Before I Sleep

By Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

The clock is ticking for DCI Slider when a woman goes missing. Can he find her - and does she even want to be found?

"[Slider is] one of Britain's most engaging coppers" Booklist

Felicity Holland is missing.

She left her handsome West London house to go to her weekly pottery class and didn't come back. She's a mature, sensible woman with a stable home life and a happy marriage - no reason to abscond. Her distraught husband is convinced she must have been snatched.

DCI Bill Slider and his team know that when a woman goes missing, you have to move fast if there's to be a hope of finding her alive. But with no evidence of foul play - nothing to go on at all - where do you even start looking?

The clock is ticking. But as Slider tries to retrace the last known movements of Felicity Holland, he is led ever further down a dark and twisted path into the secret past of this beautiful, enigmatic woman.

This critically-acclaimed British police procedural series is a great choice for fans of Catherine Aird, Ann Cleeves and Peter James. If you haven't met Bill Slider and his team, why not start now?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Feb 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781448306206

Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Cynthia Harrod-Eagles was born and educated in London and had a variety of jobs in the commercial world before becoming a full-time writer. She is the author of the internationally acclaimed Bill Slider mysteries and the historical Morland Dynasty series. She lives in London, is married with three children and enjoys music, wine, gardening, horses and the English countryside.

Book preview

ONE

If You Knew Sushi Like I Know Sushi

Jenrich stuck her head – all cheekbones and burning blue eyes – round the door. ‘Mr Porson wants you in his room, guv. Right away.’ She gave him a look of dispassionate curiosity, like someone driving past a car crash, and added, ‘He’s got Mr Carpenter with him.’

‘Bloody Nora,’ said Slider. The last thing you wanted to face of a weekday morning was Borough Commander ‘Call Me Mike’ Carpenter, Slider’s boss, Porson’s boss, everybody’s boss, who had all the warmth, charm and empathy of Vladimir Putin with a toothache. ‘I never really got the hang of Wednesdays,’ he muttered as he set off down the corridor.

He tapped at the open door, and saw that Carpenter had occupied Porson’s usual prowling space between desk and window. Porson, marooned against the filing cabinet, rolled his eyes at Slider in a look that said, Run. Run like the wind, and don’t look back.

Carpenter was tall, well-built, with a suspiciously luxuriant head of hair – Slider suspected plugs. He was standing with his back to the door, hands in pockets, staring out of the window – purely a piece of theatre, since the windows hadn’t been cleaned since the Thatcher premiership, so the view was of grime on grime.

He did not move or turn at Slider’s tap. More power play. Well, they could stand there all day in Beckettian symbiosis, or Slider could say, ‘Sir?’ He went with that.

Carpenter turned majestically, like the Queen Mary in the Hudson River. ‘Ah, Slider,’ he said. He withdrew his hands from his pockets. He smiled.

Slider flinched. He had braced himself for a bollocking, but a smile was far worse. It boded no good – and in the Job you quickly became an expert at recognizing boding.

‘I have a job for you,’ said Carpenter.

‘Sir,’ Slider said again, but without the question mark. Discouragingly.

‘It’s concerning Henry Holland – do you know who that is?’

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but, ‘No, sir,’ said Slider.

‘He’s a writer. Of a series of novels, about a ship-captain in the Napoleonic Wars. I’d never heard of them, but apparently they’re quite popular. He makes a living at it, at any rate. Lives in St Anns Villas.’

It was a street just over the border in Holland Park, a posh street on the unposh north side of Holland Park Avenue. On the south side of the avenue was the park itself and Campden Hill, with some very high-end residences; beautiful old early Victorian places, some of them detached, with large gardens. The north side of the avenue was really Notting Hill, and segued into the shabbier hinterland of Ladbroke Grove; and, if you were so pioneer-spirited as to keep going, Harlesden and Willesden, where the only posh they acknowledged was a Spice Girl.

‘Anyway,’ said Carpenter, ‘Holland’s wife went out yesterday morning to go to her pottery class, and she hasn’t come back. He’s worried sick. He telephoned the commissioner last night about it.’

