Killing Wright was very different from killing James. Perhaps it was because I’d brained a man before and so knew what to expect, or perhaps it was because I really hated Wright, whereas James had been pure instinct. Regardless, there was none of the sick horror with Wright that I’d experienced with James. Until my radio crackled, that was, and Jeeves called me. Then I came back to Earth.
A hundred questions clamoured at me as I stared at the body. Had Wright been alone? Had anyone seen me kill him? I looked around wildly. What had he been doing there in civvies at six in the morning, anyway? And why had he been so keen for me to leave him alone to finish it? I dragged my attention away from my panicky speculations and tried to concentrate on what Jeeves was saying.
‘We’ve got reports of a lorry causing an obstruction at the end of Orchard Street,’ came his crackly voice. ‘Can you go and have a look?’
‘I can see it,’ I lied, sounding a lot cooler than I felt. ‘It’s a big articulated thing trying to do a sixty-eight-point turn.’
‘Can you sort it out? I’ve got three calls about it already. It’s waking people up by revving its engine, as well as blocking the traffic.’
‘I’m guarding the crime scene,’ I said, wanting my objection heard on air, lest someone reported me for not doing the job I’d been assigned. Wright would have done.
‘It’s been left all night,’ Jeeves pointed out. ‘A few more minutes won’t hurt.’
The lorry was inaudible from inside number nine, so it was the homes at the far end of the street that were bothered by the noise. That was good, I thought. It meant neighbours like the Smiths and the Greaves wouldn’t be awake, looking out of their windows to see me leave.
Getting away with killing Wright was going to be a piece of cake. He must have sneaked a key from somewhere, but I certainly couldn’t be expected to have one. All I needed to do was go out, pull the door behind me to lock it, and no one would ever know I’d been in. I glanced at my watch. Eighteen minutes past six. It doesn’t take long to kill someone: three minutes in Wright’s case. I left everything just as it was, not even worrying about trace evidence this time. I’d helped Oakley to find the first murder weapon, so any fibres or hairs could have been left then.
I took the stone, though, and put it in a plastic evidence pouch before slipping it in my bag. There wasn’t much blood on it – obviously, a ball of Portland limestone was good for not causing really nasty, bloody deaths. I didn’t think my fingerprints could be lifted from its chalky, dusty surface, but there was no point in taking needless chances.
I examined the door before I left. Wright had left it on the latch, perhaps aiming to make a quick getaway before I arrived. He couldn’t have known the house had been left unattended the previous night – unless he’d taken a radio home, which was unlikely – and I suppose he’d anticipated a gap between the nightshift finishing and me starting. Perhaps he’d put me on duty because he thought I’d dally in getting there on time. Regardless, he’d assumed he’d have ten or fifteen minutes for whatever he’d wanted to do. I wondered what it was. Clearly, something he thought would damage Oakley and Davis, and probably something that would frame some poor innocent who’d earned his dislike by being the wrong sex or colour.
I stepped out and pulled the door behind me. Then I stood in the garden and looked around carefully. I couldn’t see a curtain quivering or a head sticking out of a window anywhere. I paid special attention to the Smiths’ house, but all was still, so I supposed they were still asleep. The same was true of number eleven. I’d been in and out with no one noticing, and if anyone looked now they’d see me in the garden, where I was supposed to be.
I walked to the end of the road where the noise really was loud enough to disturb the residents. I felt calmly detached as I directed the waiting traffic down another road, then set about extricating the driver from his predicament. Between us we managed to get him turned around without trashing any of the parked cars, and he was able to drive away. The residents who’d been watching in dressing gowns and pyjamas gave me a round of applause.
I walked back to number nine, glancing at my watch as I went. It was almost seven. Wright had been dead for less than an hour, and at least ten people could say they’d seen me during that time frame sorting out the lorry. I radioed in to say I was returning to the house.
‘No, stay where you are,’ instructed Jeeves. ‘Paul Franklin will pick you up in two minutes. There’s a fire in one of the old warehouses near the harbour and I need you both there to set up a traffic diversion.’
‘He’s here now,’ I said as the patrol car appeared around the corner.
I spent the next two hours establishing road blocks around a building that belched clouds of white smoke. Later, Paul offered to hold the fort for ten minutes while I got a drink from a mobile café that was parked up on the harbour front. I bought a cup of bitter coffee, then walked behind the van and stared at the murky green waters of the harbour. I looked around carefully, but I was alone.
I took the stone I’d used to kill Wright and dropped it in the water. It sank without trace.
The paperwork was mounting up on Oakley’s desk but the case had made scant headway. More than a week had passed since the body had been found – and the victim had now been dead for about three weeks – but Oakley felt no closer to finding the culprit than he had on the first day. The team was still working furiously, throwing every ounce of energy into the enquiry, but he knew that would change if their efforts didn’t take them somewhere soon.
