The Autumn Tree (DI Bliss Book 8)

by Tony J. Forder

  Ansari winced. ‘That ought to keep me tied up for the next week.’

  ‘I know it’s a pain in the arse. But at least the RIPA forms have templates to work off these days.’

  ‘I was thinking more about the provider. Some of them are great to work with. With others it’s like trudging through a combination of mud, treacle, wet cement and quicksand.’

  ‘Just get the ball rolling, Gul. I’ll bring in some uniforms and a couple of civilian workers if necessary. Once you’ve completed the requests you can hand it off to one of them.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Bishop turned to Bliss and Chandler, who as usual stood next to each other. ‘You want to take the girl’s home address?’

  Bliss did, happy not to have to slog his way through Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act forms as Ansari was about to. But he also knew that Bishop had to be eager to prove himself. ‘By rights, this should be yours,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t the pair of you go,’ Chandler offered. ‘I’m sure I can make myself busy here. I have John and Phil to help.’

  Bishop readily agreed. ‘That sounds good. If you could run the office for me, Pen, so much the better. We’re still waiting on access to the crime scene photos and video files. Also, if you could call pathology and ask what time they expect to do the PM, I’d appreciate it. If it’s early and the boss and I are not back, you get the pleasure of assigning who attends.’

  Chandler groaned and hung her head. Nobody ever wanted to be selected to attend a post mortem, and handing over the shitty end of the stick was an unpleasant task. Alongside her, both Hunt and Gratton did the same, knowing they were the most likely candidates.

  ‘What about me?’ Ashton asked. He stood by the screen, its glow illuminating his face. ‘How would you like the NCA and ERSOU to follow up?’

  Bliss appreciated the investigator’s fresh approach. He’d had the stuffing knocked out of him over the past day or so, but he seemed to have learned from it and was looking to be treated as part of the team. Bliss felt a little bad about what he was now going to do, but it was for a good cause and so he didn’t miss a beat. ‘I think if Penny and our team take the solicitor and also follow up on the other escort agency as well, your time would be best spent working the Lewis Drake angle. Maybe his organisation didn’t spring her, but she’s on their books and so it’s a valid thread to pursue.’

  ‘You don’t think your local knowledge is better suited?’

  ‘I reckon it might have the opposite effect and actually hamper us, Glen. We may be too close. A fresh eye – at least to begin with – could be what this needs.’

  Ashton frowned. ‘I haven’t got to go and visit that vile dragon we spoke to yesterday, have I?’

  Bliss chuckled. ‘Who, Nicola Parkinson? No, I’ll spare you that. We may want to take a look at Igor at some point, but Pen and I know them, so we’ll handle them as and when.’

  Without the need for further instruction, the team split and set about their new areas of the investigation. Bliss caught Bishop’s eye and said, ‘Can we have a word? In your office?’

  ‘In my… you mean your office?’

  ‘Not at the moment it isn’t.’

  In silence, the two left the major incident room, walked along the corridor, pushed through the door leading into the Major Crimes Unit and went on into the office close to the near corner. The room was small and cluttered – pretty much as Bliss had left it. Both men remained standing. Bliss thought his colleague had lost weight recently; Bishop’s ill-fitting clothes hung on him more than usual, his creased shirt partially untucked. His appearance had not smartened up in line with his new role. Something Bliss would have to mention.

  But something else caught his eye, and before saying another word, he marched across to the far end of the office. On the wall was his Bliss Pissed-ometer, a joke cardboard thermometer dating back to his first posting to the city. It was intended to gauge his mood, the joke being that its settings never climbed above grumpy. He reached up and yanked it off the wall, drawing pins springing out, scattering over the carpet like a shower of confetti.

  ‘I think this has had its day,’ he said. He crumpled it in half and stuffed it into the wastepaper basket close to the desk.

  Bishop wore a look of concern. ‘That was a bit drastic, Jimmy. I realise the situation has to be hard on you, but this’ll be your office again before you know it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that, Bish.’

