by Peter Helton
Lauren looked left and right. ‘Mmm, no. That’s Bethany.’
‘Do you have any idea what she meant to do with all the electrical equipment?’
‘One of her projects. She wanted to build an automatic kitchen that did lots of stuff by itself but without ever achieving anything.’
‘Why?’
‘Art. Don’t ask me; I’m studying classics.’
Fairfield and Sorbie had now interviewed all of Bethany’s housemates and several students she had shared workspace with at Spike Island, but none of them admitted to knowing where Bethany had planned her next installation. Despite every police unit in the city looking out for it, her distinctive bicycle had not been found.
Back in her office, Fairfield spent an hour going through all the papers and sketchbooks she had taken away from Bethany’s room. She had to admit that to her untrained eye it all looked like the scribblings and drawings of a mentally unstable person, yet she had been assured by the course leader herself that they were perfectly good working drawings of a sculpture student, albeit a messy one.
The council clerk on the other end of the phone told Fairfield irritably that a colleague of hers – ‘a Mr Sortie or something’ – had already called about a pink bike and none had been found. ‘We’ll let you know if one is handed in or found abandoned; I already told that to your chap. If it was nicked, then they’d have long resprayed it anyway,’ he added helpfully. ‘I don’t think you’ll see that bike again.’
Fairfield dropped the receiver heavily on the cradle, then went to wash her hands. Some of the sketches had been in charcoal and had left a residue. Here she was heading up an investigation into a suspicious death and at the same time wishing she was at her life drawing class instead. Yesterday she had spoken to Bethany’s parents, who were beside themselves with grief, bewildered and full of anger. They needed someone to blame and they needed explanations, none of which she had been able to provide. The hour-long ordeal had left her feeling useless and bleak. For the first time since joining the force, Fairfield had doubts that becoming a police officer had been the right decision.
Flames filled the entire doorway. McLusky forced the door shut against the ferocious heat. He had not realized the place was on fire until he opened the door. He could not get out that way. There was only the window but he knew a jump from a second-floor flat could be lethal. What could he save? What should he leave? People got killed that way, dithering about what to take with them. In the event of fire, get out and stay out. He knew it, he knew it, and yet … He frantically searched through the mess in his bedroom, looking for the umbrella, but he could not find it. He found a whistling kettle – it would have to do. He ran back to the sitting room and, with flying fingers, scrabbled open the sash window and looked down. The entire Rossi family were standing in the street, in their Sunday best.
Mrs Rossi called up to him. ‘You did not want to move out, Mr Clusky, so we had to make fire under you.’
‘I wanted to stay with the vegetables,’ he called back. He could hear the old-fashioned alarm bell of a fire engine, ringing, ringing, never coming nearer.
McLusky sat bolt upright in bed and took a deep breath, then scrabbled around for the ringing phone in the early-morning light that fell through the uncurtained window. His alarm clock told him it was five in the morning.
‘Erm, yeah, Mc–McLusky.’
‘Are you sure, Liam?’
‘Eighty per cent certain. What’s happened?’
‘Poulimenos. Shot dead at his house near the lake. Do you want to meet there or shall I come round to yours first? I’m driving already.’
‘Is Denkhaus on his way?’
‘They haven’t managed to contact him yet.’
‘I wonder what he’s up to. OK, come round here, I’ll put the kettle on. If I can find it. I’ll need half an hour to turn back into human form.’
Ten minutes later he opened his door to a wide-awake Austin holding a paper bag of poppy-seeded rolls.
‘Where’d you get those in the middle of the night?’ he grumped at him.
‘Real bakery up my way. You can get them round the back – self-service.’
They had a hurried breakfast of coffee and rolls, sharing the last scrapings of McLusky’s low-fat margarine, and then set off in the Mercedes.
During their hurried breakfast McLusky had barely spoken a word; now he was driving at ambitious speeds through the early morning, with the roads still virtually empty. Austin stole a look at his superior and found the expression on his face frightening; he looked as though he was about to explode. ‘It’s difficult to see how it all …’ he began, but McLusky talked across him.
