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writing a cheque, right? I mean, there’s no doubt – he’d written the date when he got whacked.’
    ‘The pen seems to have been in his hand, and the cap was off,’ Slider said.
    ‘That’s probably how the murderer got him to sit down with his back turned,’ Mackay said.
    ‘Good point,’ Slider said. ‘I’m not sure it helps, unless we can work out who he might have written a cheque to. Of course, it might have been one of the visiting lowlifes. Mrs Kroll said he didn’t give people money, but again that’s just her view.’
    ‘But guv,’ McLaren objected, ‘my point is, if chummy did persuade him to write him a cheque, why didn’t he wait for him to finish, so’s he could have the money as well?’
    ‘Janey Mac!’ Connolly rolled her eyes – evidently it was a thing all girls could do, Slider observed with interest. ‘It’d be a bit of a dead giveaway, wouldn’t it, ya gobshite, if he goes hoofin’ down the bank with the last cheque your man wrote?’
    McLaren stood up for himself. ‘There’d be nothing to say what time of the day he wrote it. Even if it was the last. If it was me, I’d have waited and took it.’
    Slider took a minute to phone home, and got Joanna.
    ‘I wanted to catch you before you left. All serene?’ he asked.
    ‘I’ve been resting, with my feet up, if that’s what you mean,’ she said defensively.
    ‘Dad all right with the kids?’
    ‘He’s only just back with them. He took them out, even George. You’ll never guess where.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘The Tate.’
    ‘He took my children to an art gallery? We are talking about OMG Kate and Footy Mad Matthew, aren’t we?’
    ‘Turns out he was going there anyway today, to meet his lady-friend, and didn’t see any reason to put off his date for a brace and a half of grandchildren. They had lunch, looked at paintings, came home on the top of the bus. A good time was had by all. He should have been a general. The army could do with his marshalling skills.’
    ‘I hope he hasn’t worn himself out,’ Slider said guiltily.
    ‘He seemed all right. He’s gone back to his flat for a rest. The kids are packed and Irene’ll be here any minute. I’m going to get George fed and in bed before your dad comes back over. He won’t have anything to do but watch telly until you get home.’
    ‘Sounds like the army’s missing you, too. I won’t be late home. I’m just finishing up some paperwork here.’
    ‘How is it?’ she asked. ‘Sad or bad?’ It was a shorthand they had.
    ‘More sad than bad. It seems the chap was a bit of a philanthropist, and may have been whacked by one of his philanthropees, probably for some petty reason.’
    ‘All reasons are petty, weighed against a human life,’ she said.
    ‘Good luck with your concert. Don’t get too tired.’
    ‘Tell it to Prokofiev,’ she replied. ‘I have no say in the matter.’
    Just before he left, Porson sent for him. The old man looked tired, after a day with his seniors and the press officers.
    ‘Not much in the media yet, thank God,’ he said as Slider came in. Unusually, he’d got his bottle of White Horse out of the filing cabinet. Porson was not a big drinker, but it was going-home time in the real world, and his nerves were obviously strained. ‘Drink?’
    ‘No thank you, sir,’ Slider said.
    Porson poured himself a modest noggin. ‘I thought they’d have been all over it. Kind man bitten by the hand that feeds him, that sort of thing. Makes a good story. Lucky they had their minds in the usual place. MP caught cottaging in Hyde Park, so they’ve all run away to play over there. The local papers’ll be on ours, but we can live with that. What about this cleaner woman?’ His sharp eyes came up to Slider’s face. ‘She’s got to be a possible.’
    Slider explained the various matters relating to keys, fingermarks and choice of weapon.
    Porson looked gloomy. ‘She’d be a bastard to prove unless you get a good strong motive. She could leave