Evans was following the lead about the woman in the headscarf, juggling it with the black plastic enquiry. FSS had come through on the partial fingerprints at last, and had provided a long list of possible matches. These were prints that were too smudged or fragmented to provide a positive match, but that had a few points in common with prints on record. Merrick was working through them. All needed to be checked and eliminated with alibis. In his spare time he was still trying to identify the man who had been with Paxton in the gay bar. Davis had told him scornfully that that line of enquiry was dead, but he’d started, and a streak of obstinacy in him made him reluctant to give up. Davis was learning more than she ever wanted to know about nanotechnology and trying to liaise with the unreliable and bureaucratic Albanians. Taylor was keeping the media at bay.
Meanwhile, door-to-door enquiries were continuing, although these were yielding little of value, and the British Embassy in Saudi Arabia was contacting the Harton family. Oakley was in charge of coordinating it all, and was also pursuing the anonymous note, albeit without Taylor’s blessing – and the superintendent had certainly not bothered to mention the one he’d trashed.
Oakley concentrated from six until ten on the mass of reports, and managed to plough through a quarter of them. Because it was in a basement and windowless, the room soon became stuffy, and after four hours his head ached. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
He’d been reading an account of Kovac from the Albanian police, which had been translated by Professor Jinic. Kovac was a minor celebrity in his country, often invited on national television to talk about subjects as diverse as the Hubble telescope, global warming and dinosaur extinction. His achievements in nanotechnology seemed to warrant less publicity.
Why? Because the public was more interested in ‘popular’ science? Because Kovac wanted to keep his research secret? Or just because Albanian television had yet to make a documentary on theoretical physics?
Oakley had also learned that Kovac had been arrested in his youth for subversion, although there was nothing to suggest he’d done anything more serious than sit with like-minded students in smoky cafes to discuss politics. His ‘insurgency’ couldn’t have been too bad, because he’d been allowed to travel once he became a professor, and he had made regular trips not only to Britain, but to the United States.
Oakley called for Evans, and pointed out that if Kovac had been arrested in his radical youth, there should be records of his fingerprints, so why weren’t they with the information that had been sent? Evans explained that after the collapse of the Albanian communist regime a number of government buildings had been set alight. It was possible that Kovac’s records were already lost. He agreed to follow up, but clearly thought it was a waste of time.
‘So we’re just waiting,’ said Oakley, dispirited. ‘Waiting to see if Merrick can link a partial print to a viable suspect; waiting for Tirana to be more helpful; waiting for something to turn up from the black plastic enquiry; waiting for our body to be matched to a missing person; waiting for FSS to analyse the saliva on our anonymous letter; waiting for a witness to remember something to tell us.’
‘We’ve got the scarf enquiry,’ said Evans, irked that his ‘baby’ had not been mentioned in Oakley’s list. ‘I’ve got an artist’s impression and I was going to hawk it around Orchard Street this afternoon to see if it jogs anyone’s memory.’
He rifled among some papers and produced a rather attractive picture, more like art than evidence. It showed a slim woman wearing a calf-length dark coat with a scarf tied at the back of her neck. She was looking down, her face in shadow. Her hands were in her pockets, and her posture was rather furtive. Oakley thought she looked like a Second World War heroine, about to give vital information against the Germans.
‘Is that how your witness recalls the scarf being tied?’ he asked, thinking about his conversation with Anderson. ‘The ends linked together at the back? Not knotted under the chin?’
‘Both witnesses say it was like this,’ said Evans. ‘Besides, what woman would tie a scarf under her chin these days?’
‘It’s good,’ conceded Oakley. ‘Get a copy put up in the reception area, too. Who knows? It might prompt someone. She’s too young for that look, anyway.’
‘This is a woman in her twenties or early thirties,’ agreed Evans.
‘I don’t think you can go that far,’ cautioned Oakley. ‘But it’s not a pensioner. It could be someone of sixty. It could be Maureen Paxton.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Evans. ‘I bet she’s got headscarves.’
‘This could be our best way forward,’ said Oakley, sensing there might be some mileage in the lead after all. ‘If anyone in Orchard Street is out when you call today, make sure you get them tomorrow.’
‘How’s the note business going?’ asked Evans.
‘Nowhere – until FSS gets back to us about the stamp. But I think I’ll speak to Yorke’s little brother this afternoon. Why not? We’ve nothing to lose.’
‘Want me to come?’
‘No, you work on the scarf. I’ll take Dave instead. It’s about time he met the Yorke clan, and it might be a good idea to have some fresh eyes looking at them. We’ve known them too long.’
‘Give me a mysterious woman over an interview with Michael Yorke any day,’ said Evans vehemently. ‘He threatened us the last time we met, remember?’
‘It was just sabre rattling.’ Oakley didn’t mention his second encounter with Michael, when the man had again indicated that he thought the police had something to do with Paxton’s sudden disappearance.
