The Murder House

by Simon Beaufort

  Paul and I tracked down Shane’s friends, a sullen, uncommunicative horde. They refused to admit that they’d been with him when he’d drowned, although mud still caked the shoes of most of them. There wasn’t much we could do, except to point out that they should stay away from the river. Then they threw stones at the patrol car as we drove away. None hit us, and it didn’t seem worth going back to take issue with them.

  We drove to the station to put in our report. I imagine Paul thought me a dull and uncommunicative partner, but my thoughts were in turmoil again about whether I should confess. I just didn’t know what to do.

  Sunday, 5 August

  Five days after the murder, the initial horror had faded. That’s not to say that it didn’t feature regularly in my thoughts, but I’d come to terms with it. I still had visions of James lying on the floor twitching, but it was more remote, as though I wasn’t the one directly responsible. I’d have given anything to talk about it with someone, but as I still couldn’t bring myself to face Oakley, obviously that was out of the question.

  It wouldn’t be fair, anyway, to tell family or friends such a terrifying secret. The law makes it impossible for anyone to have that sort of knowledge and keep it to themselves. It was my mistake, my crime and my sin, so it would be my secret. Then, when I was caught, I wouldn’t have the agony of wondering whether it was because of clever policing or a dreadful betrayal.

  However, just because I’d killed a man didn’t mean I had to sit in every night and dwell on it. I could go out and see my friends without telling them about the thing that had changed my life. I was due to meet my old school friends the following evening for a drink, and I intended to go.

  Monday, 6 August

  Monday saw a silently furious Billy Yorke represented by Robert Brotherton, one of the founding partners of Urvine and Brotherton. He spoke with great eloquence and conviction, but there was no convincing reason why Yorke should be released while awaiting trial. The accused man’s composure crumbled when he heard he was to remain in prison until the prosecution was ready to proceed, and not even his elegant suit and immaculate tie could disguise the fact that he hadn’t risen very far above his origins – he screamed abuse and threats, and even some of his entourage seemed taken aback by his loss of control. Still howling, he was dragged from the courtroom.

  His more worldly associates muttered about miscarriages of justice. Michael raised a hand to his brother in a way that indicated the battle would go on, while Randal’s face was ugly with rage. Oakley imagined he would be lost without his boss – he didn’t have the brains to organize a successful life of crime for himself. Could Michael take up the reins to keep business ticking along? Not the burglaries, as they needed Yorke’s expertise and Michael was clever enough to know it, but some other illegal venture?

  ‘I thought Mr Paxton planned to take this case,’ Oakley said in a friendly way to Brotherton. ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’

  ‘He’s on holiday,’ replied Brotherton with a tight smile. ‘Well, it’s August, after all, and he hasn’t had a break since he joined us five years ago. He deserves his spell in the sun.’

  ‘He abandoned an important client in his hour of need?’ asked Oakley, surprised. ‘That doesn’t sound like him.’

  Brotherton clicked his briefcase shut and looked hard at him. ‘This was only a remand hearing. He’ll be representing our client at the trial.’

  ‘Yorke doesn’t think this was “only” a remand hearing,’ remarked Oakley. ‘He was expecting his freedom this afternoon, not a ride in a prison van.’

  ‘Then his expectations were unreasonable,’ said Brotherton crisply. ‘Good morning.’

  He heaved his briefcase from the bench and made for the door, a tall, business-like figure in the lawyer’s traditional pinstripes, dark tie and white shirt. He carried himself with the self-assurance that came from a moneyed background, and exuded a sense of importance. Oakley remembered him from long before, however, when he himself was a cadet struggling to make his superiors think a half-Indian would make an acceptable police officer. Then a lowly law clerk, Brotherton had been gauche, brash and naïve – his suave manners had been acquired along the way.

  Meanwhile, Yorke’s supporters milled around like angry wasps, and Evans wisely suggested that he and Oakley leave before they found themselves confronted. They headed for the door, but Michael intercepted them.

  ‘We’re going to appeal,’ he said smoothly. ‘Just so you know.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Oakley amiably.

  ‘My brother isn’t pleased that you’ve put him in this position,’ said Michael, his youthful face expressionless. ‘He wanted me to tell you that.’

