He passed under a substantial entrance porch, nodding at the uniformed boy by the door. He recognised the face but couldn’t place it. Hazard of the job. In another context he might have mistaken the same face for one he’d put away.
The hallway was vast, dark and foreboding. Burke wondered if this display was for the effect of warning off burglars. He half expected to see a stuffed bear in full hind leg standing frontal assault. A testament to the ‘bravery of Major Chumley-Something-Or-Other who’d shot the bugger on the way back from doing something colonial.
It was like the setting for Cludeo. Only he didn’t think it was Professor Plumb in the drawing room with the lead pipe on this occasion, more likely some rocket with a Kalashnikov and most definitely in the hallway going on the amount of airborne claret.
He realised he’d never seen anything like it, outside the realm of horror films and possibly even then not so much. How could a human being even contain that much blood?
What looked to be some serious money’s worth of artwork had been splattered with a combination of different tissue types and some pricey looking china had been shredded along with half the wood panelling that made up the lower walls and the side of a grand staircase that you wouldn’t want to walk on now for fear of getting some nasty looking skelves through your best brogues.
He presumed the vase had once sat on top of the granite plinth that now rested against the mashed remains of the space between the deceased’s ears. A chandelier lay across his back, having plummeted from its original mooring in the ceiling, probably after being cut out by a hail of bullets, judging by the circle of tell-tale holes. He wondered what all if this was worth, the usual trinkets the rich liked to surround themselves with, a Rolex Oyster here, a Tiffany lamp there. It all mounted up. There was no limit to what you could spend if you wanted to. They said that lottery winners were generally quite happy until they moved to a smarter area and then resumed the game of keeping up with the Joneses, just at a higher level.
“So did he grab the plinth as he fell or do you think he had it pushed onto his head after the fall?” he finally asked; as Dr Brown’s beefy head moved around in shock, closely followed by his substantial jowls.
“Jim, you need to watch that,” he replied. “My ticker’s not what it was and no offence but I don’t much fancy getting mouth to mouth from you.”
“None taken,” Burke laughed “And likewise if I’m honest. I’ve considered having DNR tattooed on my forehead for that very reason.”
“You might want to be careful though some of these places don’t have the best record on infection control,” the doctor replied without a trace of irony.
“Well, what do you think did for this one?”
“Oh I’d say Mr Kalashnikov,” Brown said, looking tired. “Either that or Mr Uzi.”
“Was there a Mr Uzi?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“Something to google when I get home.”
“Indeed.”
“Anything standing out?”
“Other than the fact that our killer or indeed killers over egged the pudding somewhat?” “Subtlety is a lost art.”
“It is. They meant it though, that’s a certainty. You don’t manage to spray that amount of lead about the place without having to stop to reload a good few times.”
“Good point.”
“And they don’t seem to have been shy about finishing the job. I’d say they knocked over the plinth. The cursory look I’ve been able to get at what is left of his head indicates there isn’t much of a face left, which seeing as the plinth as at the rear of the skull indicates it has been rather shot up.”
“So he wouldn’t have been able to grab it, that being the case?”
“Well there is always the possibility. That’s why some marksmen, notably the SAS have a tendency to go for the mouth shot. Obviously part bravado, partly the fact it encumbers the primitive part of the brain and stops any twitching movements, shooting the hostage in the head as you laugh your last, that sort of thing. I’d say our boy here was a bit past trying to balance on a plinth though. We’re dusting the whole place for prints, naturally.”
Burke made his way through the entrance porch back to the driveway and out onto the street where he found Campbell and Jones looking decidedly non-plussed.
“Well what have you got for me?” he asked expectantly.
“Not a sausage boss,” Campbell said rubbing his eyes like it had been a rough day, seemingly oblivious to the fact it was only half past ten.
Jones shook her head, “Nobody saw or heard anything.”
“I don’t actually understand it,” Campbell exclaimed. “It’s not like you can just rock up to a place like this, armed to the teeth like some kind of conspiracy nut, pummel the shit out of a house and its owner and go unnoticed. They must have made some noise, even with silencers, or at least been quite visible. I mean the guy had electric gates. You don’t just shin over them with half a ton of metal over your shoulder and not create a ruckus.”
“Suggests he knew whoever it was doesn’t it?” Jones volunteered.
“Not as well as he thought.” Campbell replied.
“Who did you actually speak to?” Burke asked.
“Aye well that’s the thing Sir. We spoke to the au pair on this side.” Campbell pointed to the left hand side of the house. Owners are a couple of lawyers but she said she was on all night and she never heard a peep. She sleeps on the side next to the victims house, says her employers didn’t mention anything at breakfast.”
“What about the other side?”
“Stay at home mum. How do people afford these places? Anyway she never heard a thing, sleeps on the other side of the building though. Kids aren’t old enough to be interviewed or at least make sense,” Jones said.
“Maternal instinct’s strong with this one boss,” Campbell added looking at Jones, who frowned in response.