‘You look tired, Guv. You should get a strong coffee before you see Yorke. You need to be at your best or he’ll make mincemeat of you.’
Oakley knew he looked seedy. His relationship with Catherine was at the stage where they wanted to spend a lot of time together – preferably awake – and he’d had less than three hours sleep the previous night. She’d gone to work at five so he’d driven her to the hospital, then come to the station. Now he was wondering if it would have been wiser to have stayed in bed. Still, he intended to take Sunday off, when he would doubtless exhaust himself further with Catherine. He hoped she’d be free.
He went to the men’s toilet and splashed cold water over his face, then decided to go to Orchard Street to look around again. It would give him a break before seeing Yorke, and might even inspire him to new solutions. The investigation already felt stale.
Merrick arrived, looking fresh, neat and cool in a loose cotton shirt and neatly pressed chinos, and offered to go with him. They had a late breakfast first, ordering the ‘station special’: fried eggs, greasy sausages, flaccid bacon, black pudding and tinned tomatoes. Two cups of tea washed it down, leaving Oakley overloaded and slightly queasy. He nearly always felt ill after a station special, and wondered why he never learned to stick to the toast.
It was a hot day, and the city was busy with folk out shopping or seeking cool breezes around the waterfront. There were sun umbrellas everywhere, and those cafes with tables and chairs outside were enjoying a roaring trade. Traffic fumes hung in the air like poison, mixed with the sulphurous odour from the harbour. Oakley saw a child sucking desperately on an asthma inhaler while her parents crouched next to her in mute concern. Nearby, two mothers with prams stood chatting as a bus belched exhaust over them all.
Orchard Street seemed pleasantly quiet after the bustle of the city centre. Curtains were drawn to keep out the sun, while gardens wilted in the heat, their lawns yellow-brown.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Oakley as they pulled up at the house. ‘I forgot to bring the keys.’
Merrick jangled them jauntily. ‘I didn’t. We normally lock them in the filing cabinet, but someone had accidentally left them on the windowsill instead. I happened to spot them as we left, and thought we might need them.’
‘We’re slipping,’ said Oakley disapprovingly. ‘I’ll have a word about security at tonight’s briefing. Come on. Let’s see what brilliant insights come to us by revisiting the crime scene.’ He stopped dead. ‘Where’s the guard?’
‘Uniform pulled out because they’re busy. It’s been unguarded since about eleven last night.’
Oakley sighed. ‘They should have told us.’
‘They did – DI Davis – but there wasn’t much she could do about it. If uniform doesn’t have the manpower, it doesn’t have the manpower.’
Shaking his head, Oakley slipped the key into the lock and opened the door. In the distance, the cathedral bells were chiming twelve o’clock. Oakley walked straight to the kitchen, while Merrick went into the lounge.
‘Guv! In here! Quick!’
The suspicious death of a police officer warranted some very specific procedures. The duty superintendent, SOCO and police surgeon were all immediately contacted, and all available officers were assigned to initial house-to-house enquiries – but the investigation into Wright’s death would be headed by another station, to eliminate mistakes made by anyone emotionally involved.
The first thing Oakley and Merrick did was make sure there was no one hiding in the house – Wright clearly hadn’t been dead long because the blood was still wet. Then they began calling for the long list of services they knew they would need. An ambulance was not among them.
Before they left the house to senior officers and SOCO, Oakley stood over Wright and stared down at the body. As he would not be investigating the murder, it would be the only opportunity he would have, so he tried to fix every detail in his mind. Wright had probably been kneeling when he had been attacked, because both blows seemed to have been delivered from above. There was a piece of paper poking from underneath him: a betting slip.
What had Wright been doing there? Was the betting slip relevant? Did he have a gambling problem? He earned a respectable salary as sergeant, but his clothes were cheap. Did that mean his debts had left him short of money? And if so, had someone at Urvine and Brotherton homed in on it and paid him to photograph confidential police files? Worse, had he accepted money to gossip to them about Butterworth’s Blunder? Wright had always been in the frame for that, as far as Oakley was concerned.
He and Merrick were taken back to the station in separate cars and interviewed at length by senior officers from Professional Standards. As the person who ‘finds’ a murder victim is often also the killer, the visiting superintendents were interested to hear that Oakley had a history of disagreements with Wright. Oakley was grateful that Merrick had been with him.
The death of Wright overshadowed everything else that day. The police surgeon estimated the time of death as between five thirty and seven o’clock that morning, while the cause was two blows to the head from a heavy blunt instrument. It wasn’t yet known whether any of the ornamental stones along the mantelpiece were missing but they had been photographed for the first murder, so it was only a matter of time before that was resolved.
Policemen talked, and the death of someone they’d known was inevitably going to be the subject of rumours. There was a short-lived one that Oakley had done it, but it was quickly established that he had alibis at the hospital and then at the station, and the time he’d taken to drive between the two – quickly, because it had been too early for traffic – wouldn’t have allowed for a detour to Orchard Street.
