, accepting his interest. ‘I loved her so much, and that’s when I really started to hate my father. Because he drove her to it, you know.’

‘No, I don’t know. What did she die of?’

‘It was an overdose of sleeping pills. Well, of course, she wouldn’t have had any sleeping pills if my father hadn’t been such a beast to her. They brought it in as an accident at the inquest, but I believe – I still believe – it was suicide. And Dodo did as well.’

‘Did she say so to you?’

‘Not in so many words, but she told me that it wasn’t an accident. And on her deathbed she said to me that “things were not as they seemed”. Those were her words.’

‘Did she look after you when your mother died?’

‘Yes, she was very good to me. I don’t know how I would have coped if she hadn’t been there. But she died less than a year after Mummy. It wasn’t really surprising, she was such a pale, wispy sort of creature, always full of aches and pains – though she never complained. She just soldiered on, cooking and cleaning and looking after me. Do you know, I have no memory of her laughing? Smiling, yes, but not laughing. Isn’t that sad?’

‘What did she die of?’

‘Gastroenteritis. It just got worse and worse over a couple of days, and then they took her into hospital, but it was too late.
Nowadays I suppose they would have been able to save her. It amazes me to think how far medical science has advanced in just thirty years.’

‘You must have missed her very much. Who looked after you then?’

‘Oh, well, after that my father wanted to get rid of me, of course – I would have got in the way of his career – so he sent me off to boarding school. Do you really want to hear all this? It hasn’t anything to do with this awful business,’ she said abruptly.

‘If you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It helps if I have the whole picture. Sometimes something can have a completely different meaning if you can put it in context.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. Where was I?’

‘You went to boarding school. Who looked after you in the holidays – or did you spend them at school too?’

‘Oh no, I came home in the holidays. Buster looked after me. He didn’t trot round after my father quite as much in those days.’

‘Did you like him?’

‘Buster? Oh yes, he was all right. He was very kind to me, really. I always remember he used to make me Shrewsbury biscuits, because I’d once said I liked them. I’d got them mixed up with Garibaldis, and every school hols he’d have a batch of them ready for me when I got home, so I had to eat them, even though I didn’t like them much, rather than hurt his feelings.’

She smiled, and Slider smiled back. ‘Your father didn’t marry again?’

‘No. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he’d have married the first time if Mummy hadn’t had money. He didn’t really want any competition, you know.’

‘With whom?’

‘With anyone. If he was married people would always say, “Oh, and how is your wife?” Divided attention, you see.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘He had Buster to take care of him, and Buster was better than a wife. He didn’t have to remember Buster’s birthday or buy him flowers.’

‘He does seem very devoted.’

‘Oh, he is. Poor old thing. He’ll be so lost without Daddy.’ It was the first time, Slider noticed, that she had said ‘Daddy’
instead of ‘my father’. ‘He’s like a faithful old dog. A bit creepy almost, I sometimes used to think, the way he dedicated himself to him. But now they’ve grown old together they’re a bit more on equal terms. They fight like cat and dog, you know. It’s quite funny sometimes, as long as you’re out of range. They sling plates at each other like a married couple.’

Slider inched in a delicate question. ‘The relationship between them – was it ever – was Buster more than—?’

She cut him off, looking genuinely shocked, and even a little annoyed. ‘Good God no! Oh, I know nowadays it’s the first thing anyone thinks, and it does make me cross. There was nothing like that between them. My father may have been a swine, but he was perfectly normal.’

‘I was really asking more from Buster’s side.’

‘He was married too, you seem to forget. Of course he was normal.’

‘It doesn’t always follow.’

She looked at him, and then sniffed. ‘I suppose not. But I assure you Buster wasn’t – isn’t – like that. He thinks my father’s a genius, that’s all.’

‘And was he?’

She noticed the change of tense. ‘I keep forgetting. He was always such a larger-than-life figure, it’s hard to remember he’s gone. Well, I don’t know – a genius? Yes, I suppose he was. If I hadn’t been his daughter I probably would have worshipped him too. I do love music, you know. But by the time I was old enough to leave home, I’d had enough of the world of music, if you follow.’ Slider nodded. ‘That’s why I married Alec.’ She smiled. ‘Alec’s a musical ignoramus. He wouldn’t know Schubert from Schoenberg. It was so refreshing! And it drove my father mad, of course. He absolutely forbade me to marry, so I waited until I was twenty-one and then thumbed my nose at him. He never really forgave me.’

He couldn’t tell how she felt about that. He asked, ‘What were relations like between you and your father? Recently, I mean.’

‘He didn’t really care about me, not as a person. But I was
his
child, you know, so he wanted me to do well so that he could bathe in reflected glory. He was very into all that. Buster said a clever thing once – that my father never discarded, he only added to his hand. If he’d ever talent-spotted anyone or helped
them in their career, they were his for life, and he expected them to go on being grateful and referring to his influence in all future interviews. He didn’t much care for my business – he thought it was frivolous – but when I did well at it and made lots of money and became famous in my own small way, he liked to claim the credit.’

‘How did he do that?’

‘He brought me up to have good taste, of course, and taught me to stand on my own two feet and be tough, which made me a good businesswoman. And his fame rubbed off on me, so that people used me because they wanted to say their house was done over by Sir Stefan Radek’s daughter.’ She smiled tautly. ‘All nonsense, of course, but I stopped arguing with him. If it made him happy.’