  ‘Are you threatening us?’ asked Oakley coldly.

  ‘I’m passing a message to the officers in charge of my brother’s case,’ said Michael, unmoved. ‘That’s all.’

  He walked away, intercepting Randal, who was steaming towards them. Randal’s face was murderous, and it was fortunate for him that Michael could control him, because an encounter would have almost certainly ended in Randal’s arrest.

  ‘Animals!’ muttered Evans in disgust. ‘Do you want to do anything about Michael, Guv? We both heard him, so we should be able to make something stick.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Oakley, his eyes never leaving Michael as the young man strode away. ‘He was just talking. We’ll let it go this time.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure,’ said Evans. ‘But I’ll jot it in my pocketbook anyway, for the record.’

  ‘There’s a missing person’s report going around,’ said Evans, poking his head around the door of Oakley’s office late that afternoon. ‘Thought you might like to know.’

  Oakley looked up from his computer screen to see Evans’ eyes bright with humour.

  ‘Who?’ he asked, sensing his DS was itching to tell.

  ‘James Paxton,’ Evans pronounced with satisfaction. ‘His mother came in last night and said that he failed to show for a garden party yesterday. The vicar was there, apparently, and Mrs Paxton was most embarrassed when her son didn’t appear.’ He chuckled.

  Oakley pretended to be sombre. ‘You’re not taking this seriously, Graham. The only way a defence lawyer is going to get to heaven is if someone very holy intervenes on his behalf. Therefore, I put it to you that Paxton would never willingly miss an opportunity to solicit a Man of God, and we should conclude that one of his clients has slipped a knife between his ribs.’

  Evans laughed. ‘That’s just wishful thinking! But at least we know it wasn’t Yorke. I wish we’d got his slime-bag brother, too. It’s an offence to decent folk to see him walking free. How’s the old lady? She still in hospital?’

  Oakley nodded. ‘It’s a shame. The old girl deserved better.’

  ‘Ingram is a cunning bastard,’ said Evans consolingly. ‘He’ll nail Yorke for her. But, back to Paxton, Barry took the missing person’s report from Mummy. He managed to prise all sorts of details out of her to give the lads something to laugh about.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Oakley, intrigued.

  ‘Like the fact that he’s never had a regular girlfriend, although Mummy claims it’s because he doesn’t have time, not because he’s gay. Like the fact that she knows he wears Y-fronts because she buys them for him. Jesus! What sort of man lets his mother get his skivvies, for God’s sake?’

  ‘One who can’t be bothered to pick them up himself,’ suggested Oakley. ‘I wish I had someone to take care of that kind of crap for me.’ He saw Evans look disbelieving. ‘Where would you rather be on a Saturday afternoon: trailing around Marks and Spencer trying to work out the difference between cotton, cotton rich and poly-cotton, or sitting in the Mucky Duck?’

  ‘I suppose,’ conceded Evans. ‘We’ll let him slide on that one, then. Wright called Urvine and Brotherton and was informed that Paxton was on holiday. Obviously he booked himself a summer special and forgot to cancel the Pimm’s and strawberries under the willows with Mummy and the vicar
. He’ll be in for some ripe shit when he gets back.’

  ‘Brotherton told me Paxton was on holiday as well,’ said Oakley. ‘I suppose it’s true, then.’

  ‘Of course it’s true,’ said Evans. ‘The smug bastard’s in the south of France or taking the waters in Bath bloody Spa. Mummy will make him wish he’d never gone when he gets back, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘So will Brotherton,’ mused Oakley. ‘Because if Paxton has gone on holiday, then he didn’t tell his employers. I think that’s why Brotherton himself came to remand court today – Paxton went off without asking, and caught them on the hop.’

  I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Frances and the others at the Watershed that evening. I wanted to sit on my sofa and replay the dreadful scene at Orchard Street again and again, passing the time by imagining scenes where I walked away from James and went straight to Oakley for help. Or called James’ bluff, so he was forced to back down.

