by Peter Helton
‘Do you have a key to Stephen’s flat?’ Austin asked casually. ‘Of course you have, you’re paying for it, aren’t you?’
‘I help. That’s not a crime now, is it?’
‘Was it you who tidied up his flat?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, someone cleaned up Stephen’s flat after his death, we’re pretty sure of it. And that someone collected today’s mail from his downstairs mailbox and left the letters on the hall table. So unless you were wearing your marigolds already then we’ll find your fingerprints on them. Won’t we? Will we?’
Lamb sighed. ‘Yes, that was me.’
‘And what did you remove from the flat?’
‘Exactly what you would expect.’
‘S&M paraphernalia, photographs, anything that would connect you to him. Exactly what his killer would have done of course.’
‘For the last time—’
McLusky cut across him. ‘Did you take his laptop?’
‘Yes, I took that.’
‘Why?’
Lamb shrugged. ‘Pictures. And some videos we made.’
‘Nice. Where is it now?’
‘At home. In my office.’
McLusky nodded to Austin who left the interview room to arrange for it to be collected. ‘What else?’ he asked Lamb.
‘Some DVDs, some sex toys and such.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t afford the publicity, I only took away anything that might have hinted at the nature of our relationship. The same at the cottage. I didn’t do it to destroy evidence of any crime. It’s a private matter and knowing what the police are like the press would soon have been all over it because the police always leak information to the press.’
McLusky suddenly leant forward as though his interest was aroused for the first time. ‘Now that is interesting. Because when we spoke to you earlier today you appeared surprised that your lover was dead yet by then you had already removed all evidence of your involvement from the flat. In other words: you knew.’
‘Yes. No! I didn’t know for sure. But Stephen had gone missing and when I heard the body of a man had been found I thought it might be him. And when I went to the flat it was obvious he hadn’t been there. Somehow …’ Lamb appeared to be struggling with his emotions. ‘I know this sounds idiotic, but somehow Stephen was the kind of person that would happen to. I just had this strange premonition.’
‘Premonition? Excellent. The jury are going to love that.’
Lamb ignored it. ‘There was no sign of a struggle or anything but it was obvious he hadn’t been home. From there I took a cab to the cottage. My car was there. But I didn’t have the keys to the cottage and hadn’t been able to find the spare keys to the Lexus so I went home. When I finally found the spare keys I went out again. That’s when you followed me. This sort of thing could ruin my career.’
‘I understand your concern.’
‘Good.’
‘Only, both flat and cottage were possible crime scenes. You cleared up the cottage even though you thought Stephen had been murdered and since he had driven your car there and subsequently disappeared it was bloody obvious that it was the most likely place he was attacked by his killer!’ McLusky was almost shouting now. ‘You were clearly more concerned about keeping the nature of your peccadilloes from becoming public knowledge than you were about seeing his killer caught, so perhaps it would be a good idea not to complain too loudly about the work we do and how we do it unless you want that too on the front page of the Herald. Right, you will be asked to sign a written statement then you are free to go and resume your very important, grown-up and discreet life. Sergeant Austin can arrange for a police car to drive you home.’
‘No thanks, I’ll manage.’
‘Good, we don’t want to waste police time and taxpayers’ money, do we?’ McLusky gathered his papers, already reaching for the tape recorder. What he needed now was a cigarette, a coffee and a Mars bar. ‘Just one more question. Do you know or have you ever met a Barbara Steadman or her husband John?’
Lamb pursed his lips. ‘Steadman? I have as a matter of fact. Yes, I have met both of them.’
McLusky withdrew his hand from the off button. ‘I do wish you hadn’t said that.’