The commissioner being the top bod in the whole Met, Carpenter waited for Slider to register amazement or curiosity. When it was clear Slider wasn’t going to play, he went on, ‘The commissioner told him to wait until this morning, and if she still hadn’t come back or contacted him, to let him know. She hasn’t. And the commissioner’s now telephoned me to ask me to look into it, as a matter of urgency.’

This all smelled to Slider like the sticky end of something deeply undesirable. He made the obvious objection. ‘Holland Park isn’t our ground, sir.’

Carpenter had been waiting for that one. He made an impatient gesture, but there was satisfaction in the set of his mouth. ‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. Mr Holland telephoned the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police personally, because they were at school together and the commissioner likes his books. And the commissioner telephoned me personally, and asked me to undertake the enquiry myself as a favour to him. Any little jurisdictional problems will be ironed out – don’t you worry about that. I want you to investigate, Slider – you, yourself, in person. Use whatever personnel or resources you need. Just find this woman, and find her fast, before the worst happens.’

Porson was studiously avoiding Slider’s eyes. That crack on the ceiling had never been so well scrutinized.

Slider had to ask for himself. ‘Why me, sir?’

Now Carpenter looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re an effective officer. You’ve had some notable clear-ups. And you’ve been involved in some – shall we say – sensitive cases. Involving people who needed kid-glove treatment. You have a reputation.’

Slider knew what his reputation was among the Carpenters of the Job. He surprised himself by saying, ‘You mean that if it all goes tits-up, you don’t mind if it’s me that gets thrown to the wolves.’

‘I don’t appreciate insubordination, Slider,’ Carpenter said icily. ‘Remember who you’re talking to.’

Silence followed. Judging by Porson’s concentration, he had mentally dug out that crack, brushed it clean, filled and sanded it, and was about to apply a coat of primer.

Carpenter blinked first. ‘You do appreciate there is a woman’s safety, quite possibly her life at stake here,’ he said sternly. ‘This is not a teenager or young person who might have run away from home, or got drunk at a party and be sleeping it off on a friend’s sofa. This is a mature, married woman with a settled lifestyle who has gone missing out of all character and precedent. She is almost certainly in danger. The sooner you get on the track, the better chance you have of finding her alive – alive, Slider, do you understand?’

‘Sir,’ Slider said.

‘Then get on with it. This is your number one priority. Go and see Holland yourself and get the details. Drop everything else until you’ve found his wife. Understood?’

He sat down at Porson’s desk and picked up Porson’s telephone as a sign of dismissal.

Porson followed Slider out into the corridor and said, ‘Bit of a poisoned challenge, I’m afraid. Sorry you’ve got stuck with it. But he’s not wrong, vis-à-vis the best chance of finding her alive. Sooner you get looking—’

‘But it’s not our ground,’ Slider complained stubbornly. ‘Notting Hill’s just as capable – more capable, they know the area. Why doesn’t Carpenter give it to Bleasedale?’

Barry Bleasedale was the borough commander responsible for the Notting Hill station, under whose jurisdiction Holland Park fell.

‘Because Bleasedale’s wife isn’t shopping buddies with the commissioner’s wife.’

‘And Mrs Carpenter is?’

‘Mrs Carpenter knows everybody. And she’s related to everybody she doesn’t. I bet the Queen sends her birthday cards,’ Porson said sadly. ‘When there’s a string being pulled, Mrs Carpenter’s generally on the other end of it. So there’s no point complaining. You should take it as a compliment: hand-picked by the top nobs for an important task.’

‘You really think so, sir?’ Slider asked ironically.

‘Well, no. It’s a hand grenade with its pants down,’ Porson conceded.

‘And what do I do when toes get trodden on and Notting Hill orders me off their patch?’

‘We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it,’ Porson said largely. ‘But he’s got a point, you know,’ he went on, fixing Slider with a serious look. ‘This woman’s probably in danger. Someone’s got to look for her, pronto. So just get on with it. The sooner you start, the quicker. Take Atherton with you – he’s a proper egg-box, he’s read books. He’ll know how to talk to this Johnny and reassure him. Because the last thing we want is him complaining to the commissioner that we’re not taking him seriously.’

‘I always take a missing woman seriously,’ said Slider.