Davis was another brief suspect, but she had alibis in her husband and three daughters – a problem with a pet duck had seen them all together from three that morning onwards, huddled worriedly over a basket. Helen Anderson also came under suspicion, but it was quickly established that she hadn’t had access to the house keys, and there was no evidence that the lock on Orchard Street had been forced. Moreover, a number of grateful residents were willing to attest that she was innocent of any wrong-doing. They’d seen the patrol car drop her off at number nine, after which she’d gone to help with the lorry. One witness even claimed that she hadn’t been out of his sight from the moment she’d arrived – he’d been angry that the police were guarding the house, but hadn’t responded to his complaint about the lorry.
So, the rumour-makers decided that the original murderer had sneaked back to the scene of his crime while it was left unguarded for the first time in a week. Wright had caught him and had died fighting him. But there was one question that no one could answer: why had Wright been there in the first place?
For the first time since joining the force, I was given a taste of what it felt like to be on the other side of the table. The three superintendents from Professional Standards were grim, hatchet-faced men, who clearly intended to put the fear of God into me. I knew I’d have to be careful. They introduced themselves. The skinny, bald one with the big hands was Sampson, the short one with the glasses was Parker, and the one with the deep tan and the wrinkles was Kidmore.
‘Tell us what happened this morning,’ said Sampson crisply. ‘In your own words.’
‘I arrived at work at ten to six, and was told that I’d been assigned to stand guard at Orchard Street. PC Franklin gave me a lift, and we arrived at about quarter past six.’
‘PC Franklin said it was twenty past,’ pounced Kidmore pedantically.
‘Perhaps it was,’ I said, trying not to sound too eager. That five minutes might see me in the clear. ‘The first thing I did was have a careful look around the garden.’
‘Why?’ demanded Sampson.
‘Because there hadn’t been a guard since eleven the previous night, and I thought I ought to check it over. There wasn’t anything else to do, anyway. Standing outside an empty house isn’t very interesting.’ I spoke with a spark of defiance. I hoped they’d look at the records and ask why I’d been given so much guard duty when it should have been shared out more equally. It would scream of sexism, and wouldn’t do Wright’s reputation any good.
Sampson nodded approvingly. ‘That shows initiative. Did you notice anything unusual?’
My thoughts raced. Here was an opportunity to make something up, to invent a clue or a happening that would lead them away from me. But I decided against it. The less I said, the less chance there was of slipping up.
‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘After the garden I pushed on the door to make sure it was locked. You may find my fingerprints on it.’
‘We did,’ confirmed Parker dourly. ‘A whole hand, actually.’
I raised it, fingers splayed, and showed them how I’d shoved at the door. ‘It was locked, and I pushed quite hard. Obviously, I couldn’t check the back door, because it can only be reached from inside the house. Well, I suppose you could get to it through the neighbours’ garden …’
‘Quite so,’ said Parker. ‘Then what?’
‘Then I got a call from PC Jeavis, the radio operator, telling me to sort out the lorry at the end of the street because there had been a number of complaints about it.’
‘Did you go immediately?’ asked Sampson.
‘I told Jeeves that I shouldn’t leave the house unguarded. He said it’d been abandoned all night, so a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.’
‘We have that conversation on tape,’ said Parker.
‘How long did it take to deal with the lorry?’ asked Kidmore.
‘I’m not sure. Forty minutes, perhaps? It had got itself into an awful muddle. It wouldn’t have taken quite so long if I hadn’t had to keep stopping to let the traffic filter past.’
‘You were clearly busy,’ said Sampson. ‘But did you find time to glance up the street, or to have a look at the people who’d gathered to watch you work?’
So they hoped I’d seen the killer. It really was tempting to make something up.
‘No,’ I said after a moment of reflection. ‘I’m sorry, but the wagon was huge, and I didn’t want it to damage someone’s car. It took all my concentration. And anyway, the road bends slightly, and I’m not sure if the house can be seen from where I was working.’
‘It does,’ agreed Kidmore crisply. ‘And it can’t.’
Thank God I’d resisted the urge to fabricate! They were trying to catch me out, the ruthless bastards!
‘Sergeant Wright put you on report yesterday,’ said Parker. He was the nasty one. Or perhaps he was the openly nasty one, and the others were just as bad, only they hid it with a veneer of pleasantness. ‘Would you like to tell us about that?’
I knew that Oakley, Davis and Jeeves had already been interviewed, so the three superintendents knew exactly what had happened. I wondered how they’d interpreted it – aggressive, sexist Wright picking on a woman yet again, or tough, decent Wright trying to make an officer out of a sow’s ear.
