by J G Alva
“Just there,” he said, pointing to the curb not ten feet from where they stood. “That’s where they found the body.”
“Who was he?” Sutton asked.
“Christopher Masters. Twenty five years old. He worked for the university as an admin assistant.”
The zebra crossing was a further twenty feet on from where the body had finally come to rest. It was easy to understand what had happened. He had been crossing, and someone going too fast had not been able to stop before hitting him. It was hardly a mystery.
What defied explanation was why Fin was trying to get him interested in it at all.
Fin continued, “time of death has been estimated as approximately ten o’ clock on Wednesday, 3rd May. No witnesses. He was on his way to visit some friends…and they were the ones that found him. They live just over there” – Fin pointed back behind them – “on West Park. If we want to talk to them. A Victoria Clapham, and a Steven Cook. They’re studying Social Sciences at Busbar. Masters was meant to be at theirs for nine, but after an hour – when he didn’t show up and he didn’t answer his phone – they decided to check on him.”
“Nosey,” Sutton remarked. “Maybe he wanted to be left alone.”
Fin shook his head.
“I think it shows a normal, healthy concern for their friend. Anyway. Masters only lived on Alma Road, which is about a two minute walk away, so there was no real hardship in checking on him.” Fin pointed to the road opposite, in the general direction of Alma Road.
“I know where Alma Road is, Fin,” Sutton said.
Fin glanced at him, and then nodded.
“I know, I’m just in presentation mode –“
“Well, stop.”
Fin paused but didn’t stop. He just kept on.
“Christopher Masters suffered blunt force trauma to his pelvis, shattering both his pelvis and his femur, and severing his spine at C-14. If he would have survived, then he would have been a paraplegic. As it was, his liver, spleen, bowel and lower intestine were compacted and severely damaged.” Fin shut the file folder. “He would have died, but he didn’t die immediately. It was the head trauma that killed him.”
“Head trauma?”
“The car – presumably the one that initially struck him – rolled over his head after he was down on the road.”
It was horrible, but it wasn’t Sutton’s problem.
“No forensic evidence, as such,” Fin continued. “Glass, from the car’s headlights. Flecks of paint. Metal fibres. But all of it generic enough to be next to useless.”
Sutton shrugged: see.
“No known enemies. No recent altercations. By all accounts, he was a good person. Everyone says that.”
“What am I doing here, Fin?” Sutton asked. He just wasn’t interested. He didn’t want to get involved. Lucia was coming over tonight. She had decided they were going to get drunk and do weird sexual things to each other. That was interesting; this was not.
“Chris Masters didn’t have a wife or a girlfriend or anything,” Fin continued from the file, rolling inexorably forward, like a tank. “And both of his parents are dead. But he is survived by a sister. Diane Abbot.” He closed the file. “She’s willing to talk to us, if we’re willing to help.”
“Help with what?” Sutton said, getting angry.
Fin stared at him.
Sutton shook his head and walked to the curb, to the place where Chris Masters had come to rest. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but what he saw was nothing. No blood, no residue, no traces of any kind. It had been swept clean, and Chris Masters might never have existed. He looked along Whiteladies Road. It was almost a straight shot up the hill. If he was in a Masaccio mood, then a painting of his current perspective might make a good painting in that vein. He looked down at the road at his feet again, where the body had been found, and then up at the hill once more. From one vanishing point to another, he thought.
“There’s nothing here,” Sutton said. “Somebody was racing down Whiteladies Road, probably some young kid with a brand new sports car, and he didn’t see Masters until it was too late. So it’s a plain old hit and run. Isn’t there any CCTV footage?”
Fin shook his head.
“No. There are cameras further up, and there’s cameras further down, but this is a blind spot.”
“It’s a tragedy,” Sutton said, his anger cooling somewhat. “But I don’t see what we can do to help.”
“It’s been a month, Sut,” Fin said. “The police don’t have anything.”
“That doesn’t bode well for anyone else looking into it, does it.”
“They’ve given up.”
“Probably with good reason.”
“There’s no skid marks.”
That caught his attention.
“What?”
There was a strange light in Fin’s eye.
“I’ve got the photos of the road taken that night, and the next day,” he said. “Nothing. Whoever was driving the car that hit him didn’t even try to stop. They wanted to hit him.”
◆◆◆
The sister was at the flat, and agreed to show them around.
Diane Abbot was older than her brother, probably in her late twenties, so they couldn’t have been that close. Still, there would be the lingering threads of maternal guilt after his death. There was a lifetime of babysitting the younger sibling, of helping him with his homework, of holding his hand when he crossed the road. Even though he shouldn’t have needed it, she hadn’t been there to hold his hand this last time. So, illogically, there would be a measure of guilt.
“I’ve cleaned it up a bit,” she said. “But other than that it’s exactly the same as he left it.”
