Detective Sergeant Hollis held his car door open for him. ‘You’re very kind,’ said Slider, climbing out. ‘I used to get hit if I wasn’t,’ Hollis said. He was a scanty-haired beanpole of a Mancunian with a laconical delivery. ‘Atherton not in yet?’ DS Atherton, Slider’s bagman, was due back from holiday that morning. ‘Not when I left.’ Slider nodded towards the screens. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Dunno, guv. He’s not saying much. Large bloke, no ID. I don’t recognise him.’ ‘Who found him?’ ‘Parkie. He doesn’t know him either.’ Hammersmith Park was a long, narrow piece of land which lay between the White City estate and Shepherd’s Bush. It had a gate at either end. One was in South Africa Road – home to the stadium of Queen’s Park Rangers football team, known locally, for their horizontally striped shirts, as ve ’oops (or, if they had been having a successful run, superoops). The other gate was in Frithville Gardens, a cul-de-sac turning off the main Uxbridge Road which also led to the back door of the BBC Television Centre.