‘I’d gone on an errand for DI Oakley,’ I explained. ‘I realize now that I shouldn’t have done without checking with Sergeant Wright. But I didn’t think, and I set off without calling it in. Sergeant Wright recalled me and dressed me down in the briefing room in front of everyone.’
‘You must’ve been angry,’ said Parker smoothly. ‘An inspector orders you to do something you weren’t in a position to refuse, and you get into trouble for it?’
I was right. Parker was the nasty one. ‘Embarrassed,’ I corrected. ‘He shouldn’t have shouted at me in public. He should’ve done it in private. I would’ve, if I’d been in his position.’
‘Would you now,’ said Parker noncommittally. ‘So you weren’t angry?’
‘I was embarrassed,’ I repeated firmly. ‘I still am – about the fact that he went for me in public, and that he made me cry. I shouldn’t have let him. Maybe I’ll be angry later.’
‘Would you say he was a popular officer?’ asked Kidmore.
‘A number of people liked him,’ I replied cautiously.
‘Did you?’ asked Parker.
‘No,’ I said bluntly. ‘I didn’t.’
Why was I telling them I had good reason for killing the bastard? Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? Unexpectedly, Parker smiled.
‘I like honesty, WPC Anderson, and to be frank, I wouldn’t have believed you if you’d said otherwise. I know female officers found Wright difficult, and from what I’ve heard he was more difficult with you than most. Why didn’t you complain?’
‘Because I wasn’t sure it would achieve anything.’
‘I’m sorry to hear you think that,’ said Kidmore, sounding genuine. ‘We’ve been working to create a force in which sexism and bullying are things of the past. I’m appalled by what’s happened here. I hope you – or anyone else – won’t be so reticent in the future.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I gave him a sort of half smile and stayed silent. The three men looked at each other, and Parker leaned across to say something in a low voice to the others. Sampson stood up.
‘I think that’s all,’ he said. ‘Of course, if anything else occurs to you, please contact us at once. I must ask you not to discuss this conversation with your colleagues. Unproven speculation and rumours do no one any good, and may even hamper the investigation.’
‘I know,’ I said, managing to inject a note of indignation into my voice that they should consider me a gossip. ‘Of course I won’t discuss it.’
In the days immediately following the murder of Wright a number of facts emerged. Some became general knowledge and some were shared only by those who ‘needed to know’. Among the former was the fact that Wright had taken the Orchard Street keys from the incident room and made a copy at a local shop – the bright, shiny Yale had been in his jeans pocket. His colleagues had many ideas about why he would do this, some reflecting favourably on him, most not.
A search of Wright’s house revealed things that didn’t become common knowledge. One was that he had photocopies from the station’s property book, including the page that contained Butterworth’s Blunder. It was concluded that Wright had either approached Paxton with the information or had left it in a place where he knew the lawyer would find it, in order to cause the Noble case to fail.
‘And you don’t need me to tell you his motive,’ Davis had told the three superintendents. ‘It was to discredit Neel Oakley – just because Neel is half-Indian.’
Another item found in Wright’s home was a crumpled prescription form. It was made out to Butterworth for a mild anti-depressant. It was concluded that the sergeant had either seen Butterworth throw it away or he had found it in a bin. Regardless, the knowledge had allowed him to start the rumour that Butterworth had committed suicide when he had stepped in front of the lorry.
Oakley burned with a cold, dark anger. If Wright had had any decency he would have told him that Butterworth had not collected the prescription that might have helped him keep things in perspective. He was sure he could have persuaded his friend to take the pills – and Mark might still be alive.
The station divided into two camps: those who wanted to dissociate themselves from Wright’s infamous bigotry and those who wanted to remember the good things about him. Jeeves was firmly in the former, painfully aware that he might be tarred with Wright’s brush if Oakley mentioned the episode in the radio room. Keen to ensure that Oakley knew Wright’s views weren’t his own – and hoping to curry favour by passing information to him before he told the superintendents from Professional Standards – Jeeves sought out the DI in the canteen.
‘I need some advice, Guv,’ he said, sitting down. Oakley folded his newspaper and waited. ‘Barry Wright told me a few things the night before he was killed. I’ve been thinking about them, and I don’t know what to do. It might be nothing, in which case I should forget about them and let him lie in peace. But it might be something …’
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said Oakley, when Jeeves paused.
‘He was one of us,’ said Jeeves unhappily. ‘He had his faults, but I don’t want to say things when he can’t speak to defend himself.’
‘Don’t eulogize over him, Jeeves. He wasn’t “one of us” as far as I’m concerned. He was a dinosaur, and his attitudes were dangerous and unpleasant.’
‘I’m sorry I was listening to him that day in the radio room,’ blurted Jeeves, ‘when you came in. But what else could I do? I couldn’t tell him to shut up, could I?’
‘Of course you could,’ countered Oakley. ‘But don’t worry, I won’t tell the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse this time. We’ll just let it go, shall we?’