“Over the road?” Burke asked, ignoring the pantomime act.
“Couple of pensioners. Both seemed a bit doddery, possibly hard of hearing, saw nothing, they were busy watching a documentary on the Discovery Channel most of the night, that one about dolphins, classic, anyway the old boy fell asleep in his chair and woke up about one a.m. stumbled upstairs but saw nothing. His wife was out like a light already, she’d gone after the ten o’clock news. Didn’t feel up to Newsnight. Rock and Roll eh?” Campbell looked around for approval at this and finding no real interest moved on. “Next one along was another au pair. She wasn’t home but her employers were, so I’ll check back with them later, as well as with the other ones on the left hand side.”
“Good stuff,” Burke replied. “Keep it up. You never know what you’ll turf up.”
They both looked at him and nodded as he gestured for them to continue.
He wandered back inside, past the accumulation of gore and through to the rooms beyond. To the left there was a fairly formal living area which seemed to double as an office. A large imposing desk sat at the far end of the room. It would have completely swamped most rooms but not this one with its high ceilings and imposing woodwork. The empty base of a think pad sat in the middle of the desk. He hoped Scene of Crime had that.
To the side there were some brown chesterfields congregated round a granite fireplace, above which, there hung a flat screen looking more than a little incongruous. The previous day’s papers were scattered on the coffee table and various empty cups gathered dust as they waited to be cleared.
Burke didn’t need to look much further to know Karpov was a single man.
On the other side of the hallway stood a more formal living room, clearly never used, not a sign of a screen in there.
To the rear there was a kitchen which had not as yet been anointed with the status they generally were these days, especially in this area. It was bereft of a glass extension. There was no AGA or even fitted units to speak of, just a tiled floor, some old cupboards and an overhanging washing pulley that had doubtless seen t
he smalls of generations. The empty food cartons told a story. This was a takeaway plating-up room. Nothing more. Clearly the maid had quite an uphill battle every morning. He wondered if she could be in the frame. Had he perhaps made her clean that chandelier too many times?
He tiptoed across the now sticky red hall and found a dining room to the other side, table set in anticipation of something, though the cutlery looked to have gathered some dust.
He carefully climbed the creaky oak staircase to the first floor and made his way into what must be the master bedroom. As in the case of the formal sitting room below, this sat on a rounded turret like section of the building, which faced south and got the best of the light owing to the vast semi panoramic window. This room seemed opulent in contrast to the others. A large amount of gold leaf and an almost over the top collection of neo-classical sculpture was on display, quite out of character with the rest of the house. An en-suite led off the bedroom. There were more flat screens in here. Burke found a remote by the four poster bed, switched the largest one on and was immediately accosted by the image of himself staring back from beside the bed. Interesting.
There seemed to be no way of playing anything back at hand, so he would leave it with the forensics guys on the way out.
The rest of the house again seemed fairly standard: another four bedrooms three of which had en-suites and all of which looked like they’d been decorated by someone looking to sell the place. There appeared to be an attic but no one had the key. He would see about getting hold of that along with the laptop later.
“Any sign of security cameras Doc?” He asked as he creaked downstairs.
“Give us time, Jim,” Brown replied.
He was now leaning over the recently de-chandeliered remains of what Burke realised was a red dragon-kimonoed victim, picking up what appeared to be fragments of shattered skull with a pair of tweezers and placing them on sample containers of some sort.
“I haven’t heard anything about any additional ones besides the ones on the front gate. That’s not to say they’re recording ones anyway, may just be a type of intercom with no storage.”
“Might not want to have a record of comings and goings.” Burke agreed.
“Didn’t matter in the long run I suppose.”
“No.”
“You might want to look at the hardware upstairs though.”
“Really, how so?”
“Well it seems our boy had his boudoir wired for playback. Couldn’t find any kind of storage though.”
“Kinky.” The good doctor replied scratching one of his many chins. “Might be with that laptop we’re missing.”
********************
He called in at home on the way back to the station, hoping to cadge some kind of food now Rachel was up and about.
The letter had arrived this morning, amongst the usual flotsam and jetsam issued by the banks and everyone else that was encouraging him to spend money.
He left the bank statements in their envelopes as usual. And rifled through to the bottom of the pile. This one only caught his attention because of the fact it had nothing on it and must have been dropped off by hand, probably some kind of leaflet he thought. But the envelope seemed wrong, too expensive.
He tore it open and pulled a letter from inside; cheap printer paper, inkjet printer, times new roman font.
Dear Inspector Burke,
Sometimes it’s best just to bury the dead.
You might want to think about new arrivals instead of overdue departures.
Regards
A concerned observer
What the fuck? Who? How dare they? How could they?
“What’s up? Energy bill gone up again?” Rachel asked.
He hadn’t seen her. He wondered how much of his reaction she had seen. “Something like that,” he replied, pocketing the letter and the envelope, knowing it would be of practically no use. “I’m feeling the heat anyway.” He smiled, hoping that would suffice.