‘There you are, then. You are the right man for the job,’ said Porson, his parting shot.

And if I don’t find her, Slider thought, heading back to his office, or if I don’t find her in time, or if she doesn’t want to be found (the whereabouts of a missing adult once discovered could not be revealed to anyone without their permission), I’ll be the right man for the chop. The chalice from the palace held the potion with the poison, all right.

He was slightly comforted by the idea of Atherton as an egg-box. Porson, in his tempestuous relationship with life and the Job, tended to throw words at meaning and see what stuck. He had gone for brain-box or egg-head, and the resultant portmanteau was oddly charming.

Detective Constable Kathleen ‘Norma’ Swilley was looking Henry Holland up on Wikipedia. ‘I suppose you know all about him,’ she said snarkily to Atherton. Like many in the Job, she was suspicious, if not contemptuous, of intellectualism.

‘I know the name, that’s all,’ said Atherton, Slider’s sergeant, bagman and friend. Well-spoken, well-read and well-dressed, he was a misfit in the Job. ‘Never read any of his books. I’ve seen them on the shelf – naval yarns. The Hornblower genre.’

Jenrich, the other sergeant, was watching over Swilley’s shoulder. ‘The horny what?’ she asked.

‘Holland’s books,’ Atherton explained. ‘Marine subculture.’

‘There’s a Subway in the W12 shopping centre,’ McLaren offered. ‘I like their marinara meatball sub.’

‘I thought marinara was fish,’ said Jerry Fathom.

‘Nah! A fish sub would be shit,’ McLaren said, making a face.

‘You eat sushi,’ Fathom accused.

‘I go sometimes cos Natalie likes it, but I only eat the chips.’

‘But marinara—’

‘Marinara is American for tomato sauce,’ said Jenrich impatiently.

Fathom was stubborn. ‘It’s gotta be fish. Marine means the sea, dunnit?’

‘How many times have I told you, Jezza,’ Swilley said, eyes on the screen, ‘you have to stop pushing the Q-tip when you feel resistance. Here it is. The Captain Arbuthnot books. Adventure stories set in the age of sailing ships.’

‘But, like, submarine means under the sea,’ Fathom insisted.

‘They didn’t have submarines back then,’ McLaren objected. ‘Day of yore.’

‘Your what?’ Fathom was puzzled.

‘Henry Holland – it’s a good name for a writer,’ said Atherton desperately.

‘It’s got a ring to it,’ Swilley agreed.

‘Yes, but more importantly, it begins with an H. That puts it on the middle shelves, near eye level. If your name begins with A, you’re up too high to be seen, and W puts you on the bottom shelf. No one ever bends down to choose a book.’

‘Is that true?’ asked LaSalle.

‘Everything I’ve ever told you is a lie,’ said Atherton. ‘Including that.’

‘Including what?’

‘That everything I’ve ever told you is a lie. That’s just not true.’

LaSalle waved it away. ‘Well, but I’m thinking if it was true, every writer would change their name, and then they’d all begin with H.’

‘Then they’d have to go by the first name, wouldn’t they?’ said Lœssop with an air of academic enquiry. ‘So someone called Andy Holland would be on the top shelf and someone called Zebedee Holland’d be on the bottom.’

‘Then they’d change their first names as well, to begin with an H,’ said LaSalle.

‘So then you’d have to—’

‘For Gawd’s sake shut up, you twonks!’ said Swilley, scrolling. ‘Look at all this, all these books. There’s twelve of them. How come, if he’s written all these books, I’ve never heard of him?’

‘There are thousands and thousands of writers,’ Atherton said, ‘and only a very few become household names.’

‘Well, he can’t be much good, then,’ Jenrich said.

‘Good enough to afford to live in St Anns Villas,’ said Lœssop. ‘That’s pretty juicy.’

‘Maybe the money’s his wife’s,’ said Jenrich. ‘Maybe he married a rich woman who could keep him.’

‘Well, there’s not much on here,’ Swilley said, scrolling down. ‘Grew up in Portsmouth, where his visits to HMS Victory sparked his love of wooden ships. Really?’

‘It probably wasn’t only that,’ said Atherton.

‘Went to Portsmouth Grammar School—’

‘There you are. They’ve got lots of naval links.’

