“Sorry to bother you Mrs Hewitt, I know this must be a difficult time,” said Daniel.
“It’s hectic. Have you ever had to arrange a funeral?” Daniel nodded. “Then you’ll know what it’s like. Thank God I’ve got Alisha.”
“When’s the funeral?” asked Daniel.
“A week today.”
“You have my sympathies, I buried my wife earlier this year. Do you know what … making the arrangements went by in a blur, but what stuck with me the most was not knowing how to act. Her friends looked more upset than I did, which felt weird and I couldn’t get my head around how long I was supposed to be mourning for. Sorry, Mrs Hewitt, I’m rambling.”
“No, it’s okay. That’s just how I feel. I want to get on with life but everyone thinks I should be moping around.”
“I know, I wasn’t even sure what was okay to wear to the funeral. I bet you’re even wondering how bright your nails should be, with the funeral coming up.”
“I’m going for a light pink. But I guess you didn’t come here to talk about my nails.”
Daniel smiled, “No, true enough. Firstly I want to thank you for coming in so quickly to make the formal identification. I know it must have been upsetting given … given the way he was presented to you.”
She looked to the floor and said nothing. Her hand tightened on the desk’s edge. His statement had been a bit clumsy; he didn’t enjoy replanting that image in her mind, but wanted the following conversation to have more gravity than their opening small talk.
Daniel continued, “Your husband’s death really was tragic and myself and DC Aitken would like to express our condolences.” Aitken nodded and hummed affirmation at his side. Mrs Hewitt’s face was expressionless.
“We would also like to understand more about Mr Hewitt’s relationship with Leon Jackson.”
“Relationship?”
“Yes, did they know each other?”
“They were business acquaintances.”
“May I ask the nature of their business?”
“I wasn’t that close to it. Leon Jackson was an architect, and they were both involved in property development, as investors and Jackson did some of the design work, I believe. My husband may also have helped him with other investments, but I’m not certain.”
“Have you any idea why Mr Jackson would want to … want to do what he did?”
“Look, Inspector …”
“Sheppard.”
“Sorry I forgot. Inspector Sheppard. You know what you said before about not knowing how people will judge you for how you act after a bereavement … well please bear that in mind when I say that my husband was not well liked. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it’s worse to lie, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.”
“My husband wasn’t a man to mince his words. And he lived on the edge. He thought I was clueless about his work, but I wasn’t. The only difference between my husband and an on-line poker addict, is that my husband gambled with the money of others. And, of course, the stakes were huge … millions, sometimes billions on the line. And he rarely lost.”
Daniel looked out of the door along the massive expanse of oak flooring then scanned the study, “So I see.” By his side, Aitken swirled her stylus furiously across her smartphone
“Well you can’t do a job like that without it sometimes taking you close to the edge, and he could snap, at me, at his friends. If Leon Jackson and my husband had fallen out, it wouldn’t have surprised me. God forgive me for saying that my husband was brusque, sometimes to the point of rudeness.”
“But to do what he did?” Mrs Hewitt shrugged and there was a conversational lull. Daniel took up the slack. “Do you know how Mr Jackson’s investments were doing?”
“Like I said, I wasn’t that close to it.”
“I understand Mrs Hewitt, we’ll leave you in peace. There is just one issue, that’s a little sensitive, which I need to discuss with you.”
“Go on.”
“I have requested a post mortem which, with your permission, will take place on Wednesday afternoon.”
She let out a shrill, hysterical laugh and her hand shot up to cover her mouth, “I’m so sorry,” she just about managed to say, then got herself under control. “Don’t you order those when you want to establish cause of death?”
“Ordinarily.”
“I’m no detective inspector, but you might want to look into the small wound to his head.”
Daniel smiled wanly, “I know how it sounds, how obvious the cause of death seems, but in about thirty per cent of cases the initial cause of death is proved false by post mortem. And these are unusual circumstances which currently defy reason. I have to request it.”