The flat was one floor of a converted Georgian house, as they all were in that area; there was a separate bedroom and kitchen, but basically it was a bedsit. Outside, he had seen buzzers for eight flats. It was a big building, with three floors, but the owner had squeezed what he could out of the place, like a tube of toothpaste, filling each floor with as many paying tenants as he could legally get away with.
A long hall led to the main room. There was a single bed in the corner. The kitchen stuck out of the front of the building like a finger; a new addition. The bathroom was a small room in the back. The flat was cold and dark; it faced away from the sun. The sister noticed as much, and turned on the light. A bare bulb hung down from the ceiling on a long dusty cord and did its best to dispel the shadows.
“How long did he live here?” Sutton asked, looking around.
“Two years,” Diane said. And, as if she had to defend her late brother’s choice: “it was close to the university.”
“But not cheap.”
She gave him a half-hearted smile.
“No.”
There wasn’t anything of any note…not that he could see anyway. There was a small writing desk with a gooseneck lamp. A TV on a small unit sat in the corner of the room, facing the bed. A video recorder was balanced precariously on top of it.
“Did he have a computer?” Fin asked.
Diane looked around helplessly.
“Uh…I don’t think so. He didn’t like them. Said he didn’t trust them.”
“Okay.”
“Excuse me, but…why are you helping?”
Sutton turned to her.
Flustered, she said, “Mr Henk explained it all on the phone, that when the police don’t seem to be doing anything, then you might take a look at things.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Sutton said.
She was struggling with something, and then managed to get it out.
“How much is that going to cost? The thing is…we don’t have much money.”
“My fee is generally what can be afforded,” Sutton said, with a smile. “I wouldn’t worry about that right now.”
“I’ve got two children. Two girls. Under four. And my husband works at Riley’s. In Avonmouth. It’s just a warehouse job. So we don’t have much coming in.”
“I understand,” Sutton said. “And if we don’t find anything, then there won’t be any cost at all.”
Diane got suddenly tearful. She tried to smile her way through it.
“Not that I didn’t love my brother –“
“It’s fine,” Sutton said quickly. He couldn’t deal with a scene right now.
“It’s been a month,” she said.
“Mrs Abbott –“
“The police have stopped looking. They think it’s a dead end.”
They might be right, Sutton thought.
“Also…” Diane hesitated.
“What?”
“I haven’t had his things back. The things he had on him, when they found him. Do you know where I can go to find out?”
Fin said, “I know some of the officers involved. I can see what happened, if you like. They should have been returned to you by now, but maybe it’s been lost in the red tape. I’ll chase it up.”
“Thank you. It’s just he had this key ring with a picture of us all on…”
“I understand. It’s fine. I’ll ask.”
“Did you know his friends?” Sutton asked.
“A few. Not many.”
“Which were the ones you met?”
“Just the couple he was going to see. Vicky and Steve.”
“And what are they like?”
“They seem nice. They were younger than him though.”
“Students?”
She nodded.
“He met them through the university.”
“He didn’t have any other friends?”
“Some,” Diane said. “The ones he grew up with have all moved away though. He didn’t see them very often. He was always a bit of a loner anyway.”
“Did he go out?”
“What – to pubs and clubs?”
“To anything.”
“No. Not really. He was quite a shy person.”
“Did he have any hobbies?”
“Comics. He liked comics a lot.”
The place was bare, Sutton thought. Too bare. Almost like he didn’t live here at all. As if he just slept here, as if it were a hotel room. Which was strange, considering he had no hobbies or any activities that might distract him.
“Do you think you can help?” The sister asked.
There was something here, Sutton admitted. If his death was a mystery, then so was the man himself. Nobody lived this frugally, not by choice, and there was nothing here to indicate anything of who he was or what he liked to do. It was possible that this was all he was, but Sutton thought it highly unlikely; no man’s life could be this sparse. He would have to be a robot. Or a monk.
He had to admit to himself that he was engaged.
He noticed that Fin was staring at him.
To the woman, Sutton said, “we’ll take a look, and see what we can find out.”
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 5
Thursday, 2nd June
“So what do you think?” Fin asked, as they left Chris Masters’ flat.
The street was getting dark already. Trees and foliage lined their side of it, and moved in a gentle breeze; it made the light from the streetlights create strange dancing shadows on the pavement. A car shot past, its engine racing.
“The same thing you are,” Sutton said. “That it’s worth looking into.”
They crossed the road together, heading back toward Whiteladies.
“So where do you want to start?” Fin asked.
“I don’t know. There’s not much to go on. The odds are that it’s someone who knew him. So we look at them. If it’s some random asshole, then I doubt we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
They continued in silence for a while.
Whiteladies Road, with its light and noise, grew steadily closer…as did the zebra crossing on which Chris Masters had been struck.