Nodding her head to the beat of the music Ellen Fraser rattled off another burst on the keyboard of her laptop. Sitting in a small pool of light from the lamp on the sitting room table near the large sash window she cupped her chin in one hand and read the sentence through, changed discreet to discrete – she always got those two mixed up – and turned up the volume. Just because she was a mature student didn’t mean she couldn’t listen to music at immature volume levels – through her headphones so as not to wake the neighbours – and write last-minute essays late at night. And because she was a mature student she could touch type, not just clack away at the keyboard and hope for the best. Ellen had to admit she paid a higher price for burning the midnight oil than the nineteen year olds on her course. Thirty-eight, and old age had somehow crept up on her. She no longer tried to keep up with the pubbing, clubbing and partying; she was too busy trying to keep up with the mortgage and the course work. She had tried to do what was expected of students but after the first few weeks decided that she had definitely reached the age where she preferred to get at least seven hours sleep and wake up in a bed, preferably her own. Not that young men had been throwing themselves at her. Not even one of them had asked her how she liked her eggs in the morning. Which was a shame because she was ready and waiting with the killer retort of ‘Unfertilized, thank you’. She had been waiting so long for an opportunity to use it she was no longer sure if it was at all funny. Or even true.
It was her mind that needed fertilizing tonight. Ellen yawned expansively and reached for her coffee mug. Only a cold mouthful lurked at the bottom. She would brew fresh coffee and then make one more effort to get to grips with The Economics of the Late Medieval Village.
Ever cautious, she saved the document and slid the headphones from her ears. As she dropped them on to the table the booming music was transformed into an irritating high pitched noise, barely recognizable as music. She paused the player.
Sudden silence. She had been so lucky with this place, a garden flat right at the end of a Montpelier cul-de-sac, it was miraculously quiet yet right in the heart of the city. Of course there was that kind of background noise that all cities had, but you got used to that, you had to consciously listen to hear it, really. She stood and listened, mug in hand. Yes, OK, she could hear it now, very faint, the hum of the city. She was sure that if she had double-glazing fitted she wouldn’t hear it at all. Ellen shivered. There seemed to be a slight draught all of a sudden. And now there was a creak, on the other side of the door, in the hall. That was old houses for you. The floorboards creaked, the plumbing groaned and the windows rattled but we still love them because we think they have more soul than new ones. She opened the door to the hall and stepped forward and then stopped, stood immobile. The door to her bedroom was ajar. She was sure she had closed it earlier. In fact she always kept it closed. Perhaps it had opened by itself and that was what she had heard? Did doors open by themselves? Old doors in old houses? There was a squirming anxiety at the bottom of her stomach as she stood and breathed and listened. It was a while before she could bring herself to slowly push at the door with one finger, widening the gap, while trying to tell herself not to be silly and get spooked just because it was late. She slid one hand inside the room and felt for the light switch, found it and flicked it on. She pushed the door open wide. It was quite a small and cosy bedroom. Everything looked normal except for the chest of drawers beside the bed. The top drawer stood open and she knew for certain she had not left it like that. Ellen stepped forward and stood between bed and drawer, looking down into it. It had been messed up. Her tights and her knickers had been messed about and mixed up like a stew. Someone had been in here. She let herself sink down on the bed and immediately shot up again. Th
e patch she had sat on felt warm and damp.
‘We still don’t have a direct link, then?’ DSI Denkhaus took a sip of coffee from his cup, which looked fragile in his large fleshy hands, and returned it to its saucer.
McLusky had not been offered coffee – he could smell it was the real stuff – but at least this time he had been invited to sit on one of the two hard chairs in front of the super’s desk. McLusky was tired. Last night’s interview with Lamb had dragged on and the morning had been spent collating information and reading witness statements. He knew that if he closed his eyes for longer than a minute he would start snoring.
He sat up straighter. ‘The Lambs occasionally met the Steadmans socially, at one function or another, over the last couple of years. The impression Lamb was trying to give was that Barbara Steadman was a social climber, that he disliked her and that he spent no more than five minutes talking to either of the Steadmans.’
‘So we have two murders, the drowned woman in the canal, the electrocuted and battered chap in the weeds, and the connection is: the chap’s employer and lover had met the first victim, and the second victim had also at one time been tied up with lengths of clothesline.’
