They seemed to take for ever, but I don’t suppose they were long in arriving. Two uniforms came first, one of whom stayed with me and asked me questions, whilst the other went to check out the pond, and returned pretty smartly, speaking into his radio.
Reinforcements arrived quickly after that, and an ambulance, and a concerned neighbour who poked her nose into the kitchen, worried about what was going on. A paramedic wrapped a blanket around me and checked my pulse and a few other things, just in case I was going into shock. By the time he was satisfied I was only suffering from cold, the house and garden seemed to be crawling with police, and the dear lady neighbour, having been sent away rather sharply by a uniformed officer, returned with a determined and slightly martyred expression, bearing a tray of mugs and a pot of tea.
I sat with grateful hands wrapped around a mug, just waiting. A detective would be arriving shortly, I was informed, and would want to ask me some questions. I just nodded. I didn’t want to mention that I’d been through this procedure, that I’d found a dead body before; but the inevitable was closing in, and it arrived, shortly afterwards, in the person of Detective Inspector Ford.
His horrible little sidekick was with him, the putty-faced black-haired girl with the smirking mouth who sat beside him at our first interview. Her name, it turned out, was DeVille.
At the sight of me, sitting shivering in the kitchen, her black eyebrows flew upwards and she directed a meaningful glance at her boss. He was looking at me strangely, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of my being there. ‘Miss Browne?’ he asked, frowning.
I nodded. ‘Juno,’ I reminded him.
He turned to his constable. ‘Go next door, will you, and interview that lady who was so anxious to speak to someone.’
Her little mouth twisted but she could only nod and do what she was told.
The inspector picked up an upturned chair, righted it, and sat down opposite me, drawing out a notebook. He sat, studying me for a moment. ‘So you found Mr Evans?’ he said at last. ‘I hope you’re not going to make a habit of this kind of thing.’
I gave a weak laugh. ‘So do I.’
‘What are you doing here, Juno? Were you a friend of his?’
‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘I met him at an auction with Nick. I just wanted to talk to him, really …’ The doubtful way the inspector was eyeing me told me I’d better come clean. ‘I saw him, hanging about outside of Nick’s shop a couple of nights ago. I thought he was trying to break in. I wanted to know what he was up to.’
‘The correct course of action would have been to inform the police at the time,’ he said severely.
‘I know,’ I responded, nodding. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So, tell me what you found,’ he added, rather more gently.
I described what had happened. He let me talk, didn’t interrupt me with questions, but I had to repeat several times exactly how I had found the body.
‘I shouldn’t have moved him, should I? I could see he was dead, really. But I thought there might be a chance … I felt I had to try,’ I finished lamely.
The inspector smiled. ‘Of course you did.’
‘He was murdered, wasn’t he? He didn’t just collapse. Whoever did this …’ I gestured feebly around the ransacked room.
‘Well, we won’t know until the post-mortem exactly how he died, but there are indications that he didn’t go into the water voluntarily.’
‘Someone held his head under.’ I shuddered, remembering his face.
The inspector was obviously reluctant to say too much, but he didn’t have to.
At that moment the detective constable returned and signalled to her boss from the doorway. He excused himself and joined her there. She spoke in a lowered voice but I could hear her well enough. ‘The neighbour reports seeing a car parked in the private lane when she went out shopping this morning, and noticed it was still there when she returned – a dark-blue BMW.’
‘I don’t suppose she noticed its number plate?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. She didn’t appreciate its significance.’
‘No, they never do, do they?’ he sighed. ‘All right, thank you, Constable,’ he said, and she left.
‘A dark-blue BMW?’ I repeated. ‘That was the car that Vlad—’
The inspector cut me off. ‘Miss Browne, later today I shall send an officer to your address to take your statement but in the meantime, I think you should go home.’ As I began to protest, he raised a hand, silencing me. ‘I’m not happy about you driving at the moment, you’ve had a shock. I can arrange for my constable to take you, or you can call a friend, if you’d prefer.’
‘I’d prefer,’ I told him bluntly and phoned Ricky and Morris.
