Roofworld

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Well, you had better open up. You should know by now that our pre-Christmas sale is our most successful event. There’s already a queue forming outside.’

  Mr Buckley, chief of staff at the little Regent Street jewellery shop, was a fastidious man who prided himself on punctuality. It simply would not do to leave customers waiting outside the store. As always, Mr Buckley had arrived at exactly nine o’clock but refused to check the display cases and open the doors himself. After all, that was a job for a menial, not an executive staff member.

  ‘Mr Buckley, I wonder if I could have a word.’ Mr Nahree held one pinstriped arm aloft, as if asking for permission to leave the room.

  ‘Very well, but be quick.’

  ‘As you know, sir, I locked up last night…’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Mr Buckley made a display of staring impatiently at his watch. Outside, a woman cupped her hands across her forehead and peeped in through the window.

  ‘You see, I heard a noise on the floor above. I went upstairs to investigate, but found nobody there. When I went to the window, I saw two people on the ledge of the shop next door. They saw me and vanished.’

  ‘Good Lord! Did you check the vault?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. There was nothing missing and no sign of entry anywhere. I just wondered if we should tell the police.’

  Mr Buckley rubbed his chins thoughtfully. ‘No, Mr Nahree, I think not. Unless they’ve actually been burgled next door. You might check….’ Mr Nahree obediently made as if to check and was called back. ‘Not now, lad! Lock the doors back first and, while you’re at it, pull down the awning. They say it’s going to rain later.’

  Mr Nahree locked the doors back in position and moved aside to usher through a handful of well-heeled bargain-hunters. Beyond, the street was still free of casual passersby. Commuters were hurrying past the store on the way to their offices and they rarely stopped to look in the windows for special offers.

  Mr Nahree looked up at the sky. Already, the unbroken early blue of the morning had been spoiled by a handful of thundery-looking clouds. He hurried inside and picked up the hooked pole with which to pull down the store’s striped awning. Hooking it carefully into the brass ring in the middle of the blind, he leaned his weight onto one foot and pulled. Nothing happened. He tried again, pulling harder this time, but the awning refused to break free of its cover and unfold.

  ‘Mr Buckley, sir, I cannot manage to do this by myself,’ called Mr Nahree. ‘It is jammed tight!’

  His plea fell on deaf ears, for Mr Buckley was already in the process of making his first sale of the day. Mr Nahree tried again. This time, he arched his body backwards and pulled with all of his might. There was a sharp cracking noise and the blind pulled free. As it unfolded it gathered speed, for something long and heavy weighed it down in the middle. The underside of the blind was stained a deep crimson. Mr Nahree looked up in horror as the awning extended fully and a wet red body rolled out and fell to the pavement with a splattery thud.

  At first he thought that it had been coated in glossy black-red paint. The body was bald, naked and of the male gender. Only its eyes and fingernails showed white.

  When Mr Nahree realized that the man had been completely skinned, he fell to the pavement beside the corpse, much to the surprise and annoyance of his employer, who consequently failed to complete the sale of a handsome gold ladies’ watch.

  —

  ‘What I’m saying is, I don’t have to come down there and look at it again for you to give me some idea of the cause of death, do I?’ Hargreave tilted his chair forward and cradled the telephone receiver under his ear as he flicked on the computer terminal. ‘Well, you’ve had it for four hours. I would have thought you’d be in a position to make an intelligent guess by now.’ Behind him, Sergeant Janice Longbright entered quietly and took a seat. Her solid, ample bosom seemed to be in danger of bursting from the smart blue linen jacket in which it was encased. Hargreave eyed her appreciatively before returning his attention to the forensic man on the other end of the line.

  ‘Fine, here’s what you do. Send me up your list of main possible causes of death, with the technical jargon from your blood and tissue analysis weeded out so that a complete idiot can understand it. Add it to the update on the other two bodies which I assume you were just about to let me have. How long do I have to wait for that? Wonderful, you’ll make me a very happy man.’

