The Necessary Deaths

by David C. Dawson

  Before Dominic could answer, his cell rang. After a short conversation, he carefully put the cell on the table before turning to Jonathan. “That was Samantha. Simon’s condition has got worse. It looks like he might not survive.”

  Chapter 14

  “WHY ARE those disgusting pictures still here?” Gemma walked across to the sink, a battered kettle in her hand. As she passed John seated at the kitchen table, she briefly peered over his shoulder. He was sifting through an array of lurid photographs. There were more than twenty, A4 size, and in full color. When he glanced up, Gemma quickly turned back to the overflowing sink. She filled the kettle and sought out the least dirty coffee mugs.

  “What if the police come back now?” she continued. “You’ve got to get rid of them, John, otherwise you’ll be in the shit.”

  “I’m not getting rid of them. They’re the reason Si’s in hospital, I’m sure of it. What I don’t get is why they were under Si’s bed.”

  “If they were under Si’s bed,” interrupted Gemma.

  John turned to stare at her.

  “Well, I mean,” continued Gemma, “how do we know they were there? Did you know they were there?”

  “I didn’t make a habit of looking under Si’s bed…,” began John.

  “No, you were doing more interesting things with Si in it.” Jay entered the kitchen, crossed to the fridge, and took out a bottle of protein shake. Gemma watched him nervously as he took a long draft from the bottle, replaced it, and closed the fridge door. His eyes met hers, and they stared at each other for a moment.

  “So what are you saying, Gemma? That I’m a liar?”

  The kettle boiled and poured steam into the atmosphere as its ancient switch refused to turn off.

  “Oh shit, look at this.” John had been holding a magnifying glass over one of the photographs. He looked up, and his face was ashen. “It’s Si, I’m sure of it.”

  Jay walked over to the table and took the photograph and magnifying glass from John’s hand.

  “Look at the far left,” John directed. “There’s a mirror over the fireplace. You can see Si’s face reflected in it.”

  Gemma’s curiosity got the better of her revulsion. She finally succeeded in switching off the erupting kettle and turned to the table. The photograph in Jay’s hand was taken from the high vantage point of a security camera. It showed one section of a large oak-paneled room. There were two long maroon settees in the shot, positioned on either side of a Victorian high-mantel fireplace. Two naked men were coupled on the settee to the left of the fireplace. One faced the camera, astride the other man, who lay flat on the settee. In the foreground she could see the heads of three other men, their faces hidden from the camera.

  Jay held the magnifying glass over the image of the mirror above the fireplace.

  “My God, Jay. Do you like your pornography close up?” Gemma asked.

  Jay ignored her question, “I don’t think I can look at this anymore.” But his actions contradicted his words. He seemed fascinated by the image in front of him. Finally, with impatience, Gemma took the magnifying glass from his hand.

  “Oh right, sister. Not so disgusted now, are we? It’s fucking weird, that.”

  Gemma ignored him and looked closely at the mirror in the photograph. She could see the reflected shapes of at least half a dozen naked men. All except one of them was engaged in feverish sexual activity. That younger man was standing stock-still. He faced the mirror in apparent detachment from what was going on around him. He looked very like Simon Gregory.

  Gemma handed the magnifying glass back to Jay. “I suppose it could be him. It’s not very clear, though.”

  Jay examined the photograph again. “Voyeur at an orgy in an English stately home? Or participant? This is a whole other side to Simon that I bet you didn’t know about, John. Yeah, I reckon it could be him. It’s not very clear, but after the sick stuff that’s been happening in the last few days, I’d believe anything—”

  There were tears forming in John’s eyes. “Fuck off, Jay.” He turned to Gemma. “There’s a mark on Si’s right shoulder. It’s a birthmark. He’s kind of proud of it for some weird reason. You can see the same mark on the guy in the photograph.”

  Gemma snatched the magnifying glass back from Jay and reexamined the photograph closely.

  “It might not be a birthmark on the guy’s shoulder. It could just be something on the image. It does look a lot like Si, I suppose, but—”

  “I know it’s him. Of course it’s him. But what the fuck is he doing there?”