‘Four inches of clothesline, that’s all we have. Without it we would definitely have started separate investigations.’
‘What did forensics have to say about the clothesline?’
‘They said “it’s clothesline”, and that was that.’
‘Surely more than that?’
‘The said “It’s definitely clothesline, of a type similar to that used on the first victim”. I’m paraphrasing. All bloody clothesline are similar to each other, as far as I’m aware. But they managed to spot that it was a different colour. The woman was tied up in green and blue line, this stuff had once been red but looked greenish, discoloured through age, exposure to sunlight, etcetera and it was affected by the heat of the electricity. The victim had wires attached to his ankles and wrists and someone tried to fry him and it got hot enough to frazzle the clothesline he was tied with.’
‘Our man is quite a sadist then.’
‘It’s possible. But I think he actually tried to electrocute Stephen Bothwick as a method of killing him. Not for sport. Perhaps he hates mess.’
Denkhaus frowned. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t like blood. You stab someone or bludgeon someone and you’re bound to get blood everywhere. But electrocution could seem to someone a cleaner alternative. Ditto drowning.’
Denkhaus folded his hands in front of him and touched his knuckles lightly to his desk top. ‘You are convinced of the connection, then. The MO is very different.’
‘Oh, absolutely. It’s the same nutter, he just likes variety. Admittedly, without the bit of clothesline we would not immediately have connected the two. Without the clothesline I might not have asked Lamb if he knew the Steadmans.’
‘It’s thin, though, isn’t it?’ Denkhaus looked at the ceiling for inspiration. He spotted a ceiling tile that hung lose at one corner and frowned at it for a second, then scribbled on a notepad. ‘OK, always assuming they are connected, could the different MOs have been chosen to throw us off the scent? Make us believe in separate perpetrators?’ Denkhaus saw McLusky shaking his head. ‘Oh, of course not, you’re right. You wouldn’t leave bodies where they could be found within hours. Left there in order to be found.’
‘Yes, we were definitely meant to find them.’
‘Which is worrying. Someone is trying to make a point. But what about? And for whom? A manager of an energy company and a no doubt underpaid PA of a council exec? Keep digging, McLusky. And run a tight ship, everyone’s watching you. And don’t get people like Lamb more narked than is necessary. He has influence and he’s not a friend of ours.’
‘Oh, absolutely, sir. Kid gloves at all times, sir.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Denkhaus nodded towards the now blind monitor set in the bookshelves to his right and smiled grimly. ‘I watched the recording of last night’s interview with Lamb. Actually, I thought you handled that rather well. OK, good work. Now get the bastard. And if it turns out to be Lamb, so much the better.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Have we got mobile phone records for the first victim yet?’
‘Yes, we have. I had people wade through them but so far nothing out of the ordinary. The only interesting thing is that Barbara Steadman’s husband knows all of the contacts, or knows of them and so far none of them qualify as lovers or look good as suspects. It’s a shame we didn’t find the phone itself.’
‘Quite. Well, keep digging. It’s all out there.’
McLusky was already at the door when Denkhaus added: ‘Oh, McLusky? That thing you drive round in?’
‘I’m buying a new one, sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. When?’
‘What time is it now?’
McLusky went back to his office, piled the files he had been carrying on top of a filing cabinet and squeezed himself behind his desk. In the bottom of it lived a tiny travelling kettle amidst coffee-making paraphernalia. McLusky checked it for water, flicked it on and while he waited for the water to boil fell asleep. Just over an hour later he woke up with a start and a crick in his neck. He yawned, flicked the kettle on again, massaged his painful neck and grunted as he stretched his back until it clicked. He stirred whitener into his instant coffee and with irritation poked his spoon at bits of coffee granules that remained floating on top of the grey liquid. McLusky sipped at it and checked his computer. Nothing new. He scratched his head, tried to wake up properly. Two murders, one nutter? Drowning. Electrocution. Clothesline. A high-flying manager, a lowly PA. Who hated you? Who did you two piss off? He finished his coffee and checked the time on his phone: four thirty. Just enough of the day left to go and quickly buy a car, he supposed.