  He replaced the receiver and turned his full attention to the big, beautiful sergeant who sat patiently waiting to talk to him. ‘I thought you were going to be tied up with the Arabs all day, Janice.’

  In the last twenty-four hours the case of the Harrods shoplifter had begun to pay off. The addresses she provided had pointed to a complex network of companies specializing in the receiving and processing of stolen goods, all of which were based in Arab states.

  ‘I will be. We’ve got a room full of very irate embassy officials downstairs. I have a familiar feeling that the subject of Diplomatic Immunity is about to get an airing.’ Sergeant Janice Longbright crossed her heavy long legs in a slither of stocking and smiled at him. Hargreave self-consciously placed his hands behind his head and over his bald patch.

  ‘I came up when I heard that they’d brought in another body,’ she said. ‘Where did they find it?’

  ‘It appears to have fallen from the sky in the vicinity of Regent Street,’ said Hargreave with a grimace. ‘Virtually no intact or recognizable features and as usual we haven’t a hope in hell of getting any positive I.D. within a couple of days. Finch started work on the body using data culled from the first two corpses some hours ago, but two of his technicians are on some kind of a go-slow over the Christmas duty roster.’

  ‘Have you been down there yet?’

  ‘First thing. Finch was gleefully prancing around the body sticking needles in it. Probably used to pull the wings off insects when he was a child.’

  ‘Why haven’t you called a departmental meeting on this, Ian? I mean, three deaths…it’s getting a little too serious for you to contain for much longer, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know, but I want to maintain control for a while, just until we get some more data and at least one confirmed I.D. We’ll get press speculation soon enough, not to mention Upstairs breathing down our necks pressing for a result. Hang on, looks like we’ve got something coming in.’

  Hargreave swivelled his monitor around to reveal rows of luminous green letters unscrolling across the screen. ‘I’m keeping direct access to Finch’s report channel. He appears to have made a match.’

  Janice pulled her chair forward so that she could watch the screen more easily. Dental records had confirmed the identity of the first boy, but there was still only marginal information on the second and the third corpse appeared to present an entirely new problem.

  ‘He’d been rather ineptly skinned. Stripped of flesh. But Finch doesn’t seem to think that was the cause of death.’

  ‘Look at this, Ian. A massive quantity of warfarin in the body.’ Janice tapped an area of the screen with her pencil. ‘God, what a nasty way to die.’

  ‘Why? What does that signify?’ He held up his hand, then punched out the number of the forensic laboratory. ‘Finch, pick up your phone.’ After a moment, the call connected. Hargreave switched it onto the office intercom. ‘Finch, if I’ve got warfarin in my blood, what does that signify?’

  Down in the lab, Finch used his lightpen to highlight a number of chemical values for Hargreave to study on the screen. ‘Take a look at your monitor. Those areas I’ve just marked indicate a system imbalance in the man’s body….’

  ‘How old would you say he was?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say about thirty, thirty-two. There’s a link with the other two bodies only insofar as there’s a heavy presence of illegal chemical substances again. Heroin, in this case.’

  ‘The fact that they all dropped out of the sky could be seen as a link, I would have thought,’ muttered Janice.

  ‘But this time dea
th was caused by the oral ingestion of a large amount of warfarin, or at least a substance with the same properties.’

  ‘Which brings me back to my question—what does it do?’

  ‘It prevents haemostasis in the body,’ said Finch, cheerfully. ‘It’s an anti-coagulant.’ The silence on the other end of the line indicated that he would have to elucidate. ‘It stops your blood from clotting. The chap haemorrhaged to death. Any tiny internal tears he had wouldn’t heal in the normal fashion. He literally drowned in his own blood.’ Finch paused for dramatic effect before continuing. ‘Normally warfarin is almost totally metabolized by the liver, but we managed to find traces in urine and faecal matter. It’s not a very normal way to die.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Well, the chemical would have taken at least a couple of hours to have an effect and we can add another six hours for the digestive system to process the toxin. I should think he expired at about seven o’clock last night and was then skinned—to what purpose I really can’t begin to imagine.’