‘Navel links? Is that like belly-button rings?’ said Lœssop innocently.

‘—then read history at Christ Church, Oxford,’ Swilley continued. ‘Joined the Civil Service. Wrote the first Arbuthnot book in his spare time. Its popularity allowed him to leave the Civil Service and write full-time. That’s it. The rest is all about the books.’

‘One every two years,’ Atherton said, looking at the publication dates. ‘So if he’s fifty-nine now, he was mid-thirties when he started. What’s it say about the wife?’

‘Nothing. Nothing about his private life at all. It just says on the sidebar: married, yes, children, no.’

‘So he obviously likes to keep himself to himself.’

‘Or there’s not that much interest in him,’ said Gascoyne. ‘I mean, if he was a pop idol everyone’d want to know everything – what he had for breakfast, what hair gel he used. But a writer no one’s even heard of …’

‘Point,’ Atherton acknowledged.

‘There might be stuff about her elsewhere on the net, if we had something to go on,’ said Swilley. ‘A first name’d be helpful.’

Slider, who had just come in, heard her and handed her a slip of paper. ‘This is the information given by the husband,’ he said. ‘For what it’s worth. Felicity Holland, age fifty-three, five feet four, slim build, short dark brown curly hair, blue eyes. No visible distinguishing marks.’

‘Might help if we knew her maiden name,’ Swilley grunted.

‘We’ll find out more when we see him,’ said Slider. ‘For the moment, get this to the Missing Persons Unit.’

‘We’re supposed to wait seventy-two hours,’ said Swilley.

‘They can complain to the commissioner if they want. Meanwhile, let’s go with the personal touch. Start phoning the local police stations, starting with the nearest and working outwards. In case she’s had a blackout and wandered in, or been in an accident, or been reported behaving oddly. Fathom, McLaren, you can get on with that.’

‘They won’t like it, guv,’ said McLaren.

‘Use your charm. Use the commissioner’s name. Ditto hospitals – Jenrich, Gascoyne, work outwards from the closest. When we come back we should have more information, then we can really get at it, but I want to show we didn’t wait to take action. Remember there are some pretty beady eyes on us. Atherton, ready?’

‘Yes, Kemo Sabe.’

On the stairs, Slider said, ‘What was that for?’

‘Obviously Mr Carpenter sees you as a sort of Lone Ranger, carrying on the fight for justice whatever the odds. It means Trusty Scout.’

‘I was never a scout. It was all Boys’ Brigade round where I grew up.’

You wouldn’t have described the houses in St Anns Villas as semi-detached, but effectively that’s what they were: each tall, wide, Dutch-gabled building – three-storeyed with semi-basement, red brick with smart white trim – was divided down the middle into two substantial dwellings. The road was broad and quiet, edged with pollarded lime trees, wide enough to allow residents’ parking on both sides of the road and still leave two full running lanes.

‘Nice,’ Atherton concluded as they stood looking up at the Holland house. ‘What d’you reckon? Six bedrooms?’

‘Yes, probably. Big rooms, too.’

‘So you’re looking at two and a half, three mill? Twice that if it was on the other side of Holland Park Avenue,’ Atherton observed, ‘but still he must be raking it in.’

‘Not if they’ve lived there for a long time,’ said Slider. ‘It wouldn’t have cost a fraction of that twenty years ago.’

‘Well, logically, anything it cost would be a fraction of some sort.’

‘Don’t be pedantic.’

‘Why is someone trying to be accurate always called pedantic?’

‘That’s a very pedantic quibble.’

‘I shall sink into a hurt silence. Are we going in?’

‘He’s expecting us,’ said Slider.

Henry Holland was tall, late fifties, with the sort of lean, fair good looks associated with English public schoolboys. He had probably looked a lot like David Attenborough when he was young. His hair now was a mixture of grey and blonde, but still nicely thick; his eyes were blue; his face was firm with the sort of lines of maturity that in a man only enhance attractiveness. Probably he had a charming smile.