  John stood up suddenly, his chair clattering over on the grubby tile floor. He stalked out of the kitchen, and a moment later they heard his feet thudding up the stairs.

  Jay picked up the manila envelope that had held the photographs. He pulled out the scrappy piece of paper inside and reread the words typed on it: “Meet you at the location as agreed. Be alone, we’ll be watching.”

  He threw the paper back down on the table. “Si’s in some serious shit. Up to his neck. But what the hell’s he doing? Think about it. He’s at this orgy in this posh place. God knows why. He sees famous people there, perhaps. And he sees there are security cameras. God knows why the other bozos getting their rocks off didn’t spot them. Maybe they were too busy having a fucking good time. Anyhow. Simon manages to get hold of the pictures from the camera, ’cos he knows he could be in them. Perhaps he plans to destroy them so there’s no evidence of him there. Then he has an idea: he could blackmail the famous people caught on the security cameras….”

  “Oh, come off it, Jay.” Gemma turned back to the sink and switched the kettle on again. “Surely it’s the other way round. How’s Simon going to get to the security cameras? They’d be under the control of someone who’s in that place, wherever it is. Maybe they own it or something. It’s much more likely it’s someone there who’s trying to blackmail Si.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Jay picked up the photograph again. He seemed to be becoming fascinated with the orgy. “Si’s not worth blackmailing. He’s not got any money, as far as I know. His mum’s a widow, isn’t she? When he got hold of this stuff, I bet the temptation was just too great. I reckon John’s golden boy is more than a little tarnished….”

  Gemma slammed the coffee jar down on the worktop. “Make your own bloody coffee, Jay. That’s when you’ve finished getting your own rocks off on those photos.” She left the kitchen and ran up the stairs.

  John was sitting on the bed in Simon’s room, his back to the door, when Gemma found him. She stood in the doorway, breathing deeply. She wished they had never picked Jay as one of their housemates.

  “You okay, John?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” John answered. “Two days ago I loved Si more than anyone I’ve ever known. I haven’t stopped loving him, but….”

  Gemma crossed the room and sat on the bed next to John. She put her arm around him, and he rested his head on her shoulder. They sat in silence for a few moments, John’s body shaking gently with suppressed tears.

  Finally Gemma spoke. “I believe in him still. He’s not a blackmailer. He’s an innocent. He’s naïve, an idealist. God, you’ve said that to me before, John. You know, I think we’re forgetting something about Simon.” She turned to look at John. “What does Simon want to be more than anything in the world?”

  John lifted his head from her shoulder. “A journalist! Fuck, you’re right.”

  He jumped up and crossed to a dark, ugly-looking wardrobe on the far side of the room. He reached up and pulled down a khaki-colored computer holdall, then sat down next to Gemma again, unzipped the holdall, and pulled out a battered laptop.

  “I’m going to find out who these people are and where they are. The pictures are the key to finding out who’s trying to kill him.”

  “So what are you going to do, John? Hack into his laptop?” The voice came from the doorway. They both turned to see Jay standing there, with three mugs of coffee in his hands and
the envelope of photographs under his arm.

  “I don’t need to. I know his password. It’s ‘sexyjohn.’” John’s fingers clattered across the keyboard. “Somewhere in here has to be a file, an e-mail, something that will help us find out where that place is.” He turned to Jay. “Are you going to help me, or are you going to assume the worst of Si?”

  Jay set the coffee mugs down on the desk by the window. “I wanna know the answers, mate. If Simon was playing at journalists”—Jay threw the envelope on the bed beside John—“then we could have the scoop of the century here.”

  John stopped typing for a moment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered cell phone. He looked up triumphantly at Jay and Gemma. “And if we don’t find enough on the laptop, we can get to work on Si’s cell. We’ll find out who the bastards are behind all this.”