Jeeves nodded in relief, then began his story. ‘Barry and me went for a drink after work on Friday – not the Mucky Duck, where we usually go, but a place near Redcliffe Bridge. He said he didn’t want to be with a lot of bobbies because he was upset by that Helen Anderson business.’
‘He was angry,’ corrected Oakley. ‘Not upset.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, because he was off the next day, he drank a fair bit.’
‘So I gather.’ The post-mortem results indicated that Wright must have been reeling from the amount of alcohol he’d consumed over the previous eight hours.
‘I left him at midnight – I had to get up early, even if he didn’t. He was pretty drunk, so I took his car keys. I didn’t want him driving home.’
‘And I suppose you noticed then that he had his car keys, his house keys, and another key all bright and shiny?’
Jeeves nodded. ‘The new one was with his car keys, and he made me take it off the fob and give it back. He wouldn’t say what it was for, and there was no reason for me to recognize it. But yesterday I got to thinking. He went to get a sandwich at Asda on Friday lunchtime. There’s a key-cutting place nearby …’
‘So, you think he took the Orchard Street keys from the incident room and went to copy them during his lunch break?’
Jeeves nodded. ‘He insisted on coming back to the station before he took the next call, which was weird, as it meant retracing his steps, but I understand now – it was to return them before they were missed.’
‘You should tell the Three Horsemen this,’ said Oakley, reaching for his paper. ‘I don’t see why you need me to encourage you.’
‘That’s not all. When we were at the pub he talked about the anonymous note on the wall of the incident room. While he did, he was looking right at Michael Yorke and Dave Randal, who were sitting in a corner with a couple of women.’
Oakley was astonished. ‘You drink in a pub that’s frequented by criminals?’
‘It was the Hole in the Wall, Guv.’ Jeeves was defensive. ‘It’s a classy place. It’s not our fault that Michael and Randal were there that night.’
‘So, the meeting was coincidental?’
Jeeves was becoming agitated, seeing in Oakley’s questions the conclusions Professional Standards might draw. ‘Of course! You don’t think I’d have anything to do with the likes of the Yorke gang, do you?’
‘No,’ said Oakley, after a moment. He did, however, think that Wright might. ‘Go on.’
‘After a while Randal went to the bog, and Barry followed him. When they came out, Barry showed me a betting slip. I think he’d picked Randal’s pocket.’
‘What did he say when he showed it to you?’
‘He just grinned and put it in his wallet. Then he went back to slagging you off, saying that you couldn’t catch the murderer, so he’d have to lend you a hand.’
‘So he stole the betting slip from Randal and was in the process of planting it when someone killed him,’ mused Oakley. ‘It fits the material evidence, it sounds like something he would do, and it explains why he was there.’
‘It doesn’t explain who killed him, though,’ said Jeeves. ‘It wasn’t Randal, because I don’t think he knew what Barry had done. I doubt he or Michael even noticed us.’
‘You need to report this immediately.’ Personally Oakley thought that Jeeves was a fool to have left it so long. It looked furtive, to say the least. ‘When they ask why you haven’t mentioned it before you can say it’s only just made sense to you. That’s true, isn’t it?’
‘It is clearer now I’ve discussed it with you. Do you think Barry was right? The Yorke clan does have something to do with Kovac? Yet why would they kill a foreign physicist?’
‘I don’t know. But I think it’s time we paid another visit to Michael and Randal.’
Before I went home that day I was pleased to hear that one of my anonymous notes was being taken seriously at last – God only knows what happened to the other one. Apparently Oakley was frustrated because there hadn’t been a single strand of evidence for FSS to find. I was pleased. All my care and attention to detail had paid off. He wasn’t the only one who could be meticulous.
He and Merrick were going to visit the Yorkes soon, although I overheard Superintendent Taylor telling them that they were wasting their time. Wright had believed my note, though, or he wouldn’t have been planting ‘evidence’ to implicate them. Jeeves told me about it, although he wasn’t supposed to. Jeeves is rubbish at keeping secrets.
I thought it ironic that Wright’s death should come about as a result of my note, and all I can say is that he must have been really drunk to think that he could introduce the betting slip to the crime scene at that stage of the investigation. Perhaps he’d intended to ‘find’ it himself – an experienced officer solving the case with a quick and penetrating look around him. I doubt Oakley would have fallen for it, though.
The other thing I gleaned from the grapevine was that Wright had given James the information about Butterworth’s Blunder – he’d photocopied the property book. But his bank account didn’t show any sudden and inexplicable payments, so it was generally assumed that his motives were malicious rather than fiscal.
I was livid, though, because I saw that I’d probably told James nothing he didn’t already know from Wright about Butterworth’s Blunder on that horrible day on the train. He’d merely wanted to put me in a terrible situation, so that he could use my guilty conscience to blackmail me later. He’d played me for a gullible fool.
