A Good Way to Go

by Peter Helton

  ‘He did. However …’ Coulthart moved the camera first to one of the wrists, then one of the ankles so McLusky could get a close-up view on the monitor. ‘Both wrists and ankles were scored and blistered.’

  ‘What the hell am I looking at? Burns, are they? Was he tortured?’

  ‘I’m sure it was torture for the deceased but I have a notion that the object wasn’t torture. I think someone made an amateurish attempt at electrocuting this chap. He was tied to a chair or something similar and connected to the national grid. Only it didn’t kill him. Now if you’d want to torture someone you’d connect electricity to bits of the body, his genitals for instance would be quite effective. You wouldn’t pass electricity through the entire body; that always risks stopping the heart. This bloke was fit enough to withstand having quite a lot of current run through him. So the killer bashed his head in instead.’

  ‘Oh, marvellous. Why can’t I get a nice and simple murder for once? What wouldn’t I give for a stabbing outside a pub with a couple of witnesses and some CCTV right now.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get lucky one day. And yes, the perpetrator definitely used clothesline to tie him with. It was cut off the body before he had his jacket put back on him and was dumped, but one ring of the material remained in place, probably moulded into place by the heat of the electric current.’

  ‘Same stuff as we found on the first body?’

  ‘Can’t say. It went off to forensics yesterday. Don’t hold your breath, Inspector.’

  ‘I won’t. It’ll come back in a week’s time with a note saying “Yup, it’s definitely clothesline” and an invoice for half my monthly salary.’

  ‘Such cynicism in one so young. You never know, it might be more elucidating than that. We’ll compare trace evidence of course to see if we can connect the two bodies but the immersion in the canal makes that a rather hopeless endeavour. In the meantime, and even before we have opened our friend up, I can offer you quite a bit more right here. When I said he wasn’t tortured I meant his killer didn’t. There are quite a few older, healed and partially healed marks on the body that are consistent with sexual violence. His nipples were damaged at some stage, probably with needles. Several puncture marks. Let’s roll him on his side for a minute,’ Coulthart said to his assistant, who obliged. ‘And as you can see he was also beaten, regularly, and quite hard, on his back and buttocks.’

  ‘Caned? Whipped?’

  ‘Whipped. Cane marks aren’t as long as these and don’t curve round so far.’

  ‘OK, you’re the expert. If some of the marks are fresher than others that says to me he submitted to it. He wasn’t attacked.’

  ‘Quite. For our grey-haired friend here it was a way of life, I’d say, and he did have regular anal intercourse, too, though not immediately before his death.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Yes. No DNA for us there. Right, let’s put him on his back and let’s get stuck in. So to speak.’

  By law McLusky was obliged to witness the autopsy, yet nowhere was it written that he had to focus too closely on the process of evisceration that followed the Y-shaped incision which opened up the body cavity. From then on the inspector let his eyes unfocus or studied the stainless steel starkness of the operating room’s facilities. It was enough to listen to the running commentary on the internal organs of the corpse. According to Coulthart, the victim had been in fairly good shape, had done a lot of cycling too, judging by his leg muscles, either on an exercise bike or a real one. The pathologist was just remarking on the apparent absence of any obvious pathology when DS Austin entered the viewing suite.

  ‘Jane, what are you doing here?’ McLusky asked, forgetting that Coulthart could overhear.

  ‘Jane, is it?’ Coulthart said, looking up. ‘Oh, of course, it’s Austin. Inescapable, really.’

  Austin ignored it. ‘Someone has just reported a man missing, fitting his description. His employer, in fact. Went missing three nights ago. Everything fits.’ Austin handed McLusky a sheet of printed notes.

  After speed reading what it said, McLusky stepped closer to the pane of glass. ‘Dr Coulthart, meet Stephen Bothwick, 34 years of age.’

  Austin shook his head, muttering: ‘Bit late for introductions when you’ve already got both hands inside a chap.’