  Chapter 15

  DOMINIC’S DRIVE back to Oxfordshire was slow as he queued around the M25 freeway that ringed London. His car crawled through the usual bottleneck between Heathrow airport and the M40 freeway, which headed out west from London. It was then still another thirty minutes to get to Oxfordshire and home. He felt guilty at leaving Samantha after she had received the news of her son’s worsening condition. But Jonathan had promised to meet her at the hospital later in the day. By then Christophe would be back on duty in the hospital’s basement security office.

  During the journey Dominic used his hands-free to deal with the most pressing matters at work. Gillian offered to meet him at the apartment, an offer he gratefully accepted—partly because it meant he could deal with a few more items of work, but mainly because he wanted someone businesslike to help him handle the officious police officer, Locking, who would be waiting for him. Gillian had a key to the apartment and could let herself in. Dominic was confident she would take charge of the situation.

  “I’ll tell the young police officer to meet me there at eleven, and I’ll settle him down with coffee and a biscuit before you get here,” she had said. “Hopefully by the time you arrive, all you’ll need to do is a quick check around to see what’s missing, if anything. Then let him know and we can send him on his way.”

  Gillian had worked for Dominic for over ten years. He never failed to admire her ability to organize his life. She left him space to be cerebral. Several years ago he had realized that he could confidently let her handle many aspects of his routine legal work. That allowed him to deal with the more challenging and interesting aspects of his job.

  Dominic pulled the silver Mercedes into the driveway of his apartment house off the High Street. Switching off the engine, he heaved a sigh of relief and sat for a moment in the dark leather cocoon of his car. A police car was already in the parking bay alongside him. Reaching behind his seat for the Louis Vuitton overnight bag Jonathan had bought him for their first anniversary, he took a deep breath and climbed out of the car.

  THE FIRST thing Dominic saw as he walked into the entrance hall of Ash House that morning was the damage to his front door. The heavy oak frame had been splintered around the main lock and top bolt. Someone had rather clumsily added a heavy-duty hasp and eye to the door to make it temporarily secure. Dominic’s heart sank when he saw the additional damage this security measure had caused to the doorframe.

  Standing in the hallway was one of the two athletically built officers who had delivered the bad news about Simon to Samantha Gregory just two days ago. At least this was welcome eye candy after the grueling journey home.

  The officer was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt under his stab vest. It pulled tightly around his biceps, and Dominic could see the hint of a tattoo on the top part of his right arm.

  “Good morning, Mr. Delingpole,” the officer said. “I’m Constable Jansen. I’m sorry that we have to meet again so soon.”

  Dominic was hesitant to agree with that sentiment. In his view the young man was extremely fit and had a viselike grip as they shook hands.

  At that moment Gillian emerged from his apartment into the hallway.

  “Good morning, Dominic. I can see that you’ve met Constable Jansen.” She gave him a disapproving look. “Will you be staying out here with him for the morning or will you come through for some coffee? I took the liberty of brewing a cafetière for us. I thought that you might be in need of a cup. Here’s your mail. Two bills, by the look of them, and this package. By the way, Detective Fairburn is in the living room waiting for you.”

  Gillian handed the two envelopes and a brown paper parcel to Dominic and swept back into the apartment.

  Dominic turned to Constable Jansen, whose steely blue eyes had begun to fascinate him. “Are you coming in as well, Officer?”

  “No, sir. I have to talk to the other residents here, those that are in. We’re not sure how the intruder managed to enter the building to start with. There’s no sign of a forced entry to the front door, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s only your apartment that’s had the door broken down, I’m afraid.”

  At that moment the front door of Ash House burst open and Dominic’s neighbor Randolph James, MP, strode into the hallway.

  “Good God, what’s happened? A break-in? Is it just you or have they done the other apartments as well?”

  Constable Jansen stepped forward. “Do you live here, sir?”

  “Yes, Officer. Number four, upstairs. I’m Randolph James, MP. My constituency’s down in Devon, but I keep this handy pied-a-terre. Prefer to be just outside London, even if it’s still a commute to Parliament. So, have I been done over too?”

