The Murder House

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘I agree that he was meeting someone in secret. Orchard Street isn’t his kind of place, so he must’ve had some sly reason for going there. But I don’t think the Yorkes killed him. Even if Paxton didn’t manage to get Billy bail, he’d still be his best bet for the trial.’

  ‘And I don’t see a rival gang as responsible, either,’ admitted Oakley. ‘I think we’d have heard something on the street if so. Yet that note must’ve been sent by someone with a grudge against Yorke.’

  ‘At lot hinges on that,’ sighed Merrick. ‘Find the writer and we’ll have cracked the case.’

  ‘Any ideas? Other than hoping the saliva gives us something?’

  ‘None.’

  They looked up as Evans walked in. He held a sheaf of papers, and his beaming face suggested that there was good news at last.

  ‘A big step forward!’ he announced. ‘I got fingerprints to re-check the partials on the duct tape against Randal. We got two hits.’

  Oakley took the report from Evans and his elation turned to disappointment. ‘No – two of the partials have points of similarity to Randal’s, but the probability of them being his is one in ten thousand.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Evans.

  ‘Well, it’s not for me. There are four hundred thousand people in Bristol, which means that in this city alone we’ve got forty people who’ll match. Nationally, there’ll be six thousand. I don’t want to go to court with that.’

  ‘But Bristol’s not a population of four hundred thousand criminals,’ Evans argued stubbornly. ‘Discount kids, grannies and God-fearing citizens, and there’ll be a lot less.’

  ‘You’re assuming that a criminal murdered Paxton,’ argued Oakley. ‘However, think about the fact that he had confidential police papers in his files, and … shit!’ He broke off as a dreadful possibility occurred to him.

  ‘Wright?’ asked Merrick softly, reading his mind. ‘Wright killed Paxton, because Paxton threatened to expose him for leaking confidential information?’

  ‘It fits, doesn’t it?’ asked Oakley. ‘Find out whether Wright was working on the Tuesday that Paxton went missing.’

  A discreet word with Jeeves – as far as that was possible – told them that Wright hadn’t been out drinking with the lads that night. DI Davis agreed to speak to Wright’s wife to see whether she recalled her husband going off on business of his own.

  ‘Kovac and Wright together?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘Sounds like a strange combination.’

  ‘I’m not sure how Kovac fits in,’ said Oakley. ‘If he does.’

  ‘Of course he does.’ Davis ticked the points off on her fingers. ‘He disappears the day that the murder is committed. He steals plastic and tape from the university. He remains missing.’

  ‘It’s all very speculative,’ said Oakley. ‘And there’s no evidence that Wright was in the house before the Paxton murder. But since he was wearing gloves when he died, I suppose he’d have worn them the first time, too. I wish we had something a bit more concrete. God knows, I didn’t like the man, but I don’t want him charged with murder on the evidence we’ve got.’

  ‘You’re too soft,’ said Davis. ‘He wouldn’t have given you the benefit of the doubt.’

  I was doing a brief spell of duty in the reception area when the package arrived from the phone company. Both clerks who usually ran the ‘front desk’ were off sick, and we were taking turns to do two-hour spells until they came back. Normally, I didn’t mind, as it meant staying in rather than trudging around outside. But I was restless and anxious, and I was even more restless and anxious when the courier delivered the parcel.

  I knew exactly what it was. And it was a damned shame, because the rumour was that Wright was in the frame for murdering James, and that solution suited me perfectly.

  Paul Franklin signed for the parcel, and dropped it in the CID mail basket on the far side of the room. It sat there like a great, bloated bundle of menace, and my eyes were drawn to it no matter where I stood. It held the record of my guilt, and as soon as Oakley began tracking the numbers that appeared in the details printed there, it would be all over for me.