  They had driven back into town in separate cars and were now standing outside a tall Georgian building in Clifton where they had arranged to meet with the police locksmith to open up the dead man’s flat. McLusky knew the area well. It was only a few houses away from Louise Rennie’s place and just around the corner from the Primrose Café in Boyces Avenue. ‘You’re late,’ McLusky told the locksmith when he arrived two minutes after he had finished his cigarette. Austin was willing to bet that, had the locksmith arrived before McLusky had finished smoking, he’d have accused him of being early.

  The man gained access to the second floor flat with worrying ease, making McLusky wonder, not for the first time, how safe anyone’s place of abode really was, and tangentially why locksmiths didn’t more often embark on a career of housebreaking. Not wanting to be accused of putting ideas in people’s heads he refrained from asking. He pulled on latex gloves, thanked him and went inside.

  ‘For a man in his early thirties he has quite mature tastes,’ Austin said as they walked past a Regency hall table with gold-framed mirror above. The large sitting room also looked peculiarly conservative, with a dominating fireplace, dark carpets, gold-trimmed black curtains at the windows and solid period furniture.

  ‘His hair was dyed grey. Perhaps it was all an attempt to give himself more gravitas. Or perhaps he inherited the lot.’ McLusky left Austin to check out the sitting room while he looked around in the kitchen. It was large and tried less hard to look like the nineteenth century. He went straight for the fridge. ‘Not quite so sober in here!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Stuffed olives, squeezy processed cheese, instant whipped cream in a can! Suitable for vegetarians! Who knew?’ He walked back through the sitting room. ‘Talking of whipped, let’s check out the bedroom. Found any kinky videos?’

  Austin was holding up a clutch of DVDs. ‘Better Golf from Tee to Green, Story of a Golfing Genius, Augusta Open Championships 2013.’

  ‘Definitely a weirdo, then.’ He entered the master bedroom. Here, too, wall-to-wall old-fashioned solidity was unrelieved by any sign that Stephen Bothwick had ever been young. The brass bedstead looked a genuine antique, so did the enormous wardrobe and the heavy dressing table. There was a large snake-charmer’s clothes basket in one corner. It was big enough to accommodate a man so he looked inside. It was empty. ‘This guy was my age. Where did I go wrong?’ he softly enquired of the room. McLusky still made do with a mattress on the floor and a bin liner full of dirty washing in one corner, not because he couldn’t afford anything better but mainly because he never felt settled enough to do much about it. It had been another point of friction between him and Laura, her knowledge that deep down he didn’t care much about the lifestyle she had carefully constructed for them. As for Louise Rennie’s place around the corner from here, that was all expensive air and contemporary light and beauty. Here, however, something heavy hung in the air, quite apart from the whiff of deodorant or perhaps perfume in this room. The curtains looked too thick, the duvet too heavy, the wardrobe too looming. McLusky opened and closed drawers gingerly, leaving it for the crime scene technicians.

  ‘Anything?’ Austin asked as he joined him.

  ‘Bugger all. Not even one lousy pair of handcuffs. It’s like a show home in here. Look at this bed. You said this guy lived alone?’

  ‘According to Mr Lamb, his employer.’

  ‘Is that the same guy who told you Bothwick had a “small flat in town”? This place is huge. What’s in the second bedroom?’

  ‘A second bed and one of those old-fashioned little writing tables.’

  ‘Have you found a computer yet?’

  ‘No. But there’s a printer and the, er, gubbins for a lapto
p. Charger is what I mean.’

  ‘Is it,’ McLusky said absentmindedly. He left the master bedroom and stuck his head in next door to see for himself. ‘All right, mobile phone records, internet history, if possible, the usual, Jane.’ He moved on to the generously proportioned bathroom. It was spotless and polished. ‘We’ll let forensics crawl over this place. Tell me, in your experience, do all thirty-four year olds leave their bed neatly made and the bathroom like this?’

  ‘Ask me again in six years’ time. Only if they’re hoping to get laid, I should think. Or because mum’s on her way over.’

  ‘Or someone comes and cleans up after them. But perhaps he has a cleaner. Right, let’s go and talk to Mr Understatement, his employer.’ He picked up the few unopened letters on the hall table. None were private correspondence. Two were charity appeals, a third with a printed address label had a Bristol postmark. ‘Wait. How did they get here?’

