‘So we won’t discover any forensic evidence to suggest you visited the house where Matthew was found dead?’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘You say you’re coming clean. Now’s the time to get everything out in the open.’
‘I swear. I haven’t been there. Ever.’
Webley looks across at Cody. He says, ‘There’s one way we can clear this up, of course.’
‘What’s that?’ says Fulton.
‘You could volunteer to give us your fingerprints and a DNA sample. We could compare it with the evidence we have from the crime scene.’
‘You asked me for that before.’
‘And you said no. You can still say no, or you can do something to help both us and yourself. Why not take yourself off our radar while you have the opportunity?’
Fulton looks at each of the detectives in turn. Cody fully expects a negative answer again. This man doesn’t like the police, he resents being accused of involvement in a crime, and he seems to feel the whole world is against him. Even if he is innocent, he will probably say no just to make things awkward for everyone else.
‘All right,’ says Fulton. ‘I’ll do it.’
*
They leave Fulton alone in the interview room for a few minutes. Outside, Webley says to Cody, ‘What do you think?’
‘Not sure. He may be clean. On the other hand, he may have had help killing Prior, and is gambling on the hope that the forensic evidence we have belongs to one of his associates.’
Webley nods. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’
‘Yeah. You mind taking care of the prints and samples?’
‘Sure. You off somewhere?’
‘There’s a couple of things I need to take care of.’
‘Connected with the case?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Well, do you fancy letting me in on it?’
‘If it pays off, you’ll be the first to know.’
She gives him a look he remembers well from the time when they were going out together. A look that says, You’re hiding something.
‘Cody, are you sure everything is all right?’
‘Yes!’ he snaps. ‘I’m fine. Why does everyone keep asking me if I’m okay? Jesus!’
And then he turns and marches away, his mind raging at this latest step on his path to self-destruction.
52
Walgrave and Palmer is almost an anachronism on Castle Street in the city’s business district. It sits discreetly between its brasher neighbours, relying on reputation and word of mouth for its clientele rather than gaudy neon announcements as to its presence. No loud music blares from its doorway: one has to step across the threshold to be bathed by its soothing violin concertos. Inside, there are no training shoes or, heaven forbid, flip-flops. The air is suffused with the aromas of supple Italian leather and high-grade polish. Where many other shoe shops employ gum-chewing, floppy-haired, tattooed youths who barely know a left foot from a right, this particular emporium is staffed only by its owners: the esteemed Mr Walgrave and the erudite Mr Palmer.
As Cody approaches the counter, he is acutely aware that the pair are studying him intently. They look to be in their late fifties, and both are smartly attired in three-piece suits – one a slightly darker shade of grey than the other. Cody is willing to bet that the shoes they are now wearing bear not a single scuff mark, in direct contrast to his own shabby, misshapen footwear. He is also willing to bet that Walgrave is the one on the left, and that they always stand in that configuration – the Ant and Dec of the shoe world.
‘Hello,’ says Cody, in a somewhat hushed tone. He feels like he’s in a library.
The first man nods his head, as though he is meeting royalty. ‘Good morning, sir.’ He turns to his colleague. ‘A ten, wouldn’t you say, Mr Palmer?’
‘Most definitely, Mr Walgrave.’
‘I’m sorry?’ says Cody, wondering what his score is for, and whether the scale goes higher than ten.
‘Your shoes, sir. Size ten, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Oh,’ says Cody. ‘Yes. I’m a ten.’
‘And forgive me for saying so, but you exhibit a noticeable ambulatory perturbation. An over-compensation for some anomaly, perhaps?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Cody says again.
Walgrave lines up his hands in front of him, then shifts them so they are askew, as if that might explain things. ‘There is a distinct imbalance when you place your feet, as if you are experiencing some slight difficulty in walking.’
‘Oh, that. Yes. I have some toes missing. Two on each foot.’
‘That would certainly account for it. How unfortunate.’
‘An impediment indeed,’ says Palmer.
Walgrave turns to his left again. ‘Very amusing, Mr Palmer. Greek?’
‘Latin.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’m—’ Cody begins, then realises he was about to say sorry for the third time. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Mr Palmer was making a little joke. The word impediment, you see, derives from the Latin word for foot. It means literally to have a shackled foot.’
An image of someone else with a shackled foot jumps to Cody’s mind.
‘From that root we also get the words biped and pedal,’ Walgrave continues.
‘And also pedestrian, pedicure, pedestal and centipede,’ says Palmer.
‘But not paediatrician or paedophile.’
‘No. They are from the Greek. The word there means “child”.’
‘I see,’ says Cody. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if you could help me.’
‘We most certainly could, and it would be our pleasure so to do. Although, it’s a pity you didn’t come to us some time ago.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes. Those items currently encasing your fortune-stricken feet are not doing anything to correct the situation.’
‘In fact,’ Palmer adds, ‘they are making it much worse.’
‘In time, your gait will deteriorate, and you will begin to suffer pain in your legs and then your back.’
