The Murder House

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Cheeky bastards,’ muttered Taylor. ‘So what did you get from them?’

  ‘That the house was thoroughly cleaned with bleach, which will have destroyed a lot of evidence. And we’ve got hundreds – literally – of partial fingerprints that will take someone weeks to go through.’

  ‘What about the time of death?’ asked Davis. ‘Any progress there?’

  ‘We’ll know more when we get the insect report, but at the moment it’s been set roughly between Saturday the twenty-eighth of July and Saturday the fourth of August. Obviously, it would be nice to narrow it down, as if it was before the thirtieth, when Kovac talked to Mrs Greaves, we’ll know he was either the killer or an accomplice.’

  ‘There’s another possibility,’ said Davis. ‘Someone stored the body in the house after Kovac left – a body that might have been dead for several days.’

  Oakley shook his head. ‘FSS managed to establish that the victim was killed in the house. In the sitting room, to be precise.’

  ‘It was the kitchen,’ said Wright belligerently. ‘FSS is wrong.’

  ‘The victim was found in the kitchen,’ said Oakley. ‘But he died in the lounge – his saliva was found there in the kind of pool that suggests that’s where he breathed his last. However, the pattern of fluids that leaked from the body suggest he was moved to the kitchen not long after he died. The angle of the blow suggests he was kneeling or crouching and was hit from behind. So we have three possibilities: the dead man is Kovac; Kovac killed the victim and abandoned the body; or Kovac left the house as planned and the murder occurred shortly after.’

  ‘Which of these do you favour?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘First or third,’ replied Oakley. ‘I don’t see Kovac leaving a body in the house he rented, knowing it will be traced to him as soon as the body is discovered.’

  ‘He might think he’s safe in Albania,’ Merrick pointed out. ‘And he’s probably right. The police there haven’t been very cooperative yet.’

  Oakley looked down at his notes and moved to the next item. ‘Fibres: we’ve got plenty, but they’re unlikely to give us any decent leads. What they will do, however, is allow us to match evidence from suspects, so they’ll come into their own in time.’

  ‘Good,’ said Taylor, nodding. ‘What about the plastic and the tape around the body?’

  ‘Both commonplace, so it’ll be hard to find where they came from. However, there are several partial prints on the tape, so let’s hope FSS can give us a list of possible matches in time.’

  ‘Here are our priorities for tomorrow,’ said the superintendent. ‘First, visit Academic Accommodations to see what they can tell us, and press the Albanian police to check whether Kovac is sitting at home playing with his molecules. Second, start looking through the missing person’s file to see if our boy matches any outstanding reports. Third, I want the plastic and tape looked into—’

  He was interrupted by Oakley. ‘We can try, sir, but FSS said the best we can hope for is to match the jagged edge of our piece to the original roll. But miles of the stuff must be sold every day—’

  Taylor cut him off in turn. ‘Then we’d better get going. I want all local garden centres, DIY centres and so on checked out. Fourth, I want the door-to-door enquiries widened to a larger area. I’ve marked it off on the map. Fifth, I want someone looking into this scientific mumbo-jumbo to find out whether it’s worth killing for; I also want someone to investigate Kovac’s mental health. Finally, we have someone’s child, husband, or brother here, so I want tact and discretion. I don’t want sensitive details leaked to the press. Next briefing is at six tomorrow evening. Questions?’

  There were none.

  ‘Get off home, then, and be back bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at seven thirty tomorrow.’

  That night I went to meet Colin. I was in a strange mood, half elated and half scared, as though I’d somehow weathered a great test. At first, I hadn’t been sure whether it was more difficult to know details of the case or to remain in ignorance. Now I knew – I’d rather know. It was the uncertainty that was worst, and each day seemed that much more precious to me because of it. I appreciated my walks to and from work, and I relished the sun on my face. I looked forward to meeting Colin, too. At least until my thoughts returned to that vile thing at the mortuary.