Just now he was not smiling. His face was taut with tension, his eyes looked unslept. All the same, he was immaculately dressed, in wool trousers, proper well-shined shoes, shirt and, if no tie, at least a sports jacket. The proverbial Englishman who always dressed properly, even on a desert island. The sort who’d have a shave and polish his shoes before facing a firing squad. Only the strain on his facial muscles showed that he was not having a normal day. And that, when Slider introduced himself and Atherton, he said, ‘Yes, come in, come in,’ impatiently, waving them past without waiting to look at their warrant cards.

Inside, the house had the kind of cool hush that goes with high ceilings and low occupancy. The shining floorboards of the hall seemed to stretch into that distance where all points meet; the air was scented with lavender wax. Holland led them into the drawing room, which was so beautiful it made Slider gulp. The height of the ceiling, the proportions, the tranquillity; the polished floorboards covered in the centre by a handsome Persian carpet; the huge marble fireplace, with a gigantic gilt-framed mirror over it. The walls were painted a delicate duck-egg blue, a chandelier hung overhead, and the exquisite pieces of antique furniture had acres of space between them so that each was a little statement of individual perfection.

On the wall opposite the fireplace was a large oil painting of a sea battle between square-rigged ships. When they had investigated the murder of literary agent Ed Wiseman, Slider had learned a lot about the world of publishing, and in particular how little most writers actually made. Would Henry Holland’s twelve books generate a fortune sufficient for these surroundings? But the style of the house, plus the age and quality of the furniture, and in particular that big oil painting, suggested old money. His, or hers?

In one of the alcoves beside the fireplace was a fine break-front mahogany bookcase in which there were books displayed face outwards so that you could see that the jacket illustrations were of more square-rigged ships in excitingly rumpled seas. Reproductions, by the style of them, of famous naval oils. The twelve Arbuthnot books, then, given pride of place.

Holland saw the direction of his look and said, ‘My oeuvre, yes.’

‘You must be very proud,’ Slider offered politely.

‘Perhaps I was. But how trivial it seems now, when one’s wife is missing,’ said Holland. He had a good voice, rich and well-modulated, with a public-school accent. He waved them to seats. ‘You must find her,’ he concluded bluntly, sitting rather suddenly as though his legs had given way.

‘We’ll do everything in our power,’ Slider said.

‘So much time has been wasted already,’ Holland said. ‘More than twelve hours since I rang David. Why did he tell me to wait?’ he mourned.

Slider saw Atherton’s flick of the eyes that said, David, yet? Was this merely a bit of I-call-the-commissioner-by-his-first-name pressure, or were they really chummy? It could be crucial down the line, but it didn’t change what they had to do now. ‘Tell me everything that happened yesterday,’ he said. ‘From the beginning.’

Holland paused to assemble his thoughts; but narrative was his trade, and they could hope for clarity and coherence.

‘We woke as usual at a quarter to eight,’ he began, ‘and had a cup of tea while we listened to the radio.’

‘Who made the tea?’ Slider asked. It could matter. If she had gone down to the kitchen, picked up a letter that had just come …

Holland looked slightly blank. ‘We have a Teasmade in the bedroom,’ he said.

Atherton, taking notes, was impressed that he said ‘Teasmade’ without a trace of embarrassment.

‘Go on, please,’ said Slider.

‘We got up at a quarter past eight. We have separate bathrooms. I shaved, showered and dressed and went downstairs at a quarter to nine. My wife was already in the kitchen – she is quicker than me in the mornings. We had breakfast and read the papers.’

‘Had any post arrived?’

‘No. Our postman does two walks these days, and he alternates them. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays we don’t get a delivery until the afternoon.’

‘Did your wife take any phone calls?’

‘No.’

‘Go on please. You finished breakfast, when?’

‘Half past nine.’

‘You seem sure of that. Is this your usual routine?’

‘Yes. Routine is very important to me,’ Holland said. ‘I like to go up to my study at half past nine every day. A disciplined environment is important to a writer.’

‘So I understand,’ Slider said helpfully. ‘Where is your study?’

‘On the top floor. There were three bedrooms up there which we had converted into one large space. With my desks and papers and reference books, I need plenty of room – for instance, I have a separate table to spread out maps and charts. And it’s quiet up there, away from any street sounds.’

‘And what did your wife do yesterday, when you went upstairs?’