  ‘Thanks, Finch. I’ll call you when I’ve printed this lot out and had a chance to go through it.’ He replaced the receiver and turned back to Janice, tapping his front teeth with a fingernail. ‘I want to put somebody young and fresh on this before anyone else gets a crack at it. Someone who doesn’t think in straight lines. I’m too old, my ideas filter through a regimented training pattern….’ Janice began to protest, but Hargreave silenced her. ‘No, it’s true. This needs new blood.’

  ‘We’ve got Detective Constable Martin Butterworth in the department at the moment.’

  ‘What, the Commissioner’s son? Bit dodgy if there’s a cock-up. Think of the comebacks.’

  ‘He seems quite bright, though. He’s helping me out with the Arabs. I’m sure the change of pace would spark his creative juices.’

  ‘All right, get him to come and see me.’

  Hargreave tapped the keyboard before him and started a printout procedure for Finch’s report. Computers were a necessary evil, but bloody useful all the same, particularly if you didn’t stick to the regular programs. It was a pity that there were so many unimaginative people in the department who followed the letter of the law. Whatever had happened to the great characters of the force, the ideas-men of old, the people with a little flair?

  ‘How do you mean?’ Janice asked of a shocked Hargreave, who was unaware that he had been speaking aloud.

  ‘Nothing. I’ve got a list of questions piling up that’s as long as one of your exceedingly lovely legs.’ The naturally healthy bloom of Janice’s cheeks deepened slightly.

  ‘You’re assuming that the deaths are connected?’

  ‘Come on, Janice, how could they not be? It just doesn’t make sense. Why tie a raven to somebody before tossing them off a roof? Why poison someone’s blood when it’s easier just to toss ’em off a roof? And as for filling somebody’s mouth with Egyptian silt before killing them…’

  ‘They knew the police would examine the bodies. Maybe they’re doing it just to throw us off the scent.’

  ‘We’ve been over that roof with a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing but a couple of blurred footprints. But there has to be more than one person involved, someone to help with the killing. This last one was a big bloke, six two, six three….’

  ‘Why don’t you have some coffee and relax for a while?’ suggested Janice. Ian had not stayed over at her apartment last night. He had worked late and it showed in his face.

  ‘I’m not going to relax until we get a decent lead.’

  There was a knock on the glass panel of the office door and a secretary poked her head around the corner apologetically. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but this just came in….’ She held up a folded copy of the evening paper’s noon edition and then passed it to Janice, who eyed the banner headline with a glacial expression and passed it quickly on to Hargreave as if she had just been handling a letter bomb.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  Police hunt rooftop madman

  London Metropolitan Police have been warned to be on the lookout for a maniac gunman terrorizing the crowded streets of the capital, writes crime correspondent Stan Cutts. After Monday’s report of a boy found murdered in Piccadilly Circus, two more bodies have been discovered in the immediate vicinity, both showing signs of wounding which suggest foul play. Police fear that a gangland war may have erupted between London’s underworld crimelords.

  Official cover-up?

  At a time when their resources are being stretched to the limit by the seasonal influx of Christmas shoppers, police are unable to spare men to investigate the possibility of a gangland link between the three victims. Detective Chief Inspector Ian ‘Leicester Square Vampire’ Hargreave [‘Bloody Hell!’ groaned Hargreave], currently heading the investigation, has denied that there may be a link between the horrific murders (see centre page photo spread) and has actively discouraged the press from reporting the case in any detail. Today he could not be reached for comment.

  ‘It’s strange,’ said one anonymous spokesperson, ‘but there seems to be a cover-up going on. None of us knows what is happening.’

  The violence every mother fears

  Today, as bright-eyed mothers and toddlers, their arms filled with gaily wrapped Christmas gifts, stroll unconcerned through bustling streets, the city waits in fear for a new wave of gang violence which could strike down innocent and unsuspecting bystanders anywhere, at any time. Bystanders who are unfortunate enough to be standing in the way of a crazed maniac sniper.