They were only too happy to drive over and gawp at the police cars and the aliens in white suits going about their business. I rode home with Morris in the comfort of their old Saab, heater on full blast, whilst Ricky followed in my van, grumbling all the way.
‘That bloody thing’s never going to get through another MOT,’ he informed me as we got out at the end of our journey, and slammed the door.
We were at their house, not mine. I held out my hand for my keys but Ricky shook his head and put them in his pocket. ‘Not on your life, kiddo! You’re not going home before you’ve had a stiff drink and filled me in all the juicy details I missed while you were in the Saab with Morris.’
‘Unless you’d rather have a cup of tea, Juno,’ Morris offered, as he opened the front door.
‘No, a stiff drink will be fine.’
‘You sort it out, then,’ he told Ricky, ‘while I run her a bath.’ He gazed at me mournfully. ‘We really ought to get you into some dry clothes.’
Morris’s presence was always reassuring, and I’d relaxed a little in the car, but it was as I lazed in a deep bath of exotically scented bubbles, my second glass of brandy placed on the corner of the bath, that gradually my physical and mental numbness started to ebb away. I began to feel more myself.
There was a loud knock, the bathroom door opened a few inches and a hand appeared brandishing a coat hanger on which hung a silky, peach-coloured dressing gown. ‘There’s this one,’ Ricky’s voice announced from behind the woodwork. ‘It’s a Dior original. Di Davies wore it in Present Laughter or …’ the dressing gown disappeared momentarily and was replaced by a heavier green one, ‘there’s this if you’d rather go comfy than glam. It’s a bit more Celia Johnson.’
‘Who’s Celia Johnson?’ I asked and he tutted in exasperation. ‘I’ll have the green one!’ I called out hastily. I didn’t feel up to a Dior original.
By the time I had bathed and had come downstairs, wrapped in Celia Johnson, the smell of something wonderful was emanating from the kitchen and Morris was laying the table in the breakfast room. ‘I thought some comfort food,’ he told me, taking my empty brandy glass, ‘so I’ve made a shepherd’s pie. Your clothes are in the tumble dryer,’ he added, ‘they’ll be ready by the time we’ve eaten.’
I felt like bursting into tears. ‘You are wonderful,’ I gave him a big hug.
Ricky came in with three very large wine glasses. ‘Merlot or Shiraz?’ he asked, as he set them down. ‘Or there’s a nice Rioja.’
‘I’ll never be able to drive home,’ I protested.
‘No, you won’t! Anyway, you’re staying the night,’ he informed me firmly.
‘I can’t. The police are coming to take my statement.’
‘Don’t fuss! I phoned Adam, told him where you are. The police can come round here if they’re that anxious to see you.’
I felt I should argue, but the thought of going home to my empty flat suddenly seemed too depressing. So I sat down and ate too much shepherd’s pie and drank too much red wine and we talked about poor Albert Evans and his watery demise and the significance of a certain dark-blue BMW; and why Bert had been sneaking about Nick’s place, and whether Vlad and Igor − for undoubtedly it was their BMW − were really searching for something in Bert’s house,
or whether they had trashed it to make it look like burglary gone wrong. In which case, why had they killed him?
The police didn’t call till next morning, as it turned out, and I went to bed in Ricky and Morris’s spare bedroom, slightly drunk and very full and sure I would sleep like a baby. But sleep eluded me, and as the little bedside clock ticked its way through the small hours, all the things we had talked about that evening went round in my brain until I didn’t know what to think. Only one thing I was sure of. If I wanted to know what Bert was after, I was going to have to break into Nick’s place to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I didn’t need to as it turned out. Break in. Fortunately, I took a few days to ponder the wisdom of the scheme. After all, I didn’t know what Bert might have been looking for. Perhaps he knew about the money Nick kept hidden in the place. Perhaps he wasn’t trying to break in at all, he was just being nosy. But I didn’t really believe that. He was after something. Was that something the thing that had got him murdered? And was Vlad after the same thing when he had killed Nick?
