A Very Private Murder

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Somebody like Threadneedle?’

  ‘You said that, not me.’

  ‘No, but you were thinking it and you’ve been thinking about it for ten years. I’m an informal sort of bloke; can I call you Martin?’

  ‘Of course. It’s Charlie, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Truth is, Martin, I’m not too concerned about the fire and who killed Peccadillo. My remit is to apprehend whoever it was who murdered Threadneedle, and one route to his killer is via the gun. We can’t be sure, but it looks as if the same gun killed them both. It appears to have vanished after Motty used it. You didn’t happen to put it in your bag, did you?’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie. Not guilty this time.’

  Superintendent Wood answered the phone when I rang the office. ‘What are you doing there?’ I asked. ‘I thought you were off for another week?’

  ‘You know how it is, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘Difficult case like this one, constantly on your mind, gnawing away. It was bothering me and I thought you’d appreciate some help, someone to take a bit of the responsibility off your shoulders.’

  ‘The fish weren’t biting.’

  ‘Um, now you mention it, things were a bit slack. Too much colour in the water after all the rain.’

  ‘Does this mean that the multi-talented Miss Kent is off the case?’

  ‘That’s right. She’s been relieved of her duties in the field and pulled back to the Reichstag.’

  ‘Yippee! You’re a toff, Gilbert. So what’s happening?’

  ‘Well, in your absence, Maggie and Dave have filled me in and Maggie’s been collecting search warrants. Finding the missing son is today’s problem, it would appear. The lab has told Serena that they might have something for her tomorrow. What are you up to?’

  I told him about my talk with Motty, said we’d had a slight breakthrough in that Motty must have had some assistance to shoot the horse and was covering for someone, probably the recently deceased Arthur George Threadneedle. It was looking as if they’d planned an insurance scam that went wrong and faithful old Motty had been left to carry the can.

  ‘Are you coming back or are you staying in East Yorkshire?’ Gilbert asked.

  ‘I’ll come back.’

  I needn’t have bothered. His flat in students’ quarters was a one-roomed stinking pit with galley kitchen that wasn’t much more desirable than the dumpsters nearby that we’d emptied over the weekend. The assistant residence manager let us in, so we were denied the pleasure of kicking his door down. The man himself was nowhere to be found and there wasn’t a gun under the mattress. We grade houses on a scale of one to five on how much the carpets stick to your soles as you walk across them. This was a two with patches of four where he’d spilt his beer. The manager person expressed his disgust and said Oscar was a candidate for eviction. Dave nodded towards the Greenpeace poster on the wall and said: ‘But his heart’s in the right place.’

  ‘His arse’ll be in the right place – on the end of my toe,’ the manager person assured us. ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘Murder,’ I said, ‘so watch how you go.’

  Things were different at his mother’s sixth-floor riverside apartment. First of all, we had to arrange to meet her there and I had the pleasant duty of telling her about her son’s alfresco birthday party and the trashing of Laura Curzon’s grave. She believed us, which made a change. Mothers usually defend their detestable offspring to the death, even in the face of twenty-seven reliable witnesses and four hours of CCTV footage. Carol McArdle turned grey when she learnt about the gun and quivered with rage.

  But it didn’t help us. There was a crispy clean duvet on his bed and two Peter Scott prints on the walls, but no gun under his pillow or beneath the Calvin Klein underpants in his shreddies drawer. We had to be thorough, so I took Miss McArdle to one side and suggested she make herself a coffee. She nodded and blew her nose. I almost felt sorry for her.

  Barry Sidebottom had conveniently gone to the wine shop when we visited him, so we had a chat with his lady friend while we waited. She smoked incessantly, and had a voice like a milkman’s van crossing a cattle grid. The ashtray was at my side of the coffee table that stood between us, but she preferred reaching over rather than pulling it closer, so every three inhalations I was treated to a view through the gates of paradise.

  ‘Are you Mr Sidebottom’s partner?’ Dave asked.

  ‘I suppose so. We’re not married.’

  ‘Do you live with him in Portugal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I didn’t want to hear about her complicated domestic life, so I said: ‘Have you ever met Oscar, Mr Sidebottom’s son?’

  ‘No, poor little sod, saddled with a name like that. No wonder he left home.’

  We were prevented from asking any more questions by the arrival of the Peugeot. I was treated to one more glimpse of boiling dumplings as she stubbed out her cigarette before Barry Sidebottom burst into the room with his indignant head on. We stood up and showed him the warrant, explaining that we wanted to get to his son before he blew off his own or somebody else’s head. He put on a show for his girlfriend then calmed down.

  It didn’t do us any good. Oscar hadn’t visited and hadn’t contacted his father again. We had a debriefing at the nick which confirmed that we’d had an unprofitable day and all went home. With luck, we’d have some DNA results tomorrow. I’d had cottage pie with broccoli and carrots and was putting out my M&S bread-and-butter pudding when the phone rang.