‘We’ve failed, Jane, we’ve bloody failed. We should have protected Poulimenos whether he wanted us to or not. Instead, I let Denkhaus talk me down. “Have the locals from Chew Magna drive by every so often.” I knew it was useless then, but I gave in. I should have pressured Poulimenos and I should never have settled for the wait-and-see. It’s one huge fuck-up.’
‘You can’t blame yourself for this; you didn’t kill the man.’
‘As good as. And you know why? I suspected him. He sent me a painting I had admired. I thought that perhaps it was meant as a bribe. Or even to mock me in some way, because I think the painting is supposed to show Ben Kahn swimming in the sea. Disappearing in front of our eyes. Then he offered me the keys to Rosslyn Crag. I suspected that was meant as a bribe, but it suited me since it gave me an opportunity to look around and put myself into the painting boys’ shoes. But when it went up in flames, I have to admit I wondered whether Poulimenos hadn’t torched it with me in it, to stop me from finding out what really happened on that boat.’
‘I had wondered that, too,’ Jane admitted. ‘Of course, just because Poulimenos got shot doesn’t mean he didn’t torch his own place.’
McLusky’s foot went light on the accelerator and the car slowed a little. He looked at his passenger with wide eyes. ‘Shit, Jane, I hadn’t thought of that. I must still be asleep.’
‘Look out!’ Austin shouted and braced himself against the dashboard. Their car had slowed but was still travelling at over forty miles per hour when they caught up with the back of a tractor and trailer that had joined the road from a side track, going at walking speed. McLusky never even touched the brake pedal. He swerved right, then back to the left. The car fishtailed once then settled down as McLusky accelerated again, leaving the tractor behind.
‘You know you don’t have any airbags in this barge, don’t you?’ Austin said accusingly, a little louder than he had intended.
‘Haven’t I? Now he tells me.’
They arrived at Bybrook View without further incident. The approach to the property was crowded with police vehicles from Bristol and Chew Magna. A forensics van was just arriving. A fire engine was parked beside the gate. As soon as they left the car, they both noticed the characteristic smell of a burnt-out vehicle.
DC Dearlove had arrived at Bybrook View before them, not having had the luxury of breakfast or even a cup of tea. He yawned expansively, then pointed. ‘Whoever topped the old geezer torched his Bentley, too.’
‘You know that for a fact, do you, Deedee?’ McLusky stomped past the DC without looking at him.
‘What’s up with him?’ Dearlove muttered to no one in particular, then followed the two detectives warily into the main building.
McLusky found a uniformed police officer from Chew Magna waiting for him in the hall. This was Sergeant James Bond’s first murder scene and he was torn between the excitement of the occasion and his impatience at the late arrival of the CID officers. He was a man in his late twenties with a pleasant, eager face. It was his burning ambition to be promoted through the ranks until his colleagues stopped making fun of his name, at least to his face. ‘We sent a patrol past the house every few hours,’ said Bond. ‘When the last one came up to the house, they found the owner’s car on fire.’
‘You didn’t see it yourself?’
‘No, the fire was out when I arrived.’
‘Then find me the chaps who did.’
‘Yes, sir. But their shift ended over an hour ago.’
‘Mine doesn’t start until two hours from now. Go and find them.’
‘Yes, sir. The body is through there.’