  I stared at it. Should I take it and get rid of it on my way home? But Oakley would just order another set, and I couldn’t hope to intercept that as well. Should I open it and remove the bit that incriminated me? No – Oakley would notice it was missing. Should I doctor it then, so that instead of my number, it would show someone else’s? But I wasn’t sure my forging skills were up to that. Moreover, all those options offered only a temporary reprieve – I needed something permanent.

  Then the solution came. I could doctor the whole account. I could retype the entire thing, leaving out the parts that incriminated me. There were plenty of computers in the station, and no one would ask what I was doing. I could even reproduce the correct font for the headings, and if the phone company’s logo was complex, I’d just have to do a cut-and-paste job with glue, scissors and the scanner. Oakley wouldn’t be expecting a forgery so he wouldn’t question it.

  My mind was made up. My spell at reception would be over in a quarter of an hour, and no one kept tabs on me as Wright had done. I could spend the last two hours of my shift pretending to do paperwork. I watched the last few minutes of my reception duty tick away on the large clock above the door, willing fifteen minutes to become ten, then five, then two, then …

  ‘Good,’ said Oakley, walking in and grabbing the parcel. ‘I’ve been waiting for this.’

  The time spent questioning people at the Clifton bar had been a waste. Oakley had expected the hostility and antagonism usually encountered when the police made enquiries among threatened minorities, but most of the clientele were very helpful, and no one had refused to talk to him. Many were academics from the university, along with a smattering of businessmen and clerks. The pub was friendly and relaxed, and he was not surprised that Merrick liked it.

  Unfortunately, the patrons could tell him nothing useful. Weekday evenings between six and eight were busy because people stopped for a drink on their way home. Many tables were set in small alcoves, for privacy, so people tended not to notice others. Merrick had seen because he’d been trained to be observant – and because he had a lot to lose by being exposed, he was naturally wary – while Farnaby had been trailing Paxton deliberately.

  Only two people recognized Paxton, and one was uncertain, because the photograph Oakley had taken from Urvine and Brotherton’s promotional brochure showed him smiling. The other said he had only seen Paxton once – about a month before – with a handsome, dark-haired companion who may have been foreign.

  ‘Was this him?’ asked Oakley, showing the picture of Kovac.

  The man shook his head. ‘Not that handsome. I’d have remembered him.’

  On his return to the station Oakley collected the telephone records and took them to the incident room. He and Evans began the laborious process of looking for patterns. Merrick burst in before they’d been at it for long.

  ‘The forensic odontologist’s been,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t get many cases any more, so he leapt at the chance to do this one. He didn’t wait for Grossman to give him the dental records – he got his own set from the dentist so he wouldn’t have to wait.’

  ‘And?’ asked Oakley impatiently.

  ‘And its James Paxton,’ said Merrick triumphantly. ‘One hundred per cent certain. Everything matches, and he says he’s surprised Grossman didn’t see it immediately.’

  ‘That stupid old man,’ grumbled Evans. ‘He should retire.’

  Oakley felt scant satisfaction with the news, knowing what it would mean for the lawyer’s mother, although Merrick soon had the incident room buzzing with the news, and there was a flurry of activity as some lines of enquiry were abandoned and others begun. Oakley and Evans turned back to the phone records.

  ‘What was the last call he made from his landline?’ asked Oakley. ‘And when?’

  Evans ran his eye down the columns of numbers. ‘Ther
e are several after he was probably dead, including three to Urvine and Brotherton. I think that was Mummy, trying to find out where he was. I imagine the last call he made was on the Tuesday morning, to Mummy’s number. Then there was one on the previous Monday, preceded by a long gap. I suspect he didn’t use it much. What about the mobile?’

  ‘Not as many calls as I’d have thought, considering Maureen said he was never without it. He probably used his office phone until four thirty – although Dave didn’t come up with anything helpful when he went through those records yesterday – but there’s nothing after five o’clock here. There are a whole series of calls after Friday the third, though, the most recent being this morning.’

  ‘So it’s been stolen,’ surmised Evans.

  ‘That’s risky. Using a phone filched from a murder victim.’