  (See editorial)

  ‘You’ve got to be pretty talented to get so many inaccuracies into one column,’ said Hargreave with surprising calm as he opened the newspaper out. ‘Good editorial, too. “Why, Oh Why, Is Nothing Being Done?” it says. Photo spread’s a bit murky, though. Couple of grey smudges and an arrow pointing to some railings and the top of a building. But this bit’s good.—“Horoscopes Can Tell if Your Man Is a Maniac.” ’ He angrily threw the newspaper across the room.

  ‘Who is this “spokesperson” giving him a quote?’ asked Janice. ‘It can’t be anyone from here.’

  ‘Oh, he makes them up; they all do when they suspect something to be true but can’t find anyone to confirm it. “Sniper”, he says, ignoring the fact that there hasn’t been a single shot fired into any of the victims. He’s going to have the whole of London looking up in the air for rooftop assassins. You wait, by the evening edition he’ll have come up with a nickname for the killer. The bastard. Late Thursday—he said he wouldn’t file the story until late Thursday. Well, he’s just lost his file access. I want him and everyone else completely frozen out until we get more information.’ He indicated the chaotic offices beyond the window. ‘You’d better make sure that they’re all briefed properly about taking phone calls.’

  ‘Ian, how could he possibly have known about the latest victim? Where is he getting his information from so quickly?’

  Hargreave pinched the top of his broad nose with a thumb and forefinger. He looked up at Janice and gave her a puzzled frown. ‘That’s what I’d bloody like to know,’ he said.

  Chapter 17

  Simon

  Skinner’s suits were a constant source of fascination to Robert. They seemed to be made from an alien synthetic fibre that never creased or got dirty. Indeed, it seemed possible that Skinner himself was constructed of the same material. At any given moment, the man’s fingernails were clean. It irritated Robert as he sat at his desk clearing away the remains of his workload before the official Christmas break began.

  Skinner eyed the untidy stacks of books and magazines piled in the corners of the office with distaste. ‘Had any luck with your blockbuster yet?’ he asked from his usual position in the doorway.

  ‘There are a few obstacles in the way at the moment, but I’ll get there eventually,’ said Robert, pausing to light a cigarette which he knew would annoy his colleague. ‘Hopefully this side of Christmas. I thought you and Trish were going skiing.�
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  ‘We’re leaving this afternoon. Though there’s likely to be less emphasis on the ski and more on the après, if I know Trish.’ His laughter came out as a series of horrible mucus-inducing snorts. ‘The office closes tomorrow, you know. I’m surprised to find you still hard at it. Why not wait until the New Year? Nobody else is working.’

  ‘No, it’ll be too late by then.’

  ‘What do you mean, too late?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s a complication with the deal, that’s all. Nothing for you to concern yourself over on the piste.’

  Robert resented having to tell Skinner anything more than the barest minimum about his search for Sarah Endsleigh. The man was bound to find some reason for him to not follow it through. Skinner could sense an air of hostility in the office, as if he was secretly being made fun of. The boy had a major attitude problem. He wouldn’t survive the approaching staff changes. At least not if Skinner had anything to do with it.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ he said awkwardly as Robert continued to remain hunched over his desk. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Same to you and Trish.’

  The door clicked gently shut as Robert decided that it was time to call Rose and arrange a meeting. Outside, early evening darkness closed over the row of vigilant gargoyles, who remained at their posts as immobile and impassive as Chinese soldiers.

  —

  At eight o’clock Robert and Rose left the pub in Sutton Row and turned off into Charing Cross Road, the crowds quickly thinning out as they moved away from the main tourist thoroughfares. The tiny embankment park they arrived at was little more than a collection of drooped, dying elms standing in a damp and trampled strip of green. In the middle was a space reserved for deckchairs which was used in summer when the band played. Now it was deserted and litter-strewn. Along the top of the park, wooden benches rested beneath tall battered bushes, sticky with the deposits of ancient limes. Most of the benches were taken up by tramps who spent their time dejectedly passing wine bottles to one another and involving themselves in inane arguments. Others lay sprawled on the grass in uneasy sleep, seemingly oblivious to the cold night air.