There is never an ideal time for an encounter with a corpse, but on the whole McLusky preferred the afternoon. This morning he couldn’t decide whether he was glad he had breakfasted or if he would have preferred to face the scene on an empty stomach, with no chance of adding his breakfast to the DNA at the scene. That kind of thing sometimes happened and was not popular with forensics. Once they had donned scene suits, McLusky and Austin entered the sitting room where, not long ago, they had drunk Greek coffee with Leonidas Poulimenos. The Greek man’s large body lay across one of the two sofas. At the time of his death he had been wearing blue jeans and a dark blue shirt. He had been shot through the head. There was a lot of blood. His face was covered in it but a spectacular amount of it had ended up on the wall above the sofa, most of it inside the pale rectangle where one of the two David Bomberg paintings had once hung. Blood had also made artistic spray patterns sideways, becoming more delicate at the outer fringes. Austin looked away, pretending to study the room, but McLusky moved in closely. He felt he owed it to the victim to become closely acquainted with his death. Bloody tissue, hair, bone fragments and brain matter had also hit the wall. Under the blood, McLusky thought he could see where the bullet had entered, just above the nose, and he knew from experience that there would be an exit wound, ten times the size or more at the back of the dead man’s skull, the source of the brain tissue on the wall. The smell of death was strong in the room: not of decay, but the reek of blood, of emptied bowel and bladder.
On the table stood a carafe with a few inches of what looked like red wine; a large wine goblet had been overturned, its content spilled over coffee table and floor. Austin, hoping to find a second glass under the table, was on all fours; he found none. He remembered the way to the kitchen and left the room to return a moment later. ‘There’s an identical wine glass sitting on the draining board, washed up.’
‘Someone could have washed their DNA off it. Get them to bag it anyway.’
Sergeant Bond stood just outside the door. ‘The two officers who called the fire brigade and found the body are outside.’
‘Fine, I’ll talk to them in a minute. Is there any sign of forced entry?’
‘None that we found, but we haven’t been over the whole place yet – it’s a large property.’
Several forensics technicians were now entering the house, just as the pathologist arrived. Dr Coulthart looked fresh and even-tempered, showing no sign that he resented having been woken early and made to drive out to the Chew Valley; McLusky had seen the doctor at all hours of the day and night and always found him looking awake, eager, interested and impeccably groomed. He wouldn’t be surprised if Coulthart slept in a scene suit and with his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose in case he was called out.
‘A beautiful morning out there, Inspector.’
‘You love the smell of burning Bentley in the morning?’
‘Is that what it was? Pity. And what have we here?’ The question was rhetorical and McLusky did not answer it. All would hang on ballistics matching the bullet to the previous shootings, but McLusky had little doubt that the same gun would prove to have killed all three men. ‘You do have your hands full, McLusky, I must say.’
‘So do you.’
‘Ah, but after the post-mortem I wash my hands of the matter, so to speak, write a report and that’s it. I rarely even get called to give evidence these days. That’s how thorough my reports are.’ He gave McLusky a look over the top of his glasses. McLusky knew for a fact that it was purely theatrical since he had it on good authority that the pathologist could see virtually nothing without his spectacles. Coulthart started with a rectal reading and then went methodically over the body. The scene-of-crime officers entered and for once their presence was less than oppressive due to the generous proportions of the room. They photographed and filmed every square inch of the place while Coulthart worked. Austin had left the room. ‘Shot from almost point-blank range, I’d say. Large exit wound; can’t see the projectile at this stage. Looks like the bullet went straight through his skull and then hit the wall.’ Gently, he let the head sink back.
Austin came back into the room. ‘Sir? There’s something you should see.’
‘Will it wait?’
‘Oh, aye.’
McLusky turned back to the pathologist. ‘You think the killer came quite close? Almost point-blank, you said. Could it have been fired across the table? Could the killer have been sitting opposite?’
‘It’s possible. But the victim was standing or in the process of standing up. We can try to establish an angle during the autopsy. And there’s a second bullet wound in his shoulder and, you’ll be glad to know, no exit wound.’
‘Is there? I completely missed that.’
‘Easily done with all that blood on him. This one didn’t bleed so much so it’s probably the second shot. You will at last get a bullet that hasn’t been deformed by hitting a solid object.’ Coulthart gave McLusky a sideways look. ‘So you can compare it when the next killing happens.’
‘Don’t say that. Three friends, three bodies. The fourth died last century. This ought to be the last.’ Even if he never caught the killer, McLusky thought, this had to be the last. Because who else? ‘When did he die?’