  “No sir, only Mr. Delingpole’s apartment has been targeted.” He turned to Dominic. “Would either of you happen to know how many people have keys for the main front door of the house? At the moment we can only conclude that the intruder managed to obtain a key from somewhere.”

  “My dear chap, there must be hundreds of people who have keys to the front door,” said Randolph James impatiently. “Apart from the residents, their families, and sundry others, there are cleaners, the occasional tradesmen, and goodness knows who else. It’s open house, virtually. That’s why we have decent locks and security on our own front doors.” He glanced at Dominic briefly. “Sorry, old chap, seems like yours let you down. Know what they got?”

  Before Dominic could answer, a woman wearing what he considered to be a very unflattering trouser suit stepped out of his apartment. Constable Jansen visibly straightened his back and his very broad shoulders at the arrival of Detective Fairburn.

  “Ma’am. This is the owner, Mr. Delingpole. And this is—”

  “Randolph James,” interrupted the MP. “I have a little apartment upstairs. Any chance we can keep this low-key? Don’t want my constituents back in Devon thinking their own MP is incapable of keeping decent security. The press down there would have a field day, I’m certain. Particularly as I’ve been banging on about Britain’s security for the last year and a half.”

  Detective Fairburn ignored the MP’s extended hand of greeting and turned instead to Dominic.

  “Mr. Delingpole. I’m Detective Wendy Fairburn. I’m sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances. Would you mind coming into your apartment to answer a few questions? We’d very much like to find out if you believe anything is missing, to help us establish some kind of motive.”

  She turned to Randolph James. “I’d be grateful if you would remain available for the next hour, Mr. James. I will be coming to ask you a few questions after I have finished with Mr. Delingpole.” And before the MP could reply, she turned to go back into Dominic’s apartment.

  “Damn it, I’ve got my driver waiting outside….”

  Detective Fairburn turned in the doorway. “Well, if that’s the case, then we’ll come and look for you at the Houses of Parliament. But then that would make it harder for you to ‘keep it low-key,’ wouldn’t it? The choice is yours.”

  Then Detective Fairburn turned to Dominic. “Mr. Delingpole, shall we?” She ushered Dominic into his own apartment.

  Alth
ough he had been steeling himself for the mess he might encounter, Dominic was still shocked by what he saw. It seemed that nothing had been left untouched. Papers from his study were scattered throughout the hallway. A large art deco mirror that hung over the radiator was smashed. Dominic looked in through the doorway of his small study off the hall. Almost every book had been swept off the shelves. Drawers hung out of the filing cabinet, their contents spilling onto the floor. For a moment he steadied himself against the doorframe before pulling himself upright.

  “Detective, it will take me some time to go through this. Frankly, it will be difficult to work out what might be missing. I’ve accumulated rather a lot over the past few years.”

  “I understand, Mr. Delingpole. Tell me, did you have any computer equipment here?”

  Dominic smiled. “I’m a rather old-fashioned person in that regard, Detective. I try to leave the technology at the office with Gillian. I have succumbed to one of those tablet things on which I now have to read documents, but that’s never left here. I suppose I keep rather more paper than perhaps I should.” He surveyed the mess in front of them. “Perhaps now is the time for a little spring cleaning.”

  Sighing, Dominic bent down to a piece of stiff parchment poking out from a smashed picture frame. “My graduation certificate. Rather foolish sentimentality to have framed it, I suppose.” He stood up. “I think I need that coffee now.”

  They went into the sitting room. Watery December sunlight filtered in through the french windows that opened onto the gardens of Ash House. Gillian poured him a coffee. Surprisingly, the living room was largely untouched. Dominic’s collection of CDs was scattered across the parquet floor. Pictures had been taken from the walls, and bizarrely, the coal bucket was upended over the hearthrug. With relief Dominic saw that his collection of art deco cocktail glasses remained untouched in the cabinet by the fireplace. The room was sparingly furnished. There were two cream leather settees and a high-backed wing armchair to the side of the french windows. Dominic settled into the armchair, gratefully accepting a cup of black coffee from Gillian.