  ‘Why? A dead man’s not going to complain.’

  ‘But his family might. And would you take the risk?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Evans.

  Oakley shook his head, dispirited. ‘Damn! I bet he had another phone for his more dubious business – a pay-as-you-go, which could be dropped in the river when it was no longer needed. But we’ll have to go through his normal records anyway. Just because he didn’t call anyone the night he died doesn’t mean that he didn’t set the meeting up by phone. He might have done it weeks ago.’

  ‘But these records go back three months,’ said Evans, dismayed. He saw his inspector shrug. ‘All right. Let’s make a start.’

  Monday, 27 August

  A third witness came forward to say he’d seen the scarf-clad woman, but since the ‘suspect’ hadn’t actually been seen entering or leaving the murder house, the information didn’t help much. However, the telephone enquiry was proceeding well, because most of the people Paxton had called were clients. As his clients were criminals, the suspect list was growing exponentially. Meanwhile, the phone company was directed to contact the police when the stolen mobile was next used, and the general expectation in the incident room was that when they’d traced it, they’d have the killer.

  Yet Oakley remained uncertain. As far as he was concerned, the only real way forward was to interview Randal, to see what he said about the fact that his partials had been found at the scene of the murder.

  Unfortunately, the Wright investigation was stopping them. Professional Standards was taking matters carefully, determined that when an arrest was made it would be rock solid. Although it wasn’t actually said, the implication was that while the Wright enquiry might jeopardise the Paxton investigation, the opposite would never be allowed to happen.

  I couldn’t believe my luck! I’d spent the whole night waiting in sick apprehension, expecting at any moment to hear the loud knock on the door, after which I’d be dragged away in handcuffs while my colleagues swarmed over my house, pawing through my personal belongings. I’d been so convinced that it would be my last night of freedom that I hadn’t even bothered to undress for bed. I couldn’t bear the notion of being found in my nightie.

  I’d looked at flights online, and had gone to the bank and withdrawn as much money as I could. Then I’d packed a bag with my favourite things – a picture of my mother, some family jewellery, a couple of books and various other keepsakes. These lay at the bottom of my case, with hot-weather clothes on top.

  But I didn’t go to Spain, and Oakley didn’t come. I couldn’t understand why. I went to work that morning, wondering what the chances were that I wouldn’t be going home again. But when I arrived at the station, the only news was that Gordon Noble had been arrested for drunk driving. He hadn’t been able to stand up straight when his car had been stopped, so even he wasn’t going to evade justice this time.

  I offered to deliver a memo to Dave Merrick in order to get into the incident room, desperate for information. I felt the familiar thud of my heart as I went in, but it was the same as usual, with people sitting here and there, reading through mounds of paper that would prove irrelevant, and answering phones. Oakley had James’ phone records in front of him. He looked exhausted, and I felt sorry for him. Still, I had to think that his moment of victory was coming.

  ‘You were right, Helen,’ he said as I walked past. ‘Looking into Paxton’s phone calls is a waste of time. He didn’t contact anyone the night he died, while in the weeks before he must have phoned every rogue in the city. It’ll take months to eliminate them all!’

  ‘You mean like Yorke and his friends?’ I asked, hoping to steer him back in that direction. What was going on? Of course James had made calls that night – two were to me!

  Oakley nodded. ‘But so what? Yorke’s case was coming up, so of course they’d be in touch.’

  But James had called me. Did that mean he’d had two mobiles – a legal one and one for making clandestine calls? If so, Oakley would have no more idea where to find it than I did.

  ‘It’s still being used, so Taylor thinks the killer must’ve swiped it,’ Oakley went on. ‘I suppose it makes sense. After all, someone emptied his pockets of his wallet, keys, et cetera, presumably to prevent identification.’

  ‘Why would the killer use it?’ I asked before I could stop myself. What was I doing? Putting doubts in his mind was hardly wise!