  ‘It’s me: Superintendent Kent,’ she said.

  ‘Well …’ I began, knocked slightly off guard and speaking through clenched teeth, ‘this is a surprise. How can I help you, Miss Kent?’

  ‘The Threadneedle case,’ she said. ‘Have the DNA results come back yet? I’d like to follow it through.’

  ‘No, not yet,’ I told her, ‘but possibly tomorrow.’

  ‘Would you like me to have a word with them; jolly them along?’

  Like hell, I thought. Her jollying along would put at least another three days on the job. ‘Oh, that’s helpful of you,’ I said, ‘but can we leave things as they are? If they don’t come up trumps tomorrow I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Right. Can I hear music playing?’

  ‘Um, yeah, it’s a CD.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Right. Perhaps I’ll hear from you tomorrow.’

  Not if I can help it, I thought as she rang off, and skipped the CD back to the beginning of the track. It was Leonard Cohen, Alexandra Leaving, and I didn’t want to share it with her.

  *

  A motorcyclist brought the news, late the following morning. It was what we expected. Whether it was what I wanted I didn’t know. I read the report six times, propped it against my telephone and went for a sandwich. I had a feeling it was going to be a long afternoon. I listened to the midday news, my feet on the desk, and had a snooze until my head fell forward and woke me with a start. The weather pattern had settled again and some warm days were promised. I unhooked my jacket and trudged out to the car.

  Janet Threadneedle answered the door, a look of welcome on her face until she saw my expression and realised I was bad news. ‘Can we sit down, please?’ I said.

  ‘Shall I make some coffee?’

  ‘Not just yet.’ I stepped round the low table we’d sat at three days earlier so that this time the sun would be on my back but on Janet’s face. God’s spotlight, I thought, and slid the report from its envelope. ‘This is a report from our lab at Weatherton,’ I began, when she was seated opposite me. ‘Last Friday certain items of clothing were found in a dumpster in the York university campus, near some students’ accommodation. They were sent to the lab for forensic examination and analysis, and this is a statement of the lab’s findings. I won’t read you the technical stuff, but what it says is that analysis of fibres found inside a green velour jogging suit are a DNA match with hairs from a hairbrush on your dressing table, assumed to b
e your hair. We’ll be asking you for definitive samples, either of hair or mouth swabs, but I imagine you know what the result will be.’

  Mrs Threadneedle sat quietly, leaning forward, her feet together and her hands in her lap. I noticed they were trembling and she’d stopped wearing her wedding ring.

  ‘Bloodstains were also found on the suit,’ I continued, ‘distributed in a way consistent with it being in close proximity to a gunshot wound. DNA tests show this blood to be a match with DNA obtained from your late husband. Chances of these DNA tests being false matches are a billion to one.’ I didn’t tell her about the bloodstained shoes and socks, the gloves and the scarf. She’d wrapped herself well before doing the deed, all of which indicated a big measure of premeditation.

  ‘Oscar hasn’t been seen since last Thursday,’ I told her. ‘He was at a party for his birthday. He got quite drunk and started flashing a handgun around. We haven’t found the gun that killed Arthur, but it seems reasonable to believe it’s the same one. We’re worried that he’ll shoot someone else. Do you know where he might be?’

  She said no. After some prompting she suggested the places where we’d already looked, then admitted that Oscar had found a new girlfriend recently – someone ‘nearer his own age’.

  After a long, burning silence I said: ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ I told her that I wasn’t taking notes but would have to arrest her and take her to the station, where she’d be interviewed officially and a decision taken whether to charge her or not. She didn’t reply, so I said: ‘Let’s have that coffee, eh?’

  I followed her to the kitchen and leant on the door jamb as she rattled the cups and struggled with spoon and coffee jar. ‘No milk,’ she remembered.

  ‘That’s right.’

  I carried the tray into the other room and set it down on the table. Before I took my seat again I looked out of the window and saw the hardwood table and chairs where she and Oscar had sipped their lemonades in the sunshine before rutting each other brainless, nearly a year earlier. She hung back, then followed me with a plate of biscuits. I shook my head when she showed me them.

  ‘Oscar was upset about the Curzon Centre,’ she told me, ‘and was mad about Arthur’s involvement with it. He decided that ridicule was the best weapon against Arthur, and came up with the graffiti idea. It worked a treat, but unfortunately didn’t produce the desired effect. Ghislaine Curzon was too popular with the press and they united to save her from embarrassment. The plan fell flat.’ She took a sip of coffee and went on: ‘In fact, it backfired completely on Oscar. He became more and more annoyed about the whole thing. He used to ring me, late at night, saying what he’d like to do to the man who’d built the Centre and also driven his father away. One night he said he’d shoot him if he had a gun. I said: “I have a gun.”’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘I was in the garage, looking for his golf clubs, when I found this wooden box that I’d never seen before. It was locked and it intrigued me. We have a biscuit tin containing all the keys we’ve accumulated over the years: spare door keys; spare car keys; spares for suitcases; the windows; the garage. You know how it is.’