‘If we intervene now, however, there is much we can to do to improve matters without sacrificing aesthetic quality.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ says Cody. ‘I didn’t come here to buy shoes.’
The two men go quiet, and stare at Cody as though he has just spoken in an alien tongue. Cody reaches into his jacket and produces his warrant card.
‘I’m a police officer.’
‘Ah,’ says Walgrave. ‘A member of the constabulary.’
‘One of our boys in blue,’ says Palmer.
‘We see many of your colleagues here. As I understand it, your occupation entails a considerable amount of walking. The health of one’s feet is of paramount importance in a job such as yours.’
‘Yes,’ Cody says, ‘but that’s not what I’ve come here about. Just a sec . . .’ He reaches into his pocket again, takes out his phone and finds a photograph of the shoe belonging to Clueless.
‘Do you recognise this?’
Both men bend forward in unison, as though they are about to embark on a synchronised Olympic dive.
‘Ah, yes. The Oxbridge Endeavour. A very fine shoe. The manufacturers make use of a unique—’
‘This was a sale item. Last pair in the shop, at £49.99.’
‘Absolute bargain! Rest assured that you won’t find a shoe of that quality at a better—’
‘Do you know who bought it?’
‘I can do better than that,’ says Walgrave, holding back his excitement. ‘I know who bought the pair!’
The two men laugh uproariously at the joke, but Cody has attached himself solely to the fact that he is getting close to knowing who Clueless is.
‘And?’
‘Sir?’ says Walgrave when he regains his composure.
‘The man who bought these shoes. Who was it?’
‘Well, sir, as I’m sure you will appreciate, discretion is our watchword here at Walgrave and Palmer.
Our loyal customers shop with us on the express understanding that any information they impart will be treated with the utmost confidentiality.’
Jesus, thinks Cody. This is like something out of a John le Carré novel.
But he knows he won’t get very far by trying to get tough with these two. They would demand he take the formal route, and there’s no way he can obtain a warrant for an unauthorised jaunt like this.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘I work for the Major Incident Team. That should tell you that this is a serious matter, and time is of the essence. I really wouldn’t be bothering you if it wasn’t urgent.’
Walgrave and Palmer exchange glances.
‘Perhaps there is a way,’ says Walgrave.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Perhaps if sir were to become a member of our exclusive clientele, thereby entering into the cadre of gentlemen who appreciate the ethos we embody here at W and P . . .’
‘I’m sorry?’ says Cody, not realising he has just made the third such utterance.
Palmer leans across the counter and peers down at Cody’s feet.
‘You want me to buy some shoes?’ Cody says.
‘We would like you to immerse yourself in the Walgrave and Palmer experience. We would like you to take measures to improve the health and wellbeing of your feet, your posture, your whole body. We would like you to—’
‘Right! I get it. Okay. But first the name.’
Walgrave closes his eyes for a second, as if reading a name on the back of his eyelids.
‘Those shoes were bought by Mr Keenan. Mr James Keenan.’
Cody flips to the next photograph on his phone.
‘Is this him? Is this Keenan?’
‘Not the most flattering image of him, but yes, that is indeed Mr Keenan.’
‘I don’t suppose you have an address for him?’
‘We have his telephone number.’
‘But not his address?’
Palmer raises a finger. ‘If I may interject. It was once my most earnest ambition to become a detective.’
Walgrave looks astonished. ‘I didn’t know that about you.’
‘Yes indeed. In my youth I lived vicariously through the likes of Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps I may be permitted to put some of the skills I acquired to the test now?’
‘Be my guest, Mr Palmer.’
Palmer opens a ledger on the counter. He flips through the pages, runs his finger down a column, jots a number down on his notepad. Next, he smiles, reaches beneath the counter and, with a flourish, brings a book into view.
It’s a telephone directory.
A few seconds later, Palmer is reading out Keenan’s address. He slams the book shut in triumph.
Walgrave offers a smattering of applause. ‘Bravo, Mr Palmer.’
‘Much appreciated,’ says Cody. ‘You’ve been a great help. Thank you so much.’
He puts his phone away, begins to step away from the counter. He is stopped by the sight of the two men bending forwards and peering at his feet again.
‘I believe we concluded that sir takes a size ten.’
53
Webley suspects that Cody will blow his top when he finds out.
Well, fuck him.
If he insists on acting so weird, then he should expect others to react appropriately. And this is appropriate.
She gets her first shock when the front door is opened. Sara Prior’s face is a mess. The large plaster on her cheek strains to contain a bulge the colours of a stormy sky. Her eye is half-closed.
Webley’s mind jumps to the image of Cody’s grazed knuckles.
No. Surely not.
Webley holds out her warrant card. ‘Mrs Prior? We haven’t met. I’m Detective Constable Megan Webley from the Major Incident Team.’
‘Hello,’ says Sara. ‘So you work with Sergeant Cody?’
‘Yes, that’s right. We’re both investigating the murder of your husband.’
Although it doesn’t always seem that way, she thinks.
‘I see. Have you come to give me some news about the case?’
Good question, Webley thinks. What have I come here for?