  I sat in the bath and scrubbed and scrubbed, but I could still smell James – a thick, rank, filthy stench. It was how I felt inside: dirty, rotten, corrupted. I called my mother and listened to her chat about nothing, silent tears rolling down my cheeks when I realized that sweet lady would become a pile of slimy, oozing flesh one day. The thought stayed with me all evening, and I felt a nagging unease, as though I wanted to take hold of everything I loved and protect it.

  Colin was nice. I told him that I’d been at a murder scene, but he must’ve sensed that I wanted to forget about it, and didn’t press me for details. We had a drink in the Hole in the Wall, an atmospheric old smugglers’ haunt, then walked hand-in-hand along the harbour.

  Being summer, it was busy. Lights twinkled on the black waters, streaming out from the cafes, pubs and art galleries that line it. There was the smell of the water mixed with the aroma of frying onions from a hamburger van, and someone was lighting fireworks. They popped and echoed, sending sparkling rockets high into the sky and releasing them in veils of golden stars. Colin’s hand felt warm and dry. I held it a little harder, trying to put away my black thoughts for a while.

  ‘Helen? Is that you?’

  I almost leapt out of my skin when I heard Oakley’s voice. What was he doing here? Why was he impinging on my few moments of peace? Was there nowhere I could be safe? He was with a woman – Catherine, I assumed. She wasn’t pretty, but her face had a lot of character. She wore a loose skirt of some light material, and a white blouse that looked cool and stylish. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn to work, and I wondered whether she’d noticed the smell. Perhaps that was why they were standing some distance apart.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, attempting to appear normal. ‘Off duty at last?’

  He nodded, and turned to the woman. ‘Catherine, this is Helen Anderson, the hero of the day.’

  ‘Hero?’ asked Colin, raising his eyebrows. ‘She didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Too modest,’ said Oakley, smiling. I could only stare at my feet while he told Catherine and Colin all about the stone – the one I’d used to murder Colin’s school friend. I briefly considered shoving him into the water, just to stop him talking. I hoped he couldn’t sense the growing anger in me.

  ‘My hero,’ said Colin, hugging me affectionately.

  The three of them chatted for a few minutes, and on another occasion I might have suggested going for a drink. Now, I just wanted to go home.

  ‘We should go,’ I said, tugging Colin’s arm.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Catherine, wrinkling her nose. ‘I think there’s a broken drain nearby. Or perhaps it’s the docks. Regardless, there’s an awful smell tonight.’

  ‘I had a bath,’ I informed Oakley pointedly.

  I saw the shock on his face as it registered that he should have done the same before spiriting his lady off for romantic walks in the moonlight. ‘God!’ he muttered, raising his sleeve to his nose.

  ‘So, that’s what it is,’ laughed Catherine. ‘At least it’s not permanent.’

  They made their farewells and walked away. I heard them laughing, seeing the funny side of the whole thing. That was probably one of the advantages of dating a nurse, who’d be used to unpleasant smells. Colin was less stoic, and informed me that he’d rather I was late than appear smelling like something two weeks dead. I told him I’d bear it in mind.

  We went to my house and made love until I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I clung to Colin all night, and whenever I woke with the spectre of the black mess in front of me, he was there, all warm, alive and comfortable. In the morning, I awoke feeling more refreshed than I had done in days. Perhaps it was because I’d faced
my nemesis and come through it, or perhaps it was because Colin was there. I asked him if he’d come back that evening.

  Monday, 13 August

  As far as Maureen Paxton was concerned, the police had forgotten her son. She demanded to see an officer more senior than Oakley and was taken to Taylor, whom she did not like. He told her that people walked out of their lives for all manner of reasons, and that as there was no reason to think James was going to harm himself or anyone else, he could disappear if he wanted to.

  Then she read about the body in Orchard Street in the papers. At first they said the corpse was unidentified. Then they said it was possibly an Albanian professor who’d gone missing at the time of the murder. But Maureen felt a gnawing sense of unease. James wasn’t likely to have been in such an insalubrious part of the city, but his work did oblige him to meet some unpleasant people. What if he’d been visiting a client? Moreover, his meteoric rise had made enemies of some colleagues – instead of admiring him, they hated him.