Rachel smiled back but with a questioning frown.
Everyone had inkjet printers these days and the thing about posh envelopes was that they didn’t require licking.
He locked himself in the bathroom and threw up as quietly as possible.
11
Giles Herriot-Watt stood on the harbour admiring the craft before him, like a man in his position may have admired the form of a fine thoroughbred steed in centuries gone by. She was something to behold; the Brentwood Viking, sleek, long, light and yet most importantly in possession of brutal power. Her red haunches shone in the winter sun as the gathered hack photographers and assorted slack jawed yokels took in her magnificence.
Drink it in his inner voice declared. It’s more than you’ll ever afford.
They lowered her down the slipway into the mouth of the cold river to much applause. She was suddenly alive, snorting fire, as the two man crew waved to their enthusiastic audience. The publicity was important of course. It was imperative they were seen to be doing such things, adding a touch of glamour to the area, giving them something they’d never see the likes of again.
He cracked a bottle of Moet & Chandon; hardly Crystal but what did it matter on such an occasion. Not like anyone here would know the difference. He preferred to keep the Crystal he had expense accounted and use it to impress the ladies; the ones who knew the difference, the ones who knew what clothes to wear and were seen at the right functions, the ones with the right breeding. Again his mind turned to thoroughbreds. He appreciated the equine form, knew one end of the animal from the other. He could happily watch a race or three given the right quantities of the bubbly stuff and possibly some of the old marching powder. And polo; that was fine and obviously a decent social lubricant, but the horses didn’t like him. That was for sure.
He charged the glasses of the local provost and a reporter from the Galloway Advertiser he might think about getting the number of later and smiled as he took it all in, this spectacle he’d created. Brentwood Viking roared to life on top of a foam pillow and her nose lifted as she powered along the side of the harbour. The crew waved at some local kids as they ran along the wooden walkways in pursuit. They tucked themselves down into their respective cockpits as she howled higher still and powered out into the bay for the nautical dressage display.
“It’s a real boon for the area,” he heard the provost say and turned to say something along the lines of the firm being delighted but instead he couldn’t resist simply saying yes. The provost looked slightly wrong footed which of course had been his intention and Giles set about reeling her back in.
At times he couldn’t resist saying such things just for the hell of it, just to screw around with people’s minds and challenge his manipulation skills. “As, of course is the area to us. I mean let’s face it where better to test in secret than a place such as this?”
“True,” the reporter replied.
“And as an added bonus I get to enjoy some of its,” he looked at the reporter, made a point of doing so, “more natural beauties.”
She giggled slightly, covering her mouth in a modest gesture he heartily approved of. He knew what he would be doing for the rest of the week.
“Of course it would be good if we didn’t go into too much detail, as we agreed. We don’t want everyone to know exactly what we are doing now do we?”
“No,” she agreed, as the provost suddenly found she had somewhere else to be and Giles congratulated himself on being such a skilled manipulator of the press.
********************
John Campbell was in his element. The building he had entered felt as if it should be home. If cop shops looked like they did on CSI, this would be home.
He announced his arrival with the receptionist who looked pissed off in that way people did when they truthfully didn’t give a flying fuck but wanted the world and his wife to think they did because, what? It made them a better person somehow? Hell no. Better to be honest than dish out conciliatory smiles that you could tell weren’t real a
nyway. The delicate turning up of the corners of the lips said concern but the eyes said “anyway moving swiftly on.”
She probably never even knew the Ruskie boy. He wondered what it took to get a girl like that. Receptionists; they always seemed so snooty in a way that had the effect of only making him more interested. Maybe he should come out of the closet as a fully-fledged masochist, get someone to strap him into something and kick the living hell out of him while he begged for mercy, begged for more or whatever would happen when he embraced the madness. Half the time he was like a man picking at a scab.
Another girl came out of one of the offices and greeted him with a smile and a visitors badge just as he’d settled on one of the cream leather couches and got his nose stuck in the latest copy of Heat magazine. He then had to do a bit of a manoeuvre whereby he put the magazine back down on the glass topped coffee table without her seeing, like it was a copy of Playboy and she was his mum. Truth be told he’d rather be caught with a copy of Playboy than Heat but he liked to keep abreast of the celeb situation. You never knew when that might come in handy if trying to salvage a conversation.
She led him through the wall of glass and blinds to a full-on open plan office. A big sign taking up the wall of the entrance declared that this was home to several companies all of which fell under the umbrella of BCC Industries as denoted by the three letters in red blue and green plastic over all other organisation names.
The PA who introduced herself as Laura, led him into an office at the back of the larger expanse. It was a fairly characterless room. The back wall was plate glass and looked out onto the water of Leith. A bland desk with a laptop sat in the corner, wires snaking off in every direction. He took a seat on a plastic Ikea number and waited. The water was fairly mesmerising. It must have been hard to get much done here. He turned as he heard the faint sound of footsteps on carpet.
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