Mrs Hewitt sighed deeply and crossed her arms. Daniel was acutely aware of needing her consent. “There are other benefits of proceeding too, post-mortems are the primary way we discover underlying, sometimes hereditary illnesses.”
Daniel looked towards one of the family photos on the desk, which showed Mr and Mrs Hewitt with a spectacled boy aged around six and a girl a couple of years older. The girl’s hair - which could have been brown - looked black, in its damp and dishevelled state. They all wore wetsuits. “You have kids … post-mortems have been known to save the lives of children, through early understanding and pre-emptive treatment of genetic conditions.”
Mrs Hewitt’s shoulders appeared to loosen. “I have no objections Inspector. Mallory’s chances of having an open casket service are zero anyway. What do you need me to do?”
Aitken lifted a knee to balance her black satchel-like bag. She pulled out a document and handed it to Mrs Hewitt. Those perfectly shaped eyebrows raised as she thumbed through its five pages.
“Christ do I need to look through this now?”
Daniel said, “If you could. I know it looks long, but it only takes five minutes to read.”
Mrs Hewitt sat at her desk, reading and intermittently signing each section. Six signatures were required. As she worked on the document, Aitken and Daniel waited patiently, absorbing the adornments of the study and the sounds of the house. On the wall opposite the desk hung a framed picture of Mallory Hewitt and David Cameron, both in tuxedos. A clock from somewhere beyond the study - Daniel imagined a grandfather clock - chimed briefly on the half-hour.
“There, do you take this?” she handed Daniel the form.
“I’ll make sure it gets to the right place. Thank you for agreeing to this. You’re quite within your rights to change your mind within the next twenty four hours.”
“I’m not one for changing my mind.”
“But if you should, call me. Likewise, if you do remember anything else about your husband’s business relationship with Leon Jackson, I’d really appreciate hearing from you.”
Aitken, who slid her stylus into her phone’s leather folder in preparation to leave, said, “Mrs Hewitt, where is your husband’s funeral, may I ask?”
“St Hughs church.”
Aitken made an easy three-point turn in the spacious gravel drive, steering well clear of Mrs Hewitt’s shiny Range Rover, a lustrous talisman, sparkling in the bright sunlight.
“You know the notes you take on your phone won’t be admissible.” said Daniel.
“Don’t worry, if … correction, when - we interview under caution, I’ve got a stack of LP74s in my bag.”
“Sorry, was I a bit patronising then wasn’t I?”
She smirked, “A little … Anyway where to next?”
“The house once owned by Sebastian Fallon, via his estate agent.”
“I wondered why you wanted that case file.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Not yet. Not had chance.”
“No worries, I’ll fill you in on route."
They drove back into Blaine and slowed past Fallon’s house. The driveway had been cleared; branches brutally sawed close to their trunks. Sappy stumps had green preserver painted into their wounds. Outside an estate agent's sign s
aid, 'For Sale.' The agent was Hartwells of Louth. Daniel noted the name and phone number. As they drove off, he couldn’t help but glance in the pharmacy window, just able to see Charlotte in her white coat, serving a silver-permed trolley-dragging lady.
He googled the estate agent’s address as they drove towards Louth and programmed the location into his iPhone’s sat nav.
“I’m impressed,” said Aitken.
Daniel looked up from his phone, feeling a little bemused, “By what?”
“The way you’re operating that thing.” She nodded towards the iPhone he clutched.
“I may be a bit long in the tooth, but I’m not a Luddite.”
“Luddite, what’s that?”
He laughed, “An expression only a Luddite would use.” She looked bemused and he laughed harder.
His amusement soon abated and they drove on in silence. A feeling of anxiety, a tingling in his legs, came upon him. He knew no court would grant a warrant to search Fallon’s premises; he was completely reliant on the goodwill of Hartwell’s to allow them access to the property. What’s more, the conditions for conducting a search without warrant - strictly speaking - had not been met.