  ‘What? That you’ll get it back or that you’ll want it back?’

  Bliss looked down at his feet. ‘Either. Both. But the fact is, it’s not my office any more, and we all have to adjust to that.’

  ‘Okay. So is that why you wanted to have a word with me in here?’

  ‘Primarily, I wanted to speak to you out of earshot,’ Bliss said. ‘I think we’ve reached that stage.’

  ‘This still about the change in our respective roles?’

  ‘What else? Bish, I think it’s about time you stepped up and became the boss in more than name only. I accept your reservations, and I understand your argument about this possibly being a temporary adjustment. On the other hand, we both know it could go the other way; for all I know, what’s happening here could be a stay of execution. Whatever the outcome, I can take care of myself. You need to think about you. You’ve wanted DI for some time. You’ve completed the first three steps in the promotion framework. Acting up in my place is a great way to achieve your work-based assessment.’

  As he spoke, Bliss recalled a similar conversation he’d once had with Mia Short. Neither of them knew at the time how temporary her assignment would prove to be.

  After a brief pause, Bishop said, ‘Of course it is. But you know I have my misgivings. I want the salary hike that goes with the job. Who wouldn’t? I want to lead my own team. Who doesn’t? But equally, I don’t want to be the kind of DI the job description currently says I should be. Nor do I particularly want to leave this team.’

  Bliss empathised with his friend’s dilemma. The job had changed in so many ways over the years. If he had been coming up in the modern era, achieving the rank of Detective Inspector wasn’t a promotion he would be craving. Even so, he and Bishop had different demands upon them in terms of family and a structured future.

  ‘That’s understandable,’ he said. ‘But look at it this way, Bish: I’m as good as on probation for a further four months. At the end of that period, either I’ll be gone, my probationary period will be extended, my demotion will become permanent, or I’ll be back at DI. If it’s any of the first three options, you’ll have your own team right here waiting for you. If not, you’ll have a bigger choice to make.’

  His colleague winced. ‘I don’t even want to think about some of those possibilities, Jimmy.’

  ‘I know. All I’m saying is, use these next few months wisely. You and I may not like it, but you are the boss at the moment. You’re a DI, and I’m a DS at your disposal. Nobody should still be referring to me as the boss. You’re too good a bloke to come down on the others for it, so I’m going to step up. I’m going to make it clear to all of them that you get tagged as the boss in future. I’m at the same level as you were and Penny continues to be. That’s it. That’s how I want it. And frankly, that should be how you want it, too.’

  Bishop heaved a heavy sigh. He looked uncomfortable with the arrangement, and was probably disgruntled at his big opportunity having arisen for all the wrong reasons. Bliss recognised how unusual their position was, but the big man was due his time in the spotlight. And while everybody still thought of Bliss as the team’s leader, he would cast too large a shadow if he did not act to prevent it.

  ‘If you need anything, even if it’s just to talk or ask questions, I’m here for you, mate. Don’t worry about how I feel. I brought this on myself.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll accept all the help and advice I can get. How about I start with an easy one?’

  ‘Of course. Fire away.’

 
; ‘I’m deputy SIO on this case – albeit closely monitored by DCI Warburton. I know how the policy book works, but how significant are they in reality?’

  Bliss smiled. ‘Ah. You may have heard them referred to as both CYA and FYA books. That’s because a senior investigating officer has to think about covering their arse when they complete the policy book. If they don’t, the powers that be might use it to fire their arse instead.’

  Startled, Bishop said, ‘They’re that critical? I assumed they were another box-ticking exercise.’

  ‘Not at all. Look, make notes on any old pad as you go along. Even on Post-its. As many as it takes to jog your memory come the end of shift. That’s when you take your time piecing them together to include every decision you made. Only… couched in such a way as to make sure you emerge smelling of roses in the event that shit hits the fan afterwards. Remember, Bish, the details in that book get fed back into the HOLMES database, so your single aim has to be not to fuck it up.’