Still fuming, I went home to get ready to see a play at the Old Vic with Colin. My life was so much better than it had been the week before. Colin and I were still getting to know each other, and I liked him more and more. Wright was gone, and the atmosphere at work had been much nicer, despite the shock at his death. Taylor had ordered Oakley not to waste any more time on James’ disappearance, while DI Davis was doggedly bent on proving that Kovac was the killer. And James’ murder seemed a lifetime ago. I barely thought about Wright’s. Perhaps I was getting used to them.
The police search for Marko Kovac grew more intense now that the case involved the death of one of their own. His photograph was shown again and again on television, with a bulletin to say he was wanted for questioning.
There were two theories among the murder squad officers. First, Davis led a faction that thought Kovac had murdered either someone connected to his secret policeman brother, or someone trying to steal his research. This scenario had him returning to the house when the guard was absent, so he’d been there when Wright had arrived.
The second theory, headed by Evans, was that Kovac was the victim. He’d been delayed in leaving, and the Yorke gang had found him in a house that should have been empty. He was killed to ensure his silence. The gang had then waited until the police stopped guarding number nine, and had killed Wright when he burst in on them.
The problem Oakley had with both hypotheses was the house – why would Kovac return to a place he had cleaned his belongings out of, and why would the Yorke gang be there at all, never mind going back again later? He also thought Wright’s death was more complex than just stumbling across the culprit and paying the price. But he had no better explanation, and Taylor was beginning to lose patience with his refusal to accept the conveniently missing Albanian as a solution to the mysteries.
He visited the university again that evening, but the department was locked up. He was about to leave when he saw Ron Yates carrying two buckets of dirty water.
‘Trouble?’ he asked, watching Yates tip them down the drain.
‘An ongoing problem – a flood in the basement. Any news on Marko?’
Oakley shook his head. ‘But I wondered if he’d received any post this week that might help us find him.’ He knew he sounded as though he was snatching at straws. ‘May I look?’
‘Nothing came this morning – I’ve been keeping an eye on it, like you asked. But there might have been a delivery this afternoon. Come in, and we’ll check his pigeon hole.’
Oakley followed him along a corridor and down a flight of stairs, where Yates stepped carefully across a puddled floor that was swathed in black plastic, all fixed together with thick lines of silver tape. A large roll of the plastic lay at the far end of the room, along with a box containing a dozen rolls of duct tape.
Oakley stared at them. ‘Did Kovac ever ask for any of this?’
Yates shook his head. ‘No, why?’
‘Then could he have helped himself?’
Yates shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so, although I can’t imagine why. No one ever comes down here except me. There’s a men’s loo over there, but most of the staff use the newer ones on the first floor.’
‘So he may have come for the toilet and seen this plastic and tape?’
Yates nodded. ‘Why? Is it important?’
Wright’s murder had taken precedence over the stale case of the unidentified body, and Oakley had been forbidden to interview the Yorke gang until it was determined if they were involved in the sergeant’s death. He protested vehemently, but the three superintendents were adamant – he might spoil their chances of nailing Wright’s killer if he asked the wrong questions. Oakley disagreed, but an order was an order, so he grudgingly abandoned that line of enquiry.
He sent a piece of plastic and a roll of tape from the university to FSS, and the result had come back surprisingly quickly – the edge of the piece from the university was a perfect match for the piece that had been wrapped around the body. Moreover, dust on both proved they came from the Victorian building that housed the physics department. Kovac was indeed responsible for taking them to Orchard Street, thus supporting the theory that he was the killer. As Davis was quick to ask, why else would he pinch them?
Oakley turned his attention back to the anonymous note, casually ignoring both Taylor’s orders and the fact that it was a lead that pointed back to the Yorkes. A handwriting expert told him nothing he couldn’t have guessed for himself: the author had used capital letters to disguise his writing and the spelling was eccentric, which suggested either a poor education or a deliberate attempt to mislead. Because the writing was neat, the palaeographer was inclined to opt for the second. This fitted in with the pains the writer had taken to make sure there was no trace evidence.
The saliva test on the stamp didn’t look promising, either. There wasn’t enough of it, and the hot weather since it had been posted had degraded the DNA. FSS hadn’t given up completely, though, and one dedicated soul was working on it just for the challenge.
Oakley sat at his desk that evening, put his feet up, and accepted the mug of the powerful coffee Evans brought him. ‘Let’s review what we’ve got – not theories and hunches, but actual facts.’
‘All right,’ said Evans, pulling up a chair. ‘Kovac stole black plastic and tape from the university – and there’s no reason why he should do that except to wrap a body.’
‘Let’s not start with him. Let’s look at the Yorke gang.’
‘Why? We’ll never get to talk to them as long as the Three Tenors are here.’