They met with Mr Hartwell himself, a lithe man who wore a paisley waistcoat, complete with pocket watch. He looked more like an antiques dealer than an estate agent. Mr Hartwell was hugely sympathetic once Daniel explained that a number of individuals had been seen walking up Fallon’s drive that week; a half truth, and that they were responding to the concerns of neighbours who suspected the place was drawing the interest of local youths; a bare-faced lie. Whilst they were there, Daniel asked if there had been any interest in the property, ‘A little’ was Hartwell’s response, estate agent’s code for ‘None.’ Mr Hartwell confirmed that most of Fallon’s personal effects, other than the minimum required to dress the place, were in storage. He fished out a card from his drawer, giving the details of the storage company: McKenzie’s Storage - ‘Any Size, Any time.’
On their way back to Blaine, Aitken said, “I don’t mean to question your judgement here sir …but on what grounds are we conducting this search?”
“PACE, section seventeen.”
“I don’t follow.”
“We’re there trying to catch a person unlawfully at large.”
“Who?”
“The person or persons responsible for the deaths of Fallon, Nixon, Hewitt and Jackson. We suspect they might be there right now, looking for evidence they need to destroy.”
“That’s a bit thin isn’t it?”
“Paper thin. But I’m SIO, the decision rests with me and I’m ordering you to enter his premises. If this goes pear-shaped, you can’t be held responsible.”
“In reality, how likely is it that there’s a connection between these four deaths?” The expression, ‘in reality’ had always amused Daniel as though we were all living in a fantasy land until the phrase was uttered.
“If I was to put a number on it, I’d say five per cent.”
“And that’s strong enough to risk what we’re about to do?”
“It’s strong enough that I won’t be content until it’s done.”
Aitken nodded shallowly. She reached up to flip down the car’s visor as they wound a downhill path towards a sun-drenched Blaine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Daniel set his Stanley toolbox down on Fallon’s drive. He turned the green-tabbed Yale key and applied upward pressure on Fallon’s door, which opened more easily than it had earlier in the year.
“Been here before?” asked Aitken.
“Once.”
They stepped inside the kitchen. It had been cleaned - no more grease streaks on the cooker’s backboard - but little else had changed. Whoever the benefactor of this property was, they didn’t seem that interested in selling it.
Aitken followed him as they walked through the hall. Daniel paused in the living room to check out the bookcase, which was now filled with fake cheap-looking burgundy book spines that weren’t going to fool anyone.
“Now this is the room I wanted you to see.” He moved towards the dining room. It was entirely bare, no more wood parings scattered over the floor and the oak table was absent. Aitken said, “I can smell wood and polish.”
“That’s because Fallon liked to carve.”
“Weird.”
Daniel made a doubtful mew in his throat, “Perhaps a little. But not that weird by Blaine standards. This is the place, after all, where the local handyman has shop manikins stood in all sorts of poses on his lawn. Anyway, inside this room Fallon was carving the bodies of children into a table top, there were dozens of them.”
“Perhaps he just liked classic sculptures. When my fiancé took me to Rome, you couldn’t get through a day without seeing statues of babies.”
“Perhaps. Shall I add something into the mix though?”
“Go on.”
“On the day of Fallon’s death, photos were found here of Anthony Nixon’s boy at the swimming baths. There was also one of Nixon trying to grab the camera off whoever was taking them.”
“So, you reckon Fallon was a paedophile?”
“Possibly. When I was in here last, I caught a young lad, Martin Dalgliesh, snooping around. I’m convinced he was looking for something when I disturbed him. I’d love to find what he was after. He was upstairs. Let’s start there.”
Daniel led, swiping his toolbox from the foot of the stairs. As they climbed Aitken asked, “Wouldn’t it be best to start with his personal effects in storage?”
“Maybe. But if you were taking inappropriate photos of young kids, which you had no business taking, would you just throw them in a drawer? Or would you hide them?”
“I’d hide them … I guess.”
They peered briefly into each upstairs room. All were sparse. Fallon’s late grandmother’s bedroom still had its mirror, though the brush was gone. They split up to check the obvious places, inside drawers and under wardrobes, drawing a blank.