To check up on Cody – that’s why. I’ve got much better things to do, but that arsehole has driven me to this.
‘Do you mind if we talk inside?’
‘It’s . . . it’s not very convenient at the moment.’
Sara keeps the door only slightly ajar as she says this, her body obscuring Webley’s view of the interior of the house.
What is going on? Is Cody in there with her? Is that where he’s disappeared to?
Webley makes a show of wrapping her arms around herself. ‘It’s a bit nippy out here. I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea while we chat.’
Sara thinks about this for a while. Reluctantly it seems, she opens the door wider and steps aside.
‘Thank you,’ says Webley. She steps across the threshold and immediately her mouth drops open. ‘Holy shit.’ She turns to Sara behind her. ‘What the hell happened here?’
Sara folds her arms. ‘Somebody broke in.’
‘And your face?’
Sara brings a hand to her cheek. ‘This? No. I fell. I tripped over the mess.’
Webley looks again at the devastation. Uninvited, she walks through to the kitchen and then the living room.
‘Is the whole house like this?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Have you reported it? To the police, I mean?’
‘I don’t want to report it.’
‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you report this?’
‘What would be the point? I think there are people who blame me for Matthew’s death. That’s why they did this. If you catch the real killer, they will know they got it wrong. That’s enough for me.’
Webley shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, but this is still a crime. Whatever their reasons, somebody has broken in and trashed your house. I would strongly advise you to report this.’
Sara merely shrugs, and with that gesture whatever sympathy Webley might have held for this woman is washed clean away.
‘Sara, what’s really going on here?’
‘I don’t understand.’
Webley waves a hand to indicate the chaos. ‘This isn’t someone who thinks you killed your husband. You might get a brick through your window, but this is several levels above that. And that eye of yours? Somebody hit you, didn’t they?’
‘I told you. I fell.’
Webley takes a few steps towards Sara. She says, ‘You know who killed Matthew, don’t you?’
‘No. I—’
‘This was a warning from the killer, telling you to back off.’
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s either that, or else you’re involved. You had a hand in Matthew’s death. And before you say it, yes, I know you were thousands of feet in the air when it happened. You’ve got the perfect alibi. Very convenient, really.’
‘I don’t need an alibi. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Whatever. You know more than you’re saying. Some of us are working our butts off trying to help you. Day and night we are doing everything we can to catch the person who hammered nails into the body of your husband. You could help us, but you choose not to. I hope you can live with that. I don’t often say this to the family of victims, but it’s very possible that, in this instance, we are not going to catch whoever did this, simply because we don’t have enough information. Think about that, Sara. When you’re ready to talk, give me a call.’
Furious, she starts to walk away, but then Sara stops her.
‘Is that the only reason you came here? To make accusations? Did Sergeant Cody send you here to do this?’
The mention of Cody’s name pours petrol on Webley’s flames. ‘No, DS Cody did not send me here. For some strange reason, DS Cody seems to think that you can do no wrong. He seems unable to see what should be obvious to a blind person. I don’t know what spell you managed to cast over him,
but it’s not working with me. I came here for one reason only, and that’s to get to the truth. At some point you need to decide if that’s what you want too.’
*
The new shoes are a revelation. Expensive, but wonderful. He can’t fault them for either comfort or looks. He’s not certain, but he does feel as though they gently coax him to walk more properly. They even make him feel taller.
It’s almost a shame to cover them up.
He is standing in the lobby of Keenan’s house, the front door now firmly shut behind him. Getting this far wasn’t difficult. He simply marched straight up to the door as though he were a visiting salesman, then rang the bell with his elbow. When it wasn’t answered, he checked that nobody could see him in the porch, then donned a pair of blue latex gloves and used Keenan’s own key to open the door.
From the small bag he brought with him, Cody takes out a full crime scene outfit and puts it on: suit, overshoes, hairnet, and mask. He’s not sure what the fate of Clueless – or Keenan, as he now knows him – will be, but if the police ever inspect this house, he doesn’t want them to find any evidence that might point them in his direction.
He begins his search.
The problem is that he’s not sure what he’s looking for. He came here hoping for some kind of lead to either the identity or whereabouts of Waldo, but he has no idea what form it might take.
He spends nearly half an hour looking for it.
What he discovers from looking through the various documents in drawers and boxes is that Keenan lives alone, he has an MA in Business Management, he makes his living as a financial advisor, he plays tennis and squash, and he’s a fan of Elton John.
At the same time, it nags Cody that he’s not getting a complete picture here. It’s almost as if this record of Keenan’s life has been subtly edited, like a redacted transcript. For example, there are no photographs of family or partners. There is no address book. There are no highly personal letters to loved ones.
It occurs to Cody that Waldo et al may have already been here and sanitised the place, in the same way that they took away Keenan’s phone and all forms of identification.
But then Cody finds the laptop.
It’s in a drawer of the farmhouse-style kitchen table. Not the most obvious place for high-tech equipment, but Cody can picture Keenan pulling up a chair to work at this space.
Your Deepest Fear Page 23