by Ian Simpson
‘Would Dad not want me to play?’ the boy asked, his face stricken.
‘I think your mother needs you here,’ Baggo said quietly. ‘I will tell them.’ The doorbell rang again.
A minute later, Baggo returned. ‘The man is very sorry,’ he said. ‘He says there is no question of you playing today and he is sorry he rang the bell twice.’
The officers spent a further half hour there. Between cups of tea, they learned that the dead man had not discussed his work very much at home, but that things had been tough in the book business recently. To their knowledge, there had been no particular worries, no trouble with unpublished authors and certainly no threats. After an emotional call to a daughter at university, arrangements were made to formally identify the body early that afternoon.
‘You can do this job as long as you like, but that’s something you never get used to,’ Flick said in the car.
‘Inspector No gave it a wide berth,’ Baggo agreed.
* * *
The formal identification was one task Osborne felt he could not delegate. Supported by her son, Philip, and Denzil’s brother, Janis spoke clearly and firmly. The body was her husband’s.
‘Why are you not showing us the whole face?’ Philip asked as the sheet was pulled up. The mortuary attendant had kept the mouth and the desecrating fork covered.
‘No need to distress your mother,’ Osborne said roughly.
‘What do you mean?’ Janis turned on him.
‘His mouth was a bit of a mess. You’ll be able to see him at peace after the post-mortem.’ Flick tried to reassure her.
For a moment it looked as if Janis was going to protest, but she merely shuddered and walked out of the room.
* * *
‘The Death says he was killed between six and ten last night,’ Osborne told the team late that afternoon. ‘Two shots in the back, with an upwards and leftwards trajectory. Bullets were nine by nineteen millimetre Parabellums. Probably fired from a Beretta handgun. The first bounced off a rib and entered a lung. The second stopped his heart. No one seems to have heard anything, and there was less charring than you would expect from point-blank range, so I think the killer used a silencer. The fork was stuck in his tongue after death. It’s with the scientists, but Death says it’s an ordinary fork you could get anywhere. The SOCOs don’t think they can tell us much. Please, someone tell me some good news. Sergeant?’
‘Chandavarkar and I both felt Mrs Burke and Philip had nothing to do with it. They alibi each other. He was supposed to play rugby this morning so had a quiet evening in yesterday. They were both really upset, and we thought that was genuine. We went to see Mr Burke’s PA at her house before lunch. Again, she was distressed, and we didn’t think she was putting it on.’
‘She’s a great looker, and cried her eyes out,’ Baggo interjected. ‘I think it’s possible she and the late Denzil had the hots for each other.’
‘But we have no evidence for that,’ Flick said quickly.
‘Did you not ask her?’ Osborne said.
‘That would have been quite inappropriate,’ Flick replied.
‘Well check it out on Monday. Ask round the office. Anything else?’
Flick said, ‘Burke dealt mainly with crime novels. There was the usual number of wannabe authors asking him to represent them. Ms Spence, the PA, will give us a list next week, but she doubts if it will be complete. One interesting thing is that, a few years ago, at the Harrogate Crime Writing Festival, Burke promised to take on six new authors each year. Ms Spence hinted that he had enjoyed too good a lunch when he said it. Anyway, things have been very tight in the publishing business, and he hasn’t taken on a single new author since making that promise. One of the tabloids made a fuss about it on a slow news day: “Crime Writers Wronged” was the headline. Mr Ralf Wallace from Bracknell had a bit to say, apparently.’
‘That name’s come up before,’ Osborne said.
‘The man with impaired mobility,’ Flick agreed.
‘Might be worth a visit. Go on Monday.’
‘What about Burke’s office?’
‘Peters and I will go there. You and Baggo are best with the literary types. Have you come up with any suspects after all that reading you’ve been doing?’
‘One or two.’
‘Spill.’
‘There’s a woman who seems obsessed with sex. Her victims die horrible deaths with sex as the theme, and revenge is the motive.’