‘Did you see much of him?’

‘No, not really. I suppose it averaged out at about once a month. Family occasions, and the odd invitation if he felt we would do him credit. I didn’t pop in. For one thing he was hardly ever at home – although he had slowed down a bit in the last year or two. Buster’s influence, I think. And for another, we always ended up quarrelling, and it wore me out.’

‘What did you quarrel about?’

She hesitated just perceptibly. ‘Alec, usually. He thought he wasn’t good enough for me. He always wanted me to admit I’d made a mistake and that he’d been right, that I should have listened to Daddy’s advice, that sort of thing. I know I oughtn’t to have risen to it, but my father had ways of getting to you. He had a vicious tongue.’

‘How did your husband get on with him?’

‘He didn’t mind him so much. Well, he hadn’t had to put up with him all his life, had he? He didn’t like my father criticising the way we brought Marcus up – that’s our son – but he was better at holding his tongue than I was.’

‘You have only the one child?’

‘Yes. We’d have liked more, but—’ She shrugged. ‘We’re very short of family altogether. It’s like a chronic condition. Alec always wanted a large family, but all he has is me and Marcus, and a godson he’s rather fond of. I suppose that’s why he’s tended to spoil Marcus. He gives in to him much too easily. He’s so soft with him he would never even let me punish him,
and of course a child soon learns he can play one parent off against the other.’ She stopped, and stared thoughtfully at the carpet, pursuing a private thought.

After a moment Slider said, ‘When was the last time you saw your father? Can you remember?’

‘Oh yes. It was three weeks ago, on my birthday. We went there for dinner. I did speak to him on the phone last week about the concert – it’s a pet cause of mine, the St Augustine’s Restoration Fund. I was rather surprised he agreed to do it. To be frank, I think Buster persuaded him in the hope that it would bring us closer together. He always cherished the hope that we’d be reconciled into one big happy family.’

‘But it was kind of your father to do it. It shows he cared for you.’

‘Does it? I expect he just wanted people to think what a wonderful person he was, to do it for charity.’

Slider felt a first twinge of indignation on Radek’s behalf, that his gesture was being so undervalued. But perhaps it was a case of too little, too late. After all, he didn’t know how Radek had treated his daughter all his life. ‘And your husband?’ he asked. ‘When was the last time he saw your father?’

‘It would be the same time, of course. Alec didn’t go visiting without me. What a funny question.’

‘Oh, I thought they might meet in town or something. Your husband’s office is in town, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, in Bedford Street, just off the Strand. But Alec and my father weren’t friendly like that. I’ve told you, Alec doesn’t like music. They had nothing to say to each other.’

‘I understand,’ Slider said. ‘Now, you’ve said you have no idea of anyone who might want to kill your father?’

‘None at all. The idea’s ludicrous. Oh, lots of people disliked him, but it takes more than that, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, usually,’ Slider said. ‘Did he have any interests or activities outside of music?’

‘Never, to my knowledge. Music was his whole life. It left no time for anything else.’

‘Did he have any close friends that you knew of?’

‘He didn’t have any friends of any sort.’

‘What about the people he’d helped? You said he liked them to keep up with him.’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t friendship. He liked them to keep telling everyone he had been a forming influence on them. Sometimes he got invited to their special concerts, or to the parties afterwards, and sometimes he went. Sometimes he invited them in the same way, if they were hot enough property. But he didn’t entertain at home, and I’ve never known him go to a private dinner or party. He always said he hadn’t time to waste on purely social events.’

The Famous Writer appeared in the door. ‘I say, I wonder could you move your car?’ she said to Slider, in the sort of way she might have asked him to take his boots off the sofa. ‘It’s rather blocking us all in.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Slider said meekly, standing up. Mrs Coleraine stood too, and gave the writer a slightly puzzled look, by which Slider understood that the interruption was contrived, his welcome having been deemed to have been outstayed. ‘I’ve more or less finished now, anyway.’

‘I’m afraid it hasn’t got you anywhere,’ Mrs Coleraine said contritely. ‘I wish I could help you more, but I really can’t.’

‘That’s all right,’ Slider said. ‘It all helps to build up the picture. And if anything should occur to you, please give me a ring. The smallest thing may be of help, so don’t think you’ll be wasting our time.’

‘I’m sure she wouldn’t think that,’ the writer said, baring her teeth. ‘Would you, Fay darling?’

Fay darling seemed to think that was on the verge of being rude, and she put out her hand to Slider and said, ‘If you need to speak to me again, I’ll be glad to give you all the time you want.’

Slider took the hand. It was warm and dry and firm. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He really didn’t think he could suspect her. She had hated her father, blamed him for her mother’s death, resented his criticism of her husband, but Slider just couldn’t imagine her shooting him in that silly, half-arsed way. On the other hand, in a silly, half-arsed way was the only way she would be likely to be able to do it, given she was an honourable citizen and Radek was her father. And she had stood to gain a vast amount of money by his death. Well, she’d have got it anyway, eventually, so there was no need to hurry him along. Unless he’d threatened to change his Will. Or unless she had some absolutely urgent
need that couldn’t wait. Hadn’t old Buster said the son was a bit of a wild thing? Maybe he’d got himself into some trouble that needed a large sum of money to sort out. He must find out. And, sadly, find out where she’d been on Wednesday. But he’d be glad to discover she had a watertight alibi.