  Seeing his colleague’s face turn ashen, Bliss smiled and said, ‘You’ll do fine. Can I offer one more piece of advice, though?’

  ‘Of course. Anything.’

  ‘Get yourself a new whistle. Tuck yourself in. Put a shine on those shoes.’

  Bishop looked down at himself, smiled sheepishly and nodded.

  ‘Shall we see about our victim’s home address?’ Bliss said. He found Bishop’s steady gaze. ‘Boss?’

  Twelve

  It didn’t take long for Bliss to discover the details of their victim’s landlord. Built by the Peterborough Development Corporation in the 1970s, Bretton was the city’s first major township of new council housing. The property Bliss and Bishop visited that morning had exchanged hands on several occasions since being purchased under the right to buy scheme, and was currently owned by a housing entrepreneur born and raised locally. As was the case with many similar properties, what had once been a single house had since been redeveloped into two individual flats with shared facilities.

  Tim Beaumont had initially been amenable to letting them look at the ground floor flat, provided they obtained a warrant. Speaking to him on the phone, Bliss had agreed, but in exchange he expected to be given copies of all of the landlord’s relevant safety and insurance certificates relating to each of his properties. They’d compromised on a thirty-minute inspection with no need for paperwork either way.

  Bishop took the keys from the man and told him to wait outside until he and Bliss were done. Beaumont did not argue.

  Once inside the property, Bliss was surprised at how spacious the accommodation was. The original dining room had been converted into a bedroom, and was twice the size of Bliss’s own. The living room was again much larger than his. He mentioned the generous proportions to his colleague.

  ‘That’s why these properties are so sought after,’ Bishop said. ‘Especially compared to some of the homes being built over in the Hamptons. These early PDC places have huge rooms, plenty of cupboard space, and come with parking bays. It was a big step up for many of those who moved here. Nice houses… until they weren’t.’

  Bliss knew what he meant, and corrected him. ‘The houses are still the same, Bish. It’s the people who made the area what it’s become.’

  Bishop nodded absently. ‘I remember my parents being on the waiting list, before they got offered a place in Werrington. It was the same deal there, with the huge rooms and built-in cupboards. Before that we were squeezed into a poky little place in Woodston, so it felt like a palace to us when we finally moved in. Mum and Dad are still there, though I know my old man wants to move when he retires. He’s had enough of the place.’

  Bliss remembered the home he’d grown up in: a tiny two-up, two-down in east London. Bethnal Green in the sixties had a far from uniform architecture. The Bliss house stood in a street spared from the Blitz bombing campaign, but if you turned one way at a junction you might well encounter prefabricated homes; turn in the opposite direction and it would be new-build estates. Many old-timers from the area believed the Luftwaffe had done them a favour, but Bliss had only fond memories of the house he grew up in.

  Whatever the relative merits of spacious living, their victim seemed to live a reasonably spartan life – apart from the clothes she chose to wear. Her wardrobe was choked with garments, either hanging or folded neatly on shelves, numerous shoes and boots arranged in pairs beneath. Other than her attire, the bedroom was curiously lacking in personality. No paintings on the wall, no photos in frames, no cuddly toys, no shelves laden with knick-knacks collecting dust. On a chest of drawers, Bliss found a single bottle of perfume, together with a bag of makeup and a double-sided mirror. He found the top drawer crammed with sexy lingerie, the next overflowing with more regular underwear, and the final drawer full of tights, socks, and jeans. Nothing personal. The bed was made, he noticed, its patterned duvet wrinkle free.

  Meanwhile, Bishop had been searching the living room. From what Bliss could tell when he joined him, this room presented more of the same. Not that such conditions were unusual. In his experience, working girls tended to live in one of two ways: either they adorned their home with all manner of things cute and pretty, putting elements of their personality on display as if this might somehow obfuscate what they did for a living, or they surrounded themselves with the bare minimum because such a place could never truly represent a home to them.