In the grandest bedroom, a wrought iron double bed with faded floral duvet sat squarely over a Keshan rug, of reds, beiges and greens. The rug covered the entire floor. Aitken stepped through the bedroom doorway as Daniel lifted one end of the bed, gauging its weight. It was heavy.
“Could you give me a hand with this?”
“Sure.”
Aitken slipped off her jacket and threw it onto the bed. With a little embarrassment, Daniel noted that she appeared to lift her end with greater ease. Under laboured breaths Daniel said, “I’m praying for screws.” Aitken’s brow furrowed. “The floorboards. I hope to God they’re not nailed down.”
It was an effort to release the rug from under two of the bedposts, but they managed it and - working on their knees - rolled up the rug. They’d exposed floorboards which, if sanded and varnished, might have been stunning. As they were, pale and dusty with gaps a little too wide, it was clear why such a huge rug - however gaudy - had covered them.
“Yes! Screws.” Daniel examined a few, running his thumbnail into their flat-head grooves, to check an ill-fitting screwdriver hadn’t mangled them. Their condition was good. Too good. “Nothing to see here though … sorry … I’m not explaining myself,” said Daniel. “I think we should examine each section of floorboard for signs of disturbance. It might be as obvious as the board being slightly raised, or as subtle as screws that look a little more scarred than their neighbours, like they’ve been re-screwed a number of times.” They divided the room to search, Aitken to Daniel’s right.
There were no signs of disturbance until Aitken approached the final corner. “These …” she was examining the screws of a board, which was mostly covered by the wardrobe, “… they’re marked and chipped. We might even struggle to get them out. And we’ll need to shift this.” She stood, brushed dust from her knees and slapped the side of the wardrobe. Something clattered inside, perhaps a murder of empty hangers, perched on the rail.
They walked the wardrobe out, continually slapping the do
ors back shut as they fell from weak magnets. And there, less dusty than it should have been: one floorboard with tarnished screws. Daniel grabbed a flat-headed screwdriver from his toolkit and started loosening. The first two came away easily the third and fourth were stubborn.
He wiped perspiration from his brow with his forearm and tried to lift the board, unable to get enough grip with his fingertips. Meanwhile Aitken searched through the toolbox and pulled out a metal file. She slotted it between the board and its neighbour, and prised the long side. It lifted easily.
Daniel smiled at her, “Now why didn’t I think of doing that?”
They both looked into the hole. There was a smattering of loose insulation which resembled cinder toffee candyfloss. Aitken rolled her sleeve up and brushed the insulation out of the way, revealing bare beams.
Daniel said, “Great … nothing,” and was going to speculate about Martin Dalgliesh having got there first, when Aitken said, “not so fast” and reached under the board. She was soon armpit deep in it, looking - with that rolled up sleeve - like a vet performing a bovine exam.
“I can feel the edge of something, … aaarrgh … can’t quite reach it.”
“Let’s take out another board.” She pulled her hand out and they shuffled a short distance along the floor on their knees. Daniel unscrewed the next board easily and left the job of prising it up to Anna.
And there it was. A small flat briefcase, no longer than a laptop, with two brass combination locks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
River Dilettantes, the assistant pharmacist who frequently worked with Charlotte, had a name which she secretly recited when alone. She thought, ‘River Dilettantes’ was perhaps the prettiest name she’d ever heard; it had a lyrical assonance which pleased her ear.
His face also pleased her. With his cheeks’ faded pockmarks, dark stubble and jet black hair, he was reminiscent of a suave Miami detective, a nineteen seventies throwback. The illusion was shattered by his height, at just five-four, and by the long white coat his job demanded, which finished just above black polished Dr. Martins. A sexy look it wasn’t. Still, Charlotte was convinced River was keeping the place afloat with his rugged looks and youthful charm. On his days off, female customers, of remarkably varying ages, asked his whereabouts.
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