‘How ’orrible? As bad as the shower scene in Psycho? Oh, sorry if I spoiled your shower this morning. Were you and your boyfriend scrubbing each other’s backs when I phoned?’
Flick wanted to punch the smirk off his face. Aware of blushing, she eyeballed him and said coldly, ‘A woman used a wooden spoon to insert a condom into a man’s rectum. Then she pumped some water in. Lastly, she added acid to the water. When the condom burst, his screams could be heard half a mile away.’
‘I hope she never gets published. Might give my ex some ideas.’ Osborne said, aiming a smile at Flick, who continued to look through him. ‘Do you think she’s worth investigating?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well do it next week. Take Baggo. And watch yourself, mate,’ he added.
‘I shall wear thick trousers and two pairs of underpants, gov. She is not going to get at me so easily.’
8
Osborne gazed across the Thames towards the Tate Modern. It was London, but not the one he had known and loved. His London had been full of Cockney voices, rhyming slang and fish and chips with pickled onions. Results were more important than how you got them, and spades were called bloody shovels. His Londoners knew about the Blitz and respected those who had lived through it, and for all the porky pies that policemen told when giving evidence, life was simpler and truer. He hated all the hypocritical, politically-correct, beating about the bush and arse-licking that was needed to succeed in modern London.
The dead man’s office, all picture windows and chrome, belonged to the new London. The place was in shock but not mourning. In the time he had been there, two trendily dressed, busy-looking men, younger than Burke, had stuck their heads round the door as if trying to claim the room. While Peters read Burke’s e-mails, Osborne looked sourly at a view more stunning than anything he’d ever been able to see through his office window.
Celine Spence came in carrying a few sheets of paper. Petite, with an hour-glass figure, her olive complexion had not seen the sun for months and this accentuated the effect of her red-rimmed eyes. Only her hair, long, dark and lustrous, had any bounce. Even far from her best, Osborne could see why Baggo thought she was a great looker.
‘As I said, we don’t keep a file on rejects. If they enclose the postage, we send the stuff back. If not, we put it out. We don’t entertain e-mailed submissions. I’ve asked our in-house readers to list the names they can remember, and I’ve done the same. Here they are.’ She placed the paper in front of Osborne.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’ She sounded huffy.
‘Please sit down,’ Osborne said. ‘How well did you know the deceased?’
‘Very well. I’ve been his PA for five years.’
‘Was he easy to work for?’
‘Yes. Very. Unusually easy, as a matter of fact.’
‘What do you mean? Didn’t mind if you slept in?’
‘I don’t sleep in. He was … considerate.’ Her voice caught.
‘Did you see him socially?’
‘A bit. Why?’
‘We have to build up a picture of his life if we’re to learn about his death.’ Osborne had learned that line early in his career. Now, he delivered it as if speaking to a stupid child.
Celine’s lip quivered. She said nothing.
‘So tell us about your socialising with the deceased.’
Celine’s head dropped. Tense, her knees clamped together, she twisted her fingers so it was hard to see
what ring belonged on what finger. ‘I saw quite a lot of him,’ she whispered. ‘He loved music, and so do I. We often went to concerts together. Janis isn’t musical.’
‘Did Mrs Burke know about these concerts?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Didn’t she mind?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Did they have what’s described as a “modern” marriage?’ Osborne leaned forward, not bothering to hide the sneer.
‘I have no idea, but I don’t think so. They seemed devoted.’
‘Despite these concerts?’
Celine raised her head. There were tears in her eyes, which blazed with fury. ‘Denz and I were good friends, very good friends, but no more. There was never going to be anything romantic between us, Inspector, because I am a lesbian. L-E-S-B-I-A-N.’ Her voice raised with each letter she spelled out. ‘Put that in your filthy cigarette and smoke it,’ she added, glaring at the unlit fag hanging out of Osborne’s mouth.
Peters decided to intervene before things got worse. ‘Were you aware of anyone making threats to Mr Burke?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘Were you aware of anything at all unusual connected to Mr Burke over the last few weeks?’
She shook her head.