‘I’d say between ten o’clock and midnight.’
‘That far back? But hang on – the Bentley was torched early this morning, wasn’t it?’ He went to the door and called for Bond. ‘Sergeant? Your officers – the ones who reported the fire?’ They were duly produced and looked every bit as tired as they were. ‘What time did you see the fire?’
The older one of them had his notebook ready. ‘It was four thirty-five. We called the fire brigade, then climbed over the wall with our fire extinguisher, but the car was burning fiercely and the garage roof had caught fire; our little car extinguisher had no impact. In the end, Neil here just threw the thing at it and we retreated. The firefighters were here quickly, but the garage was practically gone by then.’
‘And you didn’t see anyone.’
‘See – no,’ said the younger officer. ‘But we could hear a car engine moving away fast. We couldn’t give chase, not while people and property were in danger. We asked for backup, but at this time of night in the valley we were the only available unit.’
‘What kind of a car engine was it?’
‘Well, my colleague here thought it was an old VW, like a Beetle?’
The man confirmed it. ‘Sounded a bit like that. It’s the image I had in my mind, anyway.’
‘In which direction did it go?’
‘It went that way.’ He gestured the way Austin and McLusky had come. ‘Away from Chew Magna.’
‘And was it you who found the body?’
‘It was. We couldn’t rouse anyone despite there being lights on, and the front door was ajar. We called, got no answer, and since we knew the homeowner was at risk, we entered the premises. It was obvious that … erm – sorry, I can never remember his name correctly – the victim, shall we say, was quite dead.’
McLusky sent the officers home and turned to the nearest forensics technician. ‘There’s security cameras out there: find the recorder for me.’ Then he went to look for Austin. When he found him, the sergeant was standing in the sunshine with his eyes closed. ‘This time next month Eve and I will be basking in proper Mediterranean sunshine in Spain.’
‘It’s warm enough for me here,’ said McLusky. ‘God, that burnt car stinks. What was it you wanted me to see?’
‘It’s in his studio.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘It still might,’ said Austin and led the way.
Two forensics technicians were standing i
n the studio, surveying the debris of broken crockery, smashed jars and damaged paintings. Several of the canvases had been slashed in dramatic fashion, as though a large cat had raked them with its claws. McLusky ran his fingers across a series of slashes as though they were harp strings. ‘This is pure theatre. Look at it. It’s so systematic. If you’re in a rage, you don’t cut neat slashes next to each other; you lash out. This is either pretend rage or very old, very cold rage. D’you remember Mendenhall’s studio?’ McLusky asked.
‘Yes. Overripe peaches,’ said Austin.
‘Anything else?’
‘Erm, yeah, it wasn’t messed up. But then the killer didn’t get into the house.’
‘Perhaps. Or else the killer didn’t want to mess up their own inheritance. So what am I supposed to be looking at?’
‘Through the door at the back.’
The narrow door at the end of the studio was ajar; Austin used one finger to push it open with a flourish.
McLusky stood in the open door. His face fell. ‘Oh, God. That’s all I bloody need. And he seemed such a civilized guy.’
‘You were looking for a pink bicycle, I believe?’
Fairfield sat up straight at her desk. ‘I still am, yes.’
‘Well, this could be something – mind you, not a lot left of it. It’s just the frame of a bicycle. Just had a call from a maintenance crew repairing street lighting. There’s a pink bicycle frame chained to a street lamp and they want us to cut it off. What do you want us to do with it?’
‘Nothing until I get there. What’s the location?’
It turned out to be not a million miles away from the place where Bethany’s body had been found, at the outer edge of an industrial area near the Feeder Canal. While she kicked her heels, leaning against her car, Fairfield watched the workmen who were servicing the tall street lamp, working on its innards through a narrow hatch. The bicycle frame lay flat at the base of the post, chained to it by a nearly matching pink bike chain. The workmen, who had not been told anything about the bike, noticed their audience. One of them called across. ‘Anything we can do for you, love?’