  Could James be the body in Orchard Street? She couldn’t get rid of the niggling fear at the back of her mind. She was shaking when she arrived at New Bridewell and demanded to see Oakley, who had at least listened to her and been polite. She paced impatiently in front of the reception desk until he arrived. In his hand was a book about nanotechnology for DI Davis.

  ‘Giles Farnaby,’ she declared without preamble. ‘Ask him what happened to James.’

  Oakley regarded her warily. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s jealous of James. If James leaves Urvine and Brotherton, then Giles Farnaby’ – she spat out his name – ‘will be promoted.’

  Oakley was aware that other people in the reception area were staring at them – a young mother in a tight black skirt that showed rather too much fat white thigh; an Asian bus driver, the knees of his uniform shiny with age; and a businessman with an umbrella. He took Maureen to one of the interview rooms and invited her to sit down.

  ‘Do you have new information about James?’ he asked, politely but firmly, so that she would know he didn’t have time for speculation and unfounded accusation.

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But one of his colleagues has done something to him. They’re jealous, you see.’

  ‘Done what, exactly?’ He saw her hands shaking, and was sorry for her distress.

  ‘Foul play,’ she whispered, a quiver in her voice. ‘I want you to ask Farnaby what he’s done to James. He lives in Bath. Here’s his address. I got it from the telephone directory and I gave the number a call, so I know he’s in.’

  ‘You phoned him?’ asked Oakley in astonishment. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. I hung up when he replied.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I shall be at home this afternoon, so you can contact me there when you have answers.’

  Davis ploughed through twenty pages of the scientific textbook Oakley had given her before admitting that she didn’t understand a word. There were too many terms she didn’t recognize, and too many assumptions were made about the reader’s level of understanding. Oakley had offered to follow the nanotechnology lead, given his layman’s interest in physics, but Taylor had assigned it to her instead. With a sigh of frustration, she tossed the book on the table. She glanced up and saw Oakley leaving.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ she asked.

  ‘Bath,’ replied Oakley, taking his jacket from the row of pegs in the hall.

  She blinked. ‘You’re going to visit this Farnaby on the say-so of Paxton’s lunatic mother? Come on, Neel! We’ve got a murder investigation here! We don’t have time for her crap.’

  ‘Actually, I’m going to speak to Professor Jinic in the Balkan Studies Department at Bath University.’

  Davis grabbed her bag. ‘Can I come? Anything’s better than this boring book.’

  Oakley disagreed, thinking a couple of hours reading would be infinitely preferable to the congested roads to Bath. They inched along the A4, sticky and uncomfortable as enforced stops and an unrelenting sun heated the car to furnace levels. Yet again, Oakley wished he’d had the air conditioning fixed, and wondered if he’d have time to stop at the garage that week. Of course, the moment he did, the heat wave would end.

  They reached Jinic’s office at three o’clock and gratefully accepted a secretary’s offer of a cool drink, after which they were shown into a book-lined room. The professor was elderly, with vast curling eyebrows and comfortably shabby clothes.

  ‘You want to know about Albania,’ he said, sitting in a large leather armchair and lacing his fingers over a sizeable paunch. There was barely a trace of accent left in his voice, although a clipping of vowels suggested he wasn’t a native English speaker. ‘Do you have a couple of days to sit here while I answer?’

  Oakley smiled. ‘Perhaps we could just ask you some questions?’

  ‘Would they concern Marko Kovac? I read his name in the papers.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Not well, but no one does – in England, at least. He dislikes being away from his family, and makes his trips shorter than he should, given the amount of work he hopes to do. He spends all his time here working, and socializes little.’

  ‘He’s unfriendly,’ surmised Davis.

  ‘Not at all. He’s very friendly and very polite. He just works extremely hard. I suspect his reluctance to leave his family has more to do with Albania’s inherent instability than with him not being able to cope without them. He’s a responsible father.’