‘Did he have any enemies you knew of?’
‘No.’
Peters glanced at Osborne, who leaned back in his chair, looking steadily at Celine, the fag still unlit. He was smiling.
‘That’s all,’ Osborne said. He got up abruptly, grabbed the papers and strode out of the room.
Peters smiled apologetically at Celine. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.
* * *
‘Bracknell is where the lady of the handbag came from,’ Baggo remarked as Flick drove confidently through heavy traffic, heading west.
‘No. That was Grantham,’ Flick corrected.
‘I am not thinking of the great Lady Thatcher, Sarge. I am referring to Lady Bracknell, the Oscar Wilde character. “In a handbag?”’ He put on a passable imitation of a grand Englishwoman with a deep voice.
‘I always thought she was a bit of a caricature,’ Flick replied.
‘Perhaps, but great fun. I saw The Importance of Being Earnest in Mumbai, you know. I was only thirteen, and missed a lot of the jokes, but I laughed myself silly over Lady Bracknell.’
‘We can expect Ralf Wallace to be in a wheelchair,’ Flick said thoughtfully, a few miles further on.
‘In a wheelchair?’ Baggo did his Lady Bracknell voice again.
‘Grow up, Chandavarkar,’ Flick snapped. Instantly, she regretted it. She turned on the radio to restore normality. Her bad mood had carried on over the weekend and was down to two men: Osborne’s unfunny jibes had got to her, and Tom was an idiot to have said what he had on her phone.
Twenty minutes later, speeding along the M3, Flick asked, ‘Do you have Wallace’s Debut Dagger entry there?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Have I seen it?’
Roughly half the entries had been in e-form. While Flick had dealt with those in hard copy, Baggo had read the ones on his computer, printing any worth a second look. He rummaged in his briefcase and produced a sheaf of paper.
‘No. I printed it this morning. A decorated hero of the first Iraq War, who is also a lay preacher, is blown up on Armistice Sunday. He was preaching a sermon in the local church. The suspects include a disabled ex-serviceman who gets about using a wheelchair and crutches, and the widow of a soldier. Both soldiers were under the dead man’s command. During one incident, they got hit while the dead man, an officer but no gentleman, finished up with a medal. Another soldier was court-martialled, and he appears in the story, too. There are other suspects, of course, but the killer is … guess, Sarge?’
‘The soldier’s widow?’
‘All three. The detective is a nice lady who rumbles them but is quite happy not to be able to prove anything.’
‘I’m finding that one story runs into another, but that’s memorable.’
‘Agatha Christie made a lot out of that basic plot, but Mr Wallace tells you everything at the start. I anticipated the end from reading the first chapter.’
A mile further down the road, Flick said, ‘I’m sorry I was short with you earlier … Baggo.’
‘Don’t worry, Sarge. I sometimes think it is more difficult for you than it is for me.’
They found Wallace’s address without difficulty. 12 Hope Crescent was a drab block of flats in a poor area of town. On the brick wall bounding the car park on three sides, a graffiti artist had described ‘the pigs’ as ‘wankers’. The sexual preferences of someone called Vondo were illustrated by a crude but unmistakable drawing. Flick parked so the car remained in plain view. The smashed windows and missing wheels of a red Fiat showed what might happen if you parked in a corner beside the overflowing bins. Flick was glad they had one of the pool cars.
A peed-in lift took them to the second floor. They exchanged glances then rang the bell of Wallace’s flat.
Baggo’s finger was poised over the button to ring again. Flick shook her head. ‘Remember he’s disabled,’ she mouthed. A minute later, the letter flap lifted.
‘Is that Tesco?’ a male voice asked.
‘No. Is that Mr Wallace? We are police, Sergeant Fortune and DC Chandavarkar.’ Flick replied, bringing out her warrant.
‘About time, too,’ the voice said. The door opened until a chain stopped it. At letter-box height, a face peered out. The officers heard a snort then the door opened fully. A pale-faced man of about thirty glowered at them from his wheelchair. He wore a thick pullover and smart corduroy trousers. ‘Close the door behind you,’ he said, executing a deft turn and leading the way into a room to the left of the hallway.