  ‘Someone put them there?’

  McLusky held up the letter. ‘Yes, Sherlock, look at this postmark.’

  Austin did. ‘Posted yesterday. So it arrived today when he was already in the mortuary.’

  ‘Find out if he has a cleaner or a housekeeper or whatever. Someone’s got here before us. I think this someone cleaned up Bothwick’s flat. Somebody definitely collected his mail from his box downstairs and left it here.’ McLusky carefully slid open the letter.

  ‘What’s it say?’ Austin asked.

  ‘His check-up’s due at the dentist’s.’

  McLusky let himself be persuaded to be a passenger in Austin’s tiny no-smoking car. His resistance was weakened since he had to admit that the now-completely-broken front suspension made it difficult to get his Mazda around corners. He left it parked, unlocked and with the keys in the ignition in the hope that someone would drive it away and torch it after skidding into a ditch. Austin drove them south out of the city on the Bridgwater Road and eventually through the affluent village of Barrow Gurney. He stopped in a lane flanked by birch trees, opposite a large converted farm complex a short way outside the village. Only one leaf of the wrought-iron gate was open so Austin left the car in the lane. It was a blustery day and snatches of music were riding on the wind. Someone was practising the cello; short phrases of something McLusky did not quite recognize were being repeated. He ground a cigarette end into the tarmac with his shoe while exhaling the last puff of smoke.

  ‘Did Mr My-PA-has-a-small-flat-in-town by any chance say he himself had a little cottage in the country?’

  ‘Mr Lamb, Bothwick’s employer, is Deputy Chief Executive of Somerset County Council; that must make him master of euphemism and understatement.’

  ‘Oh, I remember him now. He’s the guy who was making a statement outside the council offices about the cuts and how we all have to make some sacrifices and someone flung a wing nut at him. He got his cut right there. It nearly put his eye out.’ McLusky marched through the open gate up the drive and towards the horseshoe of buildings, converted barns and stables. There was a yellow Lotus parked in an open double garage with wooden hinged doors; in the cobbled yard stood a grey five-door Mini Countryman. He took in the cars, the immaculately restored nineteenth-century buildings, the new cobbling of the yard. The place looked large enough to house five families in comfort.

  ‘This place looks full of sacrifices,’ McLusky growled. ‘Other people’s. Just how much are we paying this guy out of our rates and taxes?’

  ‘I’m sure it amounts to several pounds. Though if you get to do his job you’ve probably made your millions already.’

  ‘Probably,’ McLusky mused. ‘If you were that rich, though, wouldn’t you rather retire young in a small cottage than keep on working to pay for all this lot?’

  Austin staggered in mock horror. ‘And muddle through without the indoor swimming pool? Are you mad?’

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

  They had crossed half the yard when a door in the main building opened and a woman appeared. She had short, blonde hair, wore large pearl earrings, a cream raw-silk dress and matching shoes. An enthusiastic Labrador shot past her and came barking across the yard to inspect the arrivals.

  ‘Are you the police? My husband …’ She broke off to shout at the dog. ‘Zora! Come here! No, here!’ The dog took no notice and continued to dance around the two officers. ‘It’s all right she’s just friendly. And very stupid.’

  McLusky held his ID aloft. ‘Are you Mrs Lamb?’

  ‘Yes, my husband has gone for his swim. Let me lock up the idiot dog and I’ll take you to him.’

  McLusky gave Austin a wide-eyed look. Austin shrugged. ‘I didn’t know he had a pool. I was joking when I said it.’

  Mrs Lamb reappeared and led the way. A double cross of brick paving had been set into the cobbles, connecting the various outer doors of the buildings, which allowed Mrs Lamb to negotiate her home in four-inch heels. The swimming pool was housed in a long, low building. They entered through a door into a well-heated vestibule, then through another door into the pool area. The pool was long and narrow. The only additional luxury was provided by several large potted palms surrounding a couple of wicker chairs and a table. McLusky breathed in deeply. The smell brought back childhood memories of swimming lessons at a municipal pool which had been high on chlorine and short on potted palms.