Oakley ignored him. ‘Yorke thought Paxton was going to get him bail – a fact borne out by Giles Farnaby’s statement and by the anonymous note. But Paxton disappeared two days before the hearing. Now, I know coincidences happen, but I don’t like this one at all, and I’m thinking more and more that the body might be his.’
‘But he’s gone off with his gay pals,’ sighed Evans. ‘Even his colleagues think so.’
‘But his mother doesn’t, and she knows him better than they do. Let’s assume he hasn’t, and something bad has happened to him.’
‘Then his disappearance fits with our body’s estimated time of death. Moreover, the corpse was wearing a nice suit and a white shirt – lawyer’s attire. No tie, though, and Paxton was a man who liked ties, according to Mummy. However, there’s one big problem with that theory: our body isn’t Paxton, because the dental records don’t match.’
‘Did Grossman look at anything other than the missing tooth? What about fillings, bridges or whatever? Did he check any of that?’
‘There was no point. The lost premolar eliminates him. Full stop.’
‘What if someone tampered with the dental records? Such as his mother?’
‘Come on, Guv! She wants him identified. Why would she try to mislead us?’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit gruesome, bringing your son’s dental records to be tested against an unidentified body? Perhaps she knows it’s him, but doesn’t want us to know.’
‘Now you’re in La-La Land,’ said Evans firmly. ‘Sorry, Guv, but our body isn’t Paxton, and if you think it is, then it’s just wishful thinking.’
‘Let’s just make sure,’ said Oakley, reaching for his jacket. ‘I’ve had a funny feeling about this for a while. Grossman should still be around. Let’s get him to have another look.’
‘What, now?’ asked Evans without enthusiasm. ‘It’s gone eight on a Friday night. He will have gone home by now.’
‘He’s there – I heard Taylor talking to him on the phone about a traffic accident not long ago.’
‘He won’t like it,’ warned Evans. ‘He’ll think you’re questioning his competency.’
‘I am,’ said Oakley.
Evans was right: Grossman wasn’t pleased that Oakley wanted him to go over something he’d already done, especially as he had two victims from a fatal pile-up on the M4. He refused at first, but relented when he realized Oakley wasn’t going to leave until he obliged. With bad grace, he snatched up a dental mirror, grabbed Paxton’s chart and hauled open the drawer that contained the body.
‘Look,’ he said, exasperated. ‘Paxton was missing a premolar – this fellow has all four present and correct. Paxton had a filling in his lower central incisor – this fellow’s incisors are untouched. It’s not the same man.’
‘Are those the only differences?’ pressed Oakley. ‘What about that big gold crown at the back? Does Paxton have one of those?’
Grossman studied the record. ‘Yes. And a bridge across the lower left seven and eight.’ He frowned. ‘And a complete veneering of all four upper incisors. Curious.’
‘Meaning what?’ asked Oakley impatiently.
‘Meaning there are two definite differences between this man and Paxton, but there are several similarities, including some distinctive cosmetic work.’
‘So what are you saying? Is it Paxton or not?’
Grossman looked furtive. ‘Perhaps I should call in a forensic odontologist.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘I don’t know. A couple of days.’
‘And in the meantime?’ asked Oakley, frustrated.
‘I suggest you get a sample of Paxton’s DNA. His toothbrush would be best. Or his razor.’
‘So it is him?’ demanded Oakley. ‘We’ve got an ID at last?’
Grossman nodded slowly. ‘I can’t say for sure, you understand, but I’d be surprised now if it proved to be someone else.’
I finished work at ten o’clock that night and planned to go straight to Colin’s place. I’d enjoyed my day, and had impressed Inspector Blake by getting two juvenile shoplifters to confess to a whole string of other offences. For the first time in ages I felt as though I was good at my job. There was no question about it: Wright’s absence definitely made the world a better place.
I was humming as I walked out – until I met Oakley and Evans, who were just coming in and looked really pleased with themselves. I asked why.
‘We need DNA to be sure,’ said Oakley, ‘but I think we’ve finally got an ID for our body. It’s James Paxton!’
I felt as though the world had suddenly stopped spinning. I’d just about rebuilt my life, only to have it crashing down around me again.
‘I thought dental records indicated otherwise,’ I said, with a mouth so dry that it felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool.
‘Some clerk must have cocked up,’ Oakley explained. ‘A filling and an extraction were mis-marked. We’ll check with the dentist tomorrow.’
‘Grossman is past it,’ said Evans disparagingly. ‘He should have noticed the similarities as well as the differences. It’s time he retired.’
They walked away, discussing Grossman’s incompetence, and leaving me weak-kneed in the doorway. My head was pounding this time, as well as my heart.
How long before they requested James’ phone records, and discovered that I’d been the last person he’d contacted? I’d done all in my power to prevent them from learning it was James, and I’d bought myself a lot of time. But now what? I forced myself to walk down the steps, hoping that my shaking legs wouldn’t deposit me in a heap on the ground.