“You know we have to talk about it at some point,” Sutton said, not looking at him.
Fin didn’t immediately respond.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Sutton continued.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“And what am I trying to do?”
“I suppose…you’re trying to help.”
“You need this.”
“Correction: you think I need this. There’s a difference. But I’m not talking about that.”
“Then what?”
“Dr Sails.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“She doesn’t want me in her life.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Just like you’re wrong about needing this case.”
“I’m doing it, aren’t I? Even if you blackmailed me with the grieving sister.”
“Well…”
“We’ll have a talk. But not right now. Some other time.”
Fin’s worried eyes checked his.
“Okay.”
◆◆◆
Victoria Clapham and Steve Cook rented a flat on West Park, a narrow street with too many cars parked on it, some on the curb, some across driveways. And it was a dirty street, with rubbish in the gutters, untended gardens and foliage, cars ten or twenty years old, with dents and scraps and rust eaten wheel arches. Sutton could make his own judgements about its residents from just that.
The flat was on the first floor, and accessed by a stone stairway attached to the side of the building; it was badly in need of repair; the whole building was. The front garden was a mess of neglect: tangled bushes, knee high grass, plastic bags and discarded pizza boxes. Sutton and Fin ascended, and then knocked on the door.
The girl who answered was small, dark haired, and very attractive. And distrusting: she kept the chain on.
“Miss Clapham? I’m Sutton Mills. This is my associate.” Fin didn’t like his name banded about, not unless it was strictly necessary. “We’re wondering if we could talk to you about Christopher Masters.”
The dark eyes were immediately suspicious.
“Why?”
“His sister asked us to look into his death.”
“Are you police?”
“No.”
“Then who are you?”
“Someone who looks into problems like this from time to time.”
“Like a private investigator?”
Sutton made a polite moue, neither confirming nor denying that he was what she said he was.
She stared some more, and then came to a decision; the door was closed, they heard the chain rattle, and then she opened the door for them to enter.
Sutton stepped inside.
The flat was bigger than Masters’, but not by much.
It had the advantage, however, of being more homely, with a truly lived in look, which Sutton attributed to the female presence: the nesting instinct hard at work.
The sparrow in question waited for them in the centre of the room, looking restless and agitated. He couldn’t account for it. It wasn’t exactly as if she had something to hide…but more as if they were a nuisance.
“Is this a bad time?” He asked, looking around.
There was a small battered table in one corner, set for one. A bamboo frame bookcase stood beside the window, a small TV on a low chest of drawers next to it. A worn blue sofa faced the TV, two doilies hanging over the back of it. Two lamps on opposing sides of the room were the only illumination, besides a light on in the kitchen, half obscured by a dividing wall. There was a low ceiling; he could reach up and touch it.
“It’s fine. How can I help?”
“We understood Mr Masters was on his way to visit you here. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Well. To visit Steve. Steve and he were good friends.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“No. No. I did. But Chris was Steve’s friend. I only met him through Steve.”
“Steve is your…partner?”
She nodded.
“And is he here?”
The single place at the table seemed t
o indicate that he would not be back for some time.
She hesitated.
“No. He’s at work. He works at a bar around the corner, three nights a week.”
“Right.”
Sutton’s first impression had been wrong: she wasn’t attractive; she was beautiful. She was only five foot four, but everything was in the right place, in good proportion to everything else, and it all worked well together. Even the bad clothes couldn’t hide the delectable lines of hip, thigh, neck and breast. And the clothes were bad: a moth eaten white T-shirt a size too big for her; torn, faded jeans that looked like they might be a size too small; bangles and beads around wrist and throat that looked bulky, inexpensive and homemade.
She was perhaps twenty two, and if her features were Anglo-Saxon, then her hair and eyes were not: they were dark, almost black, and it gave her an exotic air. The eyes were smoky, with long dark lashes. The hair was thick, straight, and hung to the middle of her back. She could be an Iranian businessman’s mistress. Or a model, plucked from the streets of a city in the Middle East. Too young for Sutton, but he could appreciate what he was looking at. Even the skin was good: pale, but without blemish. The mouth was wide, the face Elfin, the eyes large and captivating.
She was a princess dressed like a pauper.
The question was: why?
A hand rubbed the back of her neck fretfully.
“And how did Steve and Chris meet?” He asked. “Do you know?”
“Yes. They met on a computer course. At the university.”
“How long had they known each other?”
“About a year. I think.” The bubble of tension burst in this Iranian mistress then. “What are you expecting to find? That the police haven’t found already? It’s been a month.”
Sutton stared at her. What was going on? Was she meeting someone? An affair? Was she cheating on Steve?
Or was it something else?
“We don’t know. Unless we ask.” He stepped toward her. “What do you know that you haven’t told the police? That you couldn’t tell the police?”