  Mrs Lamb called to the large, white-skinned grey-haired man swimming lengths. ‘Darling? Your police officers have arrived.’ Then she turned and click-clacked away on the tiled floor, leaving by a different door.

  David Lamb turned on to his back and eyed them without acknowledgement while he continued swimming for a while, then turned back on his front and made for the nearest steps in a leisurely, efficient crawl. ‘Damn it, don’t you people make appointments? You could have called before turning up here.’ He kept on talking as he turned his back on them to fetch his bathrobe from a chair. ‘And I had expected you a lot earlier than this. I called about Stephen disappearing several hours ago.’

  McLusky walked up to him, showed his ID. ‘I’m DI McLusky, this is Detective Sergeant Austin.’

  ‘I don’t really appreciate people walking with street shoes through the pool area, but since you’re here you might as well stay where you are.’ He sat down in the chair and made a gesture that McLusky took for an invitation to sit down in the second chair. Austin stood, feeling hot in his suit and wondering what it must cost to heat an indoor swimming pool and keep the air temperature of the entire building this tropical.

  Lamb, wrapped in a short, wine-red monogrammed bathrobe, gave him an impatient look. ‘Well? Have you any news yet?’

  Now that Lamb was out of the water and covered up McLusky recognized him. He remembered him being interviewed on the local news, talking about the cuts. McLusky gave him the nod and Austin spoke. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that we have reason to believe Mr Bothwick may be dead.’

  ‘Dead.’ Lamb stared straight ahead across the still turquoise of the pool.

  ‘Yes, a body fitting the description you gave was found the day before yesterday. Did you not hear it on the news?’ asked Austin.

  Lamb looked up but not at Austin, and said to McLusky: ‘There were no details, I didn’t connect the two.’

  ‘I see. Stephen Bothwick worked for you. In what capacity?’

  ‘Stephen was my PA. How? How did he die? Did he have some sort of accident?’

  ‘No accident,’ Austin said. ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered,’ Lamb said, still addressing McLusky as though the inspector was using Austin as a medium to speak through. ‘A mugging, do you think? But where?’

  ‘We don’t know the motive for his murder yet,’ McLusky said. ‘But it wasn’t a mugging. His body was found near Ashton Gate on a piece of waste ground. Would Mr Bothwick have any business in that area?’

  ‘How did he get …? No, no business at all, Inspector. As far as I know. And how was he …?’

  ‘He died from a head wound,’ McLusk
y said.

  Austin allowed a respectful pause before asking: ‘Did Mr Bothwick drive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What make of car did he drive?’

  Lamb sat up straighter. ‘A VW, a Golf. Silver.’

  ‘Tell me, when did you last see Mr Bothwick?’

  ‘Three days ago. In the evening.’

  ‘Where was that?’ McLusky asked.

  ‘Here, it was here.’

  ‘And you didn’t miss your personal assistant until this morning?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that, Inspector. Of course I missed him. Only one doesn’t run to the police the moment someone hasn’t shown up for work.’

  ‘He would have been due to, what, come here? That would have been two days ago in the morning. And when he didn’t appear what did you do?’

  ‘I called him. But his mobile was switched off.’

  ‘When he left here, what time was that?’ Austin asked, notebook at the ready.

  ‘It was six o’clock.’

  ‘He left here to go home?’

  Lamb stood up. ‘Look, I think I told all that to the policewoman I spoke to on the phone. He left here at six, I never saw him again, now you’re telling me he’s been murdered. Perhaps I can ask a question now! Are you two in charge of this investigation?’ McLusky simply raised his eyebrows and Lamb didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘Then tell me, Inspector, who’s looking for Stephen’s killer while you’re here asking useless questions?’

  ‘Routine questions need to be asked,’ said McLusky, ‘and procedures followed, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that, Mr Lamb. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you some more obvious questions. How long had Mr Bothwick been working for you?’

  ‘Not quite three years.’

  ‘So you’d have got to know him pretty well, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I suppose so. What are you leading up to?’

  ‘He was not married, we understand. Was he in a relationship, do you know?’

  ‘He never told me of any.’