Anyway, during all these deliberations, I had a phone call from a Mr Young, from the firm of Young, Young, Grantham and Young, Solicitors, based in Exeter. I wondered if Mr Grantham felt outnumbered but I didn’t ask.
‘It is rather a delicate matter.’ Mr Young sounded awkward. ‘I understand that you were the late Mr Nickolai’s cleaning lady?’
‘I worked for him, yes.’
‘Well, now that Mr Nickolai’s body has been released for burial—’
‘Has it? But … surely, the case isn’t closed?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that any murder case is closed until the perpetrator is apprehended,’ Mr Young replied pedantically, ‘but the police are satisfied that all … er … necessary forensic evidence is safely in their possession … and nothing more can be got from the crime scene. Therefore, there is no reason why poor Mr Nickolai cannot be laid to rest.’
‘I see.’ It seemed very odd to me, when his murderers were not only still at large but still murdering, but I suppose poor Nick’s body couldn’t tell the police any more than they already knew.
‘The funeral is next Thursday,’ Mr Young went on. ‘His family will be coming down before—’
‘His family,’ I repeated. ‘You mean, his children?’
‘That’s right. His daughter, Mrs Helena Burgoyne and her husband, and his son, Mr Richard …’
‘Nice of them to turn up for his funeral!’ I blurted out. ‘Pity they couldn’t visit him when he was alive.’
Mr Young made shocked harrumphing noises at the end of the phone. ‘I … er … understand that family relations were strained.’
‘They were non-existent as far as I can see.’ They hadn’t even turned up for the inquest. Their father had been murdered, didn’t they care what had happened to him? Weren’t they even curious?
‘Indeed. However,’ he went on hastily, ‘we are hardly in a position to judge.’
I didn’t agree but didn’t argue.
Mr Young coughed uncomfortably. ‘I understand they will be putting up at The Dartmoor Lodge, but of course they will wish to visit Mr Nickolai’s home. And as his death was in such extremely distressing circumstances, Mr Young − old Mr Young, that is − thought the experience would be less unpleasant for the family if the flat had already been … er … cleaned up.’
‘Cleaned up?’ I repeated.
‘We have a key to the property and we wondered if you might be prevailed upon to clean up the relevant … er … for a fee, of course.’
‘You mean, clean up the scene of the murder?’
‘To spare the family any suffering …’
‘But surely, the police …?’
‘No, no, a common misapprehension, apparently. Once the police have removed the forensic materials that they consider crucial, from an evidence point of view, any … er … residual … cleaning … is left to the victim’s family, or a neighbour … or someone like yourself.’
‘Are you – or indeed, old Mr Young – aware that I discovered Mr Nickolai’s body?’ From the horrified silence at the end of the line I gathered he was not. ‘How about sparing me some suffering?’ I suggested.
‘Miss Browne …’ When he found his voice it sounded abject. ‘I am profoundly sorry. Naturally, I will find someone else to do the job. I can’t apologise enough.’
‘Wait a second.’ I stopped him before he could put the phone down. Outraged as I felt, I didn’t intend to pass up the chance to get into Nick’s place. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘I really wouldn’t feel comfortable …’ Mr Young began.
‘No, it’s all right,’ I assured him, in as calm a voice as I could muster. ‘Really, it’s OK.’
‘Well, I’m not sure …’ he began doubtfully.
‘I knew Mr Nickolai and I don’t like the thought of a stranger doing the job.’ It was true, I didn’t like the idea. ‘It seems like an intrusion on his privacy.’
It took another five minutes to persuade him that I meant what I said, but eventually Mr Young overcame his reservations. If I was sure I was up to the job, then he would be so grateful. I agreed to meet him at Nick’s place next morning. At ten o’clock.
Paul phoned that evening. He sounded upbeat. There was a greater quantity of work for a furniture restorer around Nottingham, it seemed. And he was looking into buying a plot of land in a village not far from there; planning restrictions were easier. And if they did decide to build their own house, Carrie and the children could continue to stay with her family until it was ready. Meantime, he asked, how was I?