ELEVEN
A Mercedes 500 SEC. For the past two hours McLusky had been driving around just for the joy of it. Austin would probably say it was another impulse buy, Laura, with her environmental concerns would have screamed, but surely no one could complain that its image let the force down. This thing was more comfortable than his flat. It smelled of leather. It had heated seats. It had a decent sound system. The walnut dashboard made him think of a classic yacht. OK, it might be twenty years old but its shiny black body and the interior were immaculate and it moved like a dream. It had been surprisingly cheap, too, no more than a newer, much smaller car would have cost him. Paying for it had not been a problem since McLusky had little outgoings, living as he did in a rented flat without even the pretence of heating and with a minimalistic wardrobe. And with the compensation payment for being injured in the line of duty still sitting untouched in his bank account he felt he could easily afford this bit of luxury. Even here, parked opposite the Steadman house in Ham Green it didn’t look out of place. It was obvious there was some kind of party going on. A wake? There was a Dauphin catering van parked in the street outside and both street and drive to the house were crammed with cars, some, but by no means all of them, quite expensive. McLusky had come on the spur of the moment and in order to unnerve John Steadman by asking him about having met David Lamb and so possibly the other victim; a party he had not expected. Perhaps this wasn’t the time.
He could hear music, not the kind of music you would expect at a sombre gathering. McLusky walked up the drive to the house and the closer he got the clearer it became that this was no wake. A window was being opened just as he reached the side of the house and music spilled out, the kind of anodyne jazz played by people who did not like jazz. A couple were strolling in the garden at the edge of darkness. He found a bar and buffet in the brightly lit conservatory, helped himself to a bottle of Becks and walked out to Steadman’s writing hut, which showed light. McLusky made his way there along the unlit path and peered in through the window. On the chaise longue, which had been cleared of books – hastily, by the looks of it – lay John Steadman. He was delving into the green dress o
f the blonde woman who sat astride him, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Bereavement counselling,’ McLusky said to no one in particular. He dropped the empty bottle into a planter beside the path and checked his watch. Still ten to seven. No matter, there was a clock in the Merc.
‘It’s huge!’ Austin said for the third time. ‘Absolutely massive. How much did you pay for it?’
They were standing next to each other at the window, looking down into the Albany Road station car park. ‘It was actually quite cheap,’ McLusky offered in defence and yawned. He had driven around in it for another two hours the previous night.
‘I’m not surprised. Twenty years old.’
‘Yes, but it’s immaculate, just look at it.’
‘I am. Does it really have a five litre engine?’
‘Five litre V8.’
‘Economical, is it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ McLusky said, ‘it does several miles to the gallon.’
‘I thought so. That’s why it was cheap. It’ll drink you out of house and home.’
‘OK, that’s enough boy’s talk.’ They tore themselves away from the window and walked back towards the incident room.
‘Forensics called with a preliminary to let us know there was no blood in the interior or the boot of Lamb’s Lexus.’
‘How kind of them.’ From the other side of the corridor advanced DC French who peered at them through the carrier bags and objects piled high in the cardboard box she was carrying. She stepped aside to let them pass but McLusky stopped to admire.
‘Moving house, French? What’s all this junk?’
‘Collateral damage from DI Fairfield’s knicker-thief hunt,’ French said and rested the box like an infant on her hip. ‘They found prints at a place where he was interrupted while sneaking into a house and got a match. Turns out it’s nothing to do with the pants sniffer but the place had been burgled earlier and they found all this junk at the bloke’s address, he was a burglar-cum-window cleaner. All this stuff’s nicked. And they couldn’t be bothered to properly bag it up and label it there and then so guess who got landed with it?’