  The more I thought about it, the more I saw I should have held out. James couldn’t have proved he got bits of Noble’s file from me. I wasn’t the only one who’d studied it – for all I knew others had sneaked the thing out of the station, too. Oakley might have shoved it in his briefcase at some point. Or Butterworth – he was an evidence-fixer, so what was to say that he hadn’t also taken a file home to look through while he rocked his baby to sleep?

  James had threatened to tell my colleagues that I’d accepted bribes, but he couldn’t have proved that either. And I could have weathered those accusations anyway. Police officers close ranks when one is under attack, and good ones like Superintendent Taylor, DI Davis and DI Oakley would have gone all out to prove me innocent. James wouldn’t have got away with it.

  Now that I thought about it, I was sure he wouldn’t have carried out his threats anyway, as he was likely to have done as much damage to himself as to me, and I simply wouldn’t have been worth the bother. I’d allowed his confidence to overwhelm me. For a moment, the blind rage that I’d felt when I’d killed him flooded through me again, and I spent several minutes pounding a cushion, seeing his face in its pillowy curves. I hated him! This was his fault, and I was damned if I was going to serve time for the likes of him!

  I was defiant as I donned new jeans and a silk blouse. James’ death was too bad. If he hadn’t been sleazy and immoral, he wouldn’t be dead. And if it hadn’t been me who’d brained him, then someone else would have done it. Bristol was a better place without him. Yorke was behind bars, which he wouldn’t have been had James been alive, so at least there was one villain who wouldn’t be stalking the streets in search of victims to hurt that night.

  Of course, I knew I was trying to build walls around me, to protect myself from the overwhelming shame. It seems odd to say that a murderer feels embarrassment, but it’s true. Yes, we feel crushing guilt and revulsion, but I was also embarrassed. Ashamed and embarrassed. That’s part of the punishment. For many people, the prospect of the shame heaped on them by their family and friends is one of the things that prevents them from killing in the first place, while embarrassment is an emotion that should never be underestimated.

  I was due to meet my friends in our favourite bar at seven o’clock. We were going to have a drink, then Frances had booked a table in a new Italian restaurant. It was a surprisingly nice evening considering it had been such a hot day, and Colin had bagged seats outside. The air smelled of spilled beer, cooking food and the slightly sulphurous aroma of the water in the docks.

  Colin told me that Gary and Frances were going to be late, but that was OK: Colin was easy company, and I liked hearing his stories about life in the world of computers – there were even more shenanigans among the anoraks than at New Bridewell. He was a nice-looking man, with that intriguing combination of light hair and dark eyes. He always smelled of soap and clean clothes, and his passion in life was bird-watching.

  I was a bit surprised when he suddenly reached across the table and touched my hand.

  ‘I’ve got this do at work,’ he began awkwardly. ‘It’s this coming Friday, and I was wondering whether you’d come. It’ll be as dull as ditch water, probably, but I’ll buy you dinner after.’

  ‘Do you need a woman to prove you’re not gay?’ I asked jokingly. I’d actually used him in much the same way a few weeks before, taking him to the annual shift party, so that Sergeant Wright wouldn’t think I was a lesbian. I don’t know why I cared what Wright thought, but I did.

  ‘No,’ replied Colin seriously. ‘I want you to come because I think you’re fun to be with, and I can talk to you.’ He shrugged. ‘I think you’re great.’

  The tenuous hold I had on my self-control broke. I started to cry. Colin liked me – a murderer who’d killed the brightest star in our school. I didn’t deserve it, yet it was a tremendous relief that someone should say something nice. Perhaps I hadn’t changed. Perhaps killing James was an anomaly. Maybe I was normal after all.

  He put his arms around me, laughing, thinking my tears were because someone handsome and personable should make protestations of affection. Or was I being unfair? Colin was a nice bloke, and it was me who had the problems. In fact, I had so many problems that there was no way I was going to taint him by letting him take me out. He deserved better.

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Mrs Paxton,’ said Oakley kindly, offering a tissue to the woman who sat opposite. She ignored it and took a linen handkerchief from her handbag instead. ‘People go missing all the time, and it turns out that they just forgot to mention their plans.’