I told him how I’d found Bert Evans amongst the fishes. ‘Tom Smithson told me he liked to dabble in murky waters,’ I joked grimly. Paul listened in silence whilst I went on to describe the ransacked house.
‘God, Juno! What the hell possessed you to go there?’ he cried, loud enough to make me move the receiver away from my ear. ‘What if you’d arrived earlier, when his killers were still there?’
That thought had already occurred. I could only be grateful to Maisie’s washing machine for delaying me. ‘The neighbour reported seeing a dark-blue BMW parked in the road outside,’ I told him.
He gave a low whistle. ‘You think it was Vlad and Igor?’
‘Well, I know there’s more than one dark-blue BMW in the world but—’
‘Juno,’ he interrupted me, ‘that’s even more reason to stay away. I know you’re upset about Nick, but you must leave things to the police. You’re not some kind of amateur sleuth,’ he reprimanded me, ‘and that pair are dangerous.’
He was beginning to sound like Inspector Ford. I promised I’d behave. I decided not to tell him I was going to clean up Nick’s flat, he’d know damn well I was going in there to snoop for clues, but I did tell him about Nick’s funeral.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll be coming down for it?’ I asked.
There was a brief silence at the end of the phone. ‘Probably not,’ he said.
‘OK.’ I tried to say it without reproach.
‘Mind you,’ he went on quickly, ‘I’d like a look at these children of his.’
‘I’m gagging to see them myself.’
Paul was quiet a moment. ‘Look, I know it’s tempting to blame them for ignoring him when he came out of prison, but they were only young kids then. And Nick never spoke about them. He didn’t seem lonely or unhappy to me. To be honest, I don’t think he was all that bothered.’
I sighed. In my days as a carer I’d come across a lot of families who weren’t that bothered. But as young Mr Young had said, I wasn’t in a position to judge. Not, I had to admit to myself, that that was likely to stop me trying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The clock in Nick’s living room had finally stopped. Young Mr Young and I stood together on the pale rectangles where the bloodstained rugs had lain, looking around us. The curtains were drawn and the feeble yellow light added to the pervading sense of sadness.
‘
Are you all right, Miss Browne?’ young Mr Young asked me anxiously. He was a thin, dried-out husk of a man in his fifties. I couldn’t imagine what old Mr Young must look like.
‘I’m fine,’ I assured him. But the atmosphere in the room was getting to me. The flat had been shut up for weeks and the smell was difficult to describe. Not the sharp, metallic tang of blood when it is fresh, but something sweeter, sicklier, more corrupt.
I felt a little nauseous. ‘Let’s open some windows, shall we?’ I asked, in an attempt to sound brisk. Crossing the living room, I swept back the curtains and threw up the sash.
Mr Young hurried into the kitchen to do the same. ‘That’s better,’ he breathed, ‘let’s get some fresh air circulating.’ Then he turned to me. ‘You’re sure you won’t be nervous here, Miss Browne?’
‘Perfectly sure.’
‘In that case, if you’ll forgive me, I must make a phone call to my office …’
‘You won’t get a mobile signal here,’ I warned him.
‘No, no, I am aware. I have an old colleague working in solicitors on St Lawrence’s Lane. I thought I’d make the call from there … as long as you’re happy to be left alone. I’ll come back to lock up in … shall we say, an hour?’
‘An hour?’ I repeated in dismay. I was going to have to work fast. I’d realised as soon as we’d opened the front door that it was going to be a bigger job than I’d anticipated. I’d forgotten the activities of the forensic team. They had brushed the aluminium powder they used to find fingerprints everywhere. It showed as horrible grey smudges on the paintwork, on every door and windowsill, on the walls in the hall, and as a silver dust on dark surfaces like the bannister rail, the mantelpiece, and the backs of wooden chairs. The clutter on the table was still the same, the bottles and jars of cleaning materials still there, but all coated in a fine, silvery dust as if an infinitely fine snow had fallen.
‘Will an hour not be sufficient?’ Mr Young asked, the smooth skin of his forehead corrugating into wavy lines as he raised his eyebrows. He looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’ll pop back around eleven to see how you’re getting on.’
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