  Oakley gave a wry smile. ‘I don’t think he is, but I’m in a minority. Anyway, whoever had it waited for four days before making a call. Obviously he thought he’d be safe by then.’

  He clearly knew nothing about murderers. I didn’t feel safe, and it was almost a month since I’d killed James.

  It was odd, I thought to myself, that I was more concerned about being caught for James’ murder than for Wright’s. Wright meant nothing to me, and I rarely thought about his death. Perhaps it was because James was the first. Perhaps it was because I didn’t feel remorse for what I’d done to Wright. Perhaps it was because the shame and disgust for what I’d done to Wright would come later.

  But I’d been reprieved yet again – I was free for another day. My fears about the phone had been unfounded, and unless Oakley found James’ second mobile, I was off the hook.

  Oakley drove to Mrs Paxton’s house to find a shiny red BMW parked in the drive. He was certain it wasn’t hers, and wondered if it had belonged to James, liberated from his garage without asking police permission.

  ‘I’m Donna Trembleth,’ said the attractive woman who answered the door. She was richly confident and immaculately dressed. ‘Maureen’s niece. I’m here to keep her company until this nasty matter is over.’

  ‘We’re working very hard to catch your cousin’s killer, Ms Trembleth, but it might help if we knew more about his personal life.’

  ‘No!’ The sharp voice from the hall beyond made Oakley jump. Maureen Paxton’s hair was perfect, the cement of her make-up in place, and all traces of hysterical grief eradicated. Only a slight darkness under her eyes suggested she’d been under strain. The police liaison officer was behind her, a middle-aged constable in a scruffy suit.

  ‘I don’t understand, Mrs Paxton,’ said Oakley. ‘We only want—’

  ‘I know what happens when you paw through people’s personal affairs. Things get misinterpreted and it damages those who aren’t there to defend themselves.’ Her chin trembled slightly, but then she regained control.

  ‘You think something in James’ life is open to misinterpretation?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying,’ snapped Maureen, ‘although it proves my point. I said innocent things are misinterpreted and distorted. The fact that you immediately jumped to the conclusion that James had something to hide proves that I’m right.’

  ‘We’re not trying to do anything like that,’ said Oakley gently, although she was right. Wright’s wife was going through a similar process, and God knew what they’d dredge up from his past. ‘But someone was unpleasant enough to kill James, so we know he had dealings with at least one unsavoury person.’

  ‘Of course he did, but through work. His clients were unsavoury. But you want to look into h
is personal life. You saw what that horrible Farnaby did when James went missing. He started stories that James was homosexual.’ She spat out the last word and Oakley saw the liaison officer regard her with dislike.

  ‘We’re just trying to get a picture of—’

  ‘Oh, yes, now you are. You’re fascinated with him now, but you didn’t give a damn when I reported him missing!’

  ‘That’s not true, Mrs Paxton,’ said Oakley quietly. ‘We did a lot more for James than we do for most missing adults. But now we’re trying to catch his murderer. We can’t do that unless the people who loved him, and who want his killer brought to justice, are prepared to do all they can to help. You knew James: we didn’t. We need you.’

  ‘Mr Brotherton told me that James had bribed juries.’ Maureen’s eyes filled with angry tears. ‘He said that James was involved in all manner of illegal practices, and that he’d brought Urvine and Brotherton into disrepute. But James would never do anything like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to learn that,’ said Oakley. ‘We’ll try to keep it out of the papers – Brotherton certainly won’t want it made public. It may come out in the trial, but only if it becomes relevant.’

  ‘Trial!’ she spat. ‘What do they do but destroy innocent people?’

  She turned and stalked away, and Oakley saw her shoulders heaving with sobs. Her opinion of trials hardly seemed to be what he would have expected from a criminal lawyer’s mother. But she was right about two things: the police were more interested in Paxton now he was a murder victim, and her son’s dirty linen would be pawed through in detail.

  ‘She’s upset,’ said Donna. ‘She didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘It’s all right. I can’t begin to imagine what she’s going through.’