  ‘James isn’t like that,’ said Maureen Paxton. She was a determined-looking woman in her sixties, with well-cut grey hair, immaculate make-up and elegant clothes. She was exactly the kind of mother Oakley imagined Paxton would have. ‘He’s diligent and conscientious. He’d never disappear off on a holiday without telling me. There’s Henry, for a start.’

  ‘A dog?’ asked Oakley tentatively. Or a lover, he thought, but did not say.

  He was due to meet Catherine for dinner. He’d been seeing her a lot recently, and had almost dispelled the myth that policemen made unreliable partners. He hadn’t been late once, although it looked as though he might let her down that night. Superintendent Taylor had caught him just as he was leaving and had asked him to speak to Mrs Paxton, who was demanding to see a senior officer. Apparently, Wright wasn’t quite the thing. Unfortunately for her, there wasn’t much the police could do when grown men went ‘missing’. There was no suggestion that Paxton was depressed, unhappy, or taking medication, so there was no reason to be concerned about his safety. That his car was parked outside his house suggested a taxi to the airport.

  ‘Henry is not a dog,’ declared Mrs Paxton haughtily. ‘It’s a banana plant, a descendant of one brought back from the Caribbean plantations belonging to our ancestors. All the Paxtons have one; it’s a family tradition.’

  Oakley was not surprised to learn the Paxtons had such disagreeable antecedents. ‘And how does having a banana plant infer that James’ absence is sinister?’

  She sighed her impatience. ‘Because it needs to be watered. It was nearly dead when I let myself into his flat this morning. James always brings Henry to me when he plans to be away – which isn’t often, as he’s devoted to his work and seldom leaves the city.’

  ‘We have his details on file, and every officer in Bristol will be on the look-out for him tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll go to his flat myself.’ Oakley began to gather the forms together to indicate the interview was at an end. If he left now, he wouldn’t be too late for Catherine.

  ‘You’ll go to his flat now, to see for yourself that there’s something wrong,’ said Mrs Paxton angrily. ‘Then I want a full-scale search.’

  ‘And what will James say when he returns to find policemen all over his flat and news of his “disappearance” in the local papers?’ asked Oakley practically. ‘A man in his position won’t want that sort of publicity.’

  Her eyes filled with tears again, and Oakley
felt sorry for her. Unlikeable though she was, she was still a frightened mother, desperate to do all she could for the child she felt was in trouble.

  He studied the report that Wright had written while she composed herself. She’d been concerned, but not particularly worried, when her son had failed to show up at a garden party the previous day. She’d tried to phone him at home and on his mobile, but there’d been no reply. The next morning she’d gone to his flat to find it empty.

  She’d called several of his acquaintances, but no one had seen him since Tuesday – six days before. But then again, it sounded as though no one had expected to see him, as he tended to be too busy to socialize. Mrs Paxton had then contacted his office, and was surprised to be informed that James was on holiday. The receptionist didn’t know where he had gone, only that he must have left on Tuesday evening, as he hadn’t come to work on Wednesday.

  Oakley rubbed his chin, thinking he wouldn’t have time to shave before meeting Catherine. One way his Indian ancestry manifested itself was in a dark, five o’clock shadow. Catherine called it designer stubble; he called it scruffy. He glanced at his watch: eight twenty. He forced his thoughts back to Paxton.

  So no one – friends, family or colleagues – had seen him since he had left work the previous Tuesday evening, and it was now almost a week later. Had something happened to him? Oakley had been surprised when Paxton had missed Yorke’s remand hearing on Thursday. Had he fallen foul of a dissatisfied client? Or had the prospect of a garden party with Mother and the vicar sent him diving for the nearest luxury cruise?

  Colin was wonderful that evening in the café with our friends. I’m not sure how it happened, and it was against my better judgement, but I agreed to go with him to his work’s do. He was like a schoolboy, all happy and proud. Afterwards he was amusing, attentive and fun, and I even began to enjoy myself. I drank more wine than I should – I wasn’t driving – and by the time we left for the restaurant I was feeling better than I had in days. I determined to put James out of my mind for the evening. It probably seems unfair, relaxing in the company of friends while James rotted on the floor of that nasty little house, but even murderers deserve some time away from their guilt. I never used to think so, but I do now.