The fresh, antiseptic smell of the flat suggested that it had recently been cleaned. Sunlight streamed through the living room window. The top few inches were grimy but the glass lower down was polished. By the window, a table held a computer, monitor, keypad and paper, two piles of A4, side by side. The typescript on the top sheet was scored by pencil markings. A waist-high bookcase occupied one wall. The books were precisely arranged by height, their spines forming a straight line like guards on parade. One shelf held nothing but carefully arranged items: a blue badge and timecard, a bunch of keys, a box of pens and pencils, an old-fashioned Nokia mobile phone and some notebooks. Two wooden chairs, placed together, occupied the corner diagonally opposite the TV. Everything in that room had its place; nothing that was useful was stored above waist height. There were a number of photographs, framed and hanging on the walls. One showed a football team, Bracknell Town FC; another showed a group of soldiers, posing somewhere hot and dry. Above the computer monitor was a photograph of a group of three. In the centre, a smiling young man in formal military uniform, a sergeant’s stripes on his arm, stood proud and strong. He was flanked by his parents, both a head shorter than their son, and not smiling as happily. Ralf Wallace had known better days.
He wheeled himself to the window and turned. The officers stood in the middle of the room, squinting into the sun.
‘…and when I tell them off, they give me damned cheek.’ Wallace continued the diatribe against local youths he had begun as soon as the detectives entered.
‘Mr Wallace, we’re not here about that,’ Flick said firmly.
‘Well, when will you police start doing your job?’
‘We are inquiring into a series of murders.’
‘Murders?’
‘Yes. In the last two months, three literary agents have been killed. They all had a connection with you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Do you ever go up to London, sir?’ As Flick asked the questions, Baggo took notes.
‘From time to time. Am I a suspect?’ Wallace’s voice was cold and matter-of-fact.
‘We are at the stage of making general inquiries, sir. And no, you are not a suspe
ct. We are trying to eliminate people from our inquiries. When you do go to London, how do you travel?’
Wallace raised his eyebrows. ‘By car. I have a specially adapted one. It’s in a garage under the building. If I left it in the car park, it would be gone in five minutes. Do you want to check it for blood or body parts?’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir. Do you drive it yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you get in and out?’
‘I use arm crutches.’
‘Do you live alone?’
‘Yes. I get help.’
‘Can you help by telling us where you were last Friday evening?’
‘I was here.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘No.’
‘What about the evening of Monday eighteenth January?’
‘I’ve no idea. Are you sure I’m not a suspect? Why are you asking these questions?’ His voice became louder.
‘To eliminate you. Did you accuse Lorraine McNeill of discriminating against disabled people during a phone call?’
Wallace’s hands twitched on the wheels of his chair. ‘So it’s blame the spazzy, is it? I give a stuck-up cow a piece of my mind and I become the prime suspect.’ Breathing deeply, he rocked his chair in rage. ‘What the hell is wrong with this country? We get sent out to Iraq without proper boots or body armour, or even bloody bullets. At Az Zubayr, the Shi’ites ambush me, then yobs who need a good thrashing make life hell for decent people here in Bracknell. I want out of this hovel, so I write a book. I tell it like it is and some posh London cow says it didn’t start with enough narrative drive, whatever the fuck that is. When she gets topped, you lot come to me with your questions and don’t bother your arses about the yobs. Well, fuck off. Fuck off. Now!’ The last word would have carried across a parade ground.
Baggo dropped his notebook. He bent to pick it up, watching out of the corner of his eye in case Wallace should run his chair at him.
Flick tried a counter-attack. ‘It was Ms McNeill’s receptionist you gave grief to. Like it was Ms Stanhope’s assistant you were rude to. Don’t speak to us as if we were new recruits you can bully. Sir.’ She held her ground in the middle of the floor and tried not to look into the sun. ‘So, can you tell us your whereabouts on the evening of Monday seventh December?’