‘She was going to her pottery class – always her pottery class on Tuesdays.’ His cheek muscles trembled for a moment with some emotion. He swallowed and went on, ‘She said she would be lunching out. She generally had lunch with some of her fellow students afterwards. She asked me what I wanted for dinner – said she’d shop on the way home. Then I kissed her goodbye and went up to work.’

‘And did you see her again before she went out?’

‘No.’ That seemed a hard word to say, and came out unelaborated.

‘Or speak to her?’

He shook his head. ‘That was quite as usual. Once I start work, I don’t like to be disturbed. It’s very important that my concentration is not broken. Felicity knew that – it was understood.’ Another spasm of the cheeks.

Slider helped him along. ‘So you went up to work. Do you work up there all day?’

‘I like to do a solid four hours in the morning – it’s my best time for concentrating. At half past one I take an hour to eat, relax, perhaps take a short walk. Then I might work again for a couple of hours in the afternoon, depending on what I have to do, what stage I’m at. Towards the end of a book, I may work longer. At the moment I am still in the research stage of a new book. Researching, making notes, compiling a timeline, sketching out a possible plot.’

‘Did you and your wife usually have lunch together?’

‘If she was at home, yes. But she often lunches out. If she did, she would leave me a sandwich.’

‘So what time did she go out?’

‘Her class was from ten thirty to twelve thirty, so she would leave a little after ten, I imagine.’

‘You imagine? She didn’t call goodbye? You didn’t hear the front door close?’

‘No, but that’s quite usual. Once I’m up in my room, I’m not aware of what’s going on below.’ He looked down at his hands, his mouth taut. ‘Believe me,’ he said in a low voice, ‘if I had known …’

Slider left him a tactful beat, then went on, ‘Did she ring you at any time during the day?’

‘No, but I wouldn’t have expected her to.’

‘She has a mobile phone?’

‘Yes. Just a basic one. It makes and receives calls and texts, that’s all. She only has it in case of accidents.’

‘And you didn’t ring her?’

A trace of annoyance crossed his face. ‘Why would I do that? If I wanted to talk to her, I’d wait until she got home. We’re not teenagers, to have to be chatting every five minutes.’

‘Quite so. And it didn’t worry you that she didn’t come home after lunch?’

‘I don’t keep tabs on her when she’s out of the house. We are autonomous adults. There are any number of things she might have been doing – shopping, going to the gym, visiting a gallery.’

‘At what point did you become concerned?’

‘At half past five I mix a cocktail. It’s something we look forward to – a time to talk over our day, make plans, catch up with each other. I expected her to be back by then. When it got to six thirty and she hadn’t appeared, I wondered where she could be. She ought to have been home by then to start the cooking. We eat at seven. She knows I like to keep to a routine. If she was delayed so badly, she ought to have called me. So I rang her mobile phone, but I got the recorded message saying that number was not available, which means she had it turned off. I didn’t know what to do – I felt quite helpless. I tried the number again at half past seven, with the same result, and then, at my wits’ end, I rang Sir David for advice.’

‘You went straight to the top, to the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police himself?’ Slider said. ‘Are you and he very close?’

‘I didn’t know who else to ask,’ he said defensively. ‘One does not expect to find oneself in this position. I don’t know any other policemen. He and I were at the same school, though not in the same year. He’s three years younger than me. But I was his house captain, so there was a little – shall we say – hero-worship involved. We weren’t in touch after I left school, but when my first book came out he recognized my name, bought the book and read it, and contacted me to say how much he’d enjoyed it. Since then, he’s read all my books, and he’s always written to me with very generous praise of each one. So I felt he would … want to help me. Old Portsmuthians are very loyal to each other.’

‘Evidently you were right,’ Slider said mildly. ‘You didn’t ring any of her friends

Reviews for Before I Sleep

[pgchuis · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I received a copy of this novel from the publisher via Netgalley. I do love this series, although I found some of the banter (especially at the beginning) a bit contrived. I'm glad Atherton's personal life takes the turn it does in this book, and Slider's daughter Kate was very entertaining. The case itself was well-plotted, although so well clued that I kept having to wait for the police to catch up.