  ‘This flat is clean,’ Bishop said, putting voice to the exact same thoughts Bliss had been having. ‘And I don’t just mean the lack of obvious personal items. There’s nothing at all to suggest anybody was living here. None of the usual documentation, no bills, no invoices. It’s as clean a place as I’ve seen.’

  ‘Too clean.’ Bliss nodded. ‘I agree. Other than her clothes, there’s bugger all here. I’m beginning to think our victim didn’t live here at all. This was a habitat to entertain men in, and that was it. A place of business. No more than that.’

  ‘But didn’t she already have one of these? The place in Woodston that was mentioned on the escort agency website?’

  ‘Yep. But we also know she spread herself around.’

  ‘So we’re no wiser.’ Bishop shook his head and cursed beneath his breath.

  Bliss understood his frustration – but one thing had occurred to him. ‘Not quite. I had half a mind that our victim might have been murdered here. But I see no sign of that, do you?’

  Bishop glanced around. ‘Nothing obvious. But if she was strangled, that wouldn’t cause a great deal of mess. Whoever did it could have cleaned up after themselves.’

  ‘Judging by the marks on her wrists, I’d say she put up a struggle. She didn’t go quietly. You look around and this place is pristine. You can still see the little furrows in the carpet where it’s been vacuumed recently. Who would hang around to do all that after killing somebody? Not to mention having to cart her out of here unseen.’

  Bishop huffed through his nose. ‘You said it. Pristine. We agree the place is far too clean. Perhaps that’s because it was all done afterwards.’

  ‘I’m not ruling it out. But like I said, who is going to…’ Bliss broke off, catching hold of the thread Bishop had thrown out there. ‘Fuck it! Let’s have him in here.’

  Bishop stepped back outside to fetch Beaumont, the man surly and resentful as he stood between the two detectives. Bliss gave his colleague the nod before returning his gaze upon the landlord.

  ‘Mr Beaumont,’ Bishop said. ‘Did you send in a cleaning team, or did you take care of the place yourself?’

  The man tried hard to look bewildered, but overplayed his hand. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know nothing about nothing.’

  Bliss clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘I fucking hate double negatives,’ he muttered softly.

  Bishop continued to confront Beaumont. ‘Maybe you looked the other way while somebody else cleaned the place out. If that’s the case, you did nothing wrong, sir. You have nothing to reproach yourself about. That sa
id, what you choose to do now, what you opt to tell us now, will dictate your immediate future.’

  Once more, Beaumont went for perplexed but missed by a long way. ‘I have no idea what you’re getting at. What are you trying to suggest went on here?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Beaumont. I’m saying somebody cleared this place out and cleaned it up in the process; trouble is, they did too good a job. Either you allowed them to do it, or you commissioned the job, or you did it all yourself. Whichever of those it was, I have questions for you. You can answer them here and now, or you can answer them after you’ve been held in a cell for a few hours. Your choice entirely.’

  Bliss waited for the bluff to play out. Most civilians were clueless when it came to the detaining of a person for questioning. The only way he and Bishop could compel the landlord to accompany them back to HQ was to arrest him. He could agree to go with them or decide to settle things immediately, as Bishop had mentioned. Equally, he had every right to walk away and there would be little they could do about it. Fortunately, Beaumont’s increasingly relaxed stance told Bliss he was ready to talk.

  ‘I had a call from my tenant on the top floor. He said there were people he didn’t recognise downstairs, walking in and out of the flat. I asked him if the tenant was with them, and he told me he hadn’t seen her in several days.’

  Neither Bliss nor Bishop had so far mentioned their victim by name. They had agreed on the strategy during the drive over, hoping that either Beaumont himself would mention it, or that they would find documented evidence. This was the moment to draw it out of him, Bliss felt.

  ‘What’s her name?’ he asked. ‘The tenant of this flat, I mean.’

  Beaumont looked uneasy. ‘Come on,’ Bliss urged him. ‘It’s a simple enough question. What’s your problem?’

  ‘She told me her name was Nuri. She had all the required documents to that effect, even a bank account from which she paid her rent every month by direct debit.’