  ‘You like him?’ asked Oakley.

  ‘Yes – as well as I like anyone with whom I have a passing acquaintance. He visited me last year – just before Christmas – to tell me news from the ground, as it were: what people think, what life is like away from government-controlled newspapers and television crews.’

  ‘And what is it like?’

  ‘Grim, but no more so than before. Nothing works very well. Roads, buildings and transport systems are crumbling and inefficient.’

  ‘Yates the technician told me that Kovac had been in Macedonia when there was fighting,’ said Davis. ‘Do you think that affected him at all?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Jinic. ‘It would affect you, too. War is a terrible thing, and anyone involved will remember it forever. But if you want to know whether it affected Marko to the point where he might harm someone, then I’m afraid that’s a question I can’t answer.’

  ‘Do you know anything about his work?’ asked Davis.

  ‘Only that it has great potential, and that several multinational companies are interested. Industrial espionage is a reality in the world, so it is possible he was killed for his discoveries.’

  ‘So,’ concluded Davis, ‘Kovac’s experiences in the Balkans might have led him to harm someone here, and his work is commercially significant enough for someone to kill him?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ said Jinic with a beatific smile. ‘Have I helped you at all?’

  ‘If we leave now we’re going to be stuck in traffic for an hour,’ said Oakley as they walked back to the car. ‘But Giles Farnaby lives around the corner. We can wait it out while we talk to him, and who knows, perhaps he’ll offer us tea.’

  Davis sighed. ‘All right, if you insist. Just don’t tell Taylor.’

  ‘Jinic didn’t help much,’ said Oakley, opening the car door and flinching backwards as the heat escaped. ‘We already knew Kovac might be mentally unstable and that his work has commercial implications.’

  ‘Which do you think is more likely? Kovac as the killer, or Kovac as the victim?’

  Oakley shook his head slowly as he drove off the campus, all windows wide open. ‘I’m not sure I’m happy with either yet.’

  ‘Come on, Neel! We have a man who’s been through a war, working on a lucrative branch of science. The moment he’s due to leave the country, a body appears in his house. It can’t be coincidence. Kovac is either the killer or the corpse.’

  ‘I’ll wait until we have more facts before I start guessing,’ said Oakley stubbornly
.

  ‘I think Kovac is the killer,’ said Davis, ignoring his cautionary words. ‘I don’t think people are murdered for industrial secrets any more. If Kovac’s work was that good, some rich company would have hired him.’

  ‘If he’s the killer, then who’s the victim?’ asked Oakley, turning into a pleasantly leafy suburban road that was full of detached houses built from honey-yellow Bath stone.

  Davis grinned. ‘Even my guessing skills don’t extend that far. A colleague, perhaps.’

  ‘None reported missing.’

  ‘That’s because most are on holiday. Or perhaps he just snagged someone from the street. If he’s gone insane, we can’t expect a rational choice of victim.’

  ‘But the victim wore a decent suit and leather shoes. We’re not talking about a tramp.’

  ‘Kovac liked shopping. Perhaps dressing his victims in good clothes is part of his ritual. Did you find out whether there are any unsolved murders in Albania?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Oakley, pulling on to the driveway of a large house with ivy growing up one wall. The lawn was immaculately mowed, with stripes as precise as any stately home. ‘Dozens. It’s an uneasy country.’

  Davis climbed out of the car and looked around appreciatively. ‘Farnaby’s doing well for himself. I’m surprised he needs to be made a partner if he lives here.’

  ‘This is his mother’s place. There’s one behind every successful lawyer, apparently. At least at Urvine and Brotherton.’

  The man who answered the door was stocky, with a head shaven to hide the fact that its owner was prematurely bald. He wore loose jogging pants and a polo-shirt with a logo on it that indicated it was probably expensive. He looked familiar, but Oakley couldn’t place him. He would have asked, but Farnaby’s expression was unfriendly.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the police,’ he said when both officers showed him their warrant cards. ‘So piss off and catch some criminals.’