  ‘I recognise the picture,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I found the key to the box and opened it. There was this funny-looking gun inside, and some bullets.’

  ‘How many bullets?’

  ‘Three, I think.’

  ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘I thought about it for a day or two and decided to do nothing at first, but I’d keep it, just in case. When it all came to light about Arthur and his girlfriend I decided I’d shoot him. I thought about it a lot, decided that was what I wanted to do, but I couldn’t find the courage. Then I told Oscar about it.’

  ‘Oscar came straight round,’ she continued. ‘He was intrigued by the gun, couldn’t stop playing with it.’

  ‘Guns are like that,’ I told her. ‘They affect some people like a drug. Give them confidence, feelings of power. Most people recognise it for what it is and enjoy the moment, others start to believe it, think they’re God’s messenger. They go to a shopping mall or a school and loose off at the crowd. What did you do next?’

  ‘We planned and plotted. Oscar knew all about forensic science. He said the problem was getting rid of the weapon and the other evidence. We came up with a plan. I’d shoot Arthur then completely change my clothes. Oscar said that if I had no blood on me, I couldn’t have done it.’

  It was a simple plan. Mrs T would do the deed, then go to the supermarket. They’d park next to each other at the quiet end of the car park, away from the CCTV, and Oscar would help her transfer her shopping into the boot of her Day-Glo Ford Focus. They couldn’t do anything about the distinctive paint job, but that was a risk they’d have to take. Oscar would drive a long way away and dump the bloodstained clothing and the gun; she would go home to find her husband dead on the bedroom floor. Except that Oscar had taken a liking to the gun, and decided to hold onto it.

  ‘What will happen to me?’ she asked, after she’d finished relating her story.

  ‘You’ll be charged and remanded,’ I told her. I recited the caution and told her to make up an overnight bag. We drove to the nick in silence, the sky an impossible blue, the colours of the clothes on the pedestrians brighter than I remembered them, other drivers courteous and obliging. The bakery opposite the nick had just taken a batch out of the oven and the smell wafted across the car park.

  Sitting in the car, I said: ‘I’ve done my bit, Janet. I’ll let one of my colleagues do the interview. You need the best defence lawyer money can buy. You can afford it. Mental cruelty is a powerful defence. If you say you’ll live at your sister’s, and promise to behave, we might not oppose bail.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said, ‘and can I apologise for all the trouble I’ve caused you?’

  ‘C’mon.’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  We were having our debriefing meeting and on a high when the shout came. The lab had run some more tests on the dog pee and now were telling us that although the guilty dog wasn’t Bruno, there was a definite relationship between the two of them, probably siblings. All we had to do was find the second dog.

  ‘Lean on young Bratty,’ I said. ‘Use his dog as leverage. Lead him to believe that Bruno could be put down but might be saved if we found the true culprit.’ I was about to tell them that in my opinion Terence Bratt hadn’t been totally forthcoming with us, and wondering how much meaner I could get, when an internal phone started beeping.

  Brendan picked it up and after a few seconds raised a hand to silence the babble that always breaks out when there’s an interruption. ‘He’s here,’ he told the caller, making eye contact with me. ‘I’ll put him on.’ He passed the handset my way, saying: ‘It’s control. Young Sidebottom has been sighted.’

  He was on the move and a mobile had spotted his Mini heading west between York and Leeds. Within minutes he was being followed and units ahead of him were waiting to take over. I brought the ARVs off the motorway and told them to stand by.

  We guessed that he was heading either to Leeds or Heckley. He had contacts with animal rights activists in Leeds who would no doubt give him a smelly mattress for a night or two, or he could be heading to his mother’s and an Egyptian cotton, down-filled duvet. On the other hand, there wouldn’t be a nubile media studies student at his mother’s to take the chill off the sheets and his mind off his recent troubles. My money was on Leeds.

  ‘Lima Sierra 3 to Heckley control. Target vehicle on A64 approaching A1M turn-off. He’s signalling left. Now he’s on the slip road. Can confirm he’s heading south on the A1M. Can someone take over from me, please?’

  I was wrong. He was coming home. We told the chopper pilot to warm it up and issued firearms to a couple of panda crews who were authorised to carry them. Twenty minutes later it was obvious he was coming to Heckley and we deployed all available units around the snazzy converted mill that housed his mother’s apartment. The adjacent stree
ts became filled with cars that cruised silently to a standstill and waited, lights off, burly occupants not speaking. The reformed smokers felt for the Polo mints they always carried, took one and offered the tube to their partner. Declined with a shake of the head; mints returned to the foetid gloom of trouser pockets.

  Hotel Yankee 2 radioed in to say that a light had gone out on the fifth floor, below where Miss McArdle’s apartment was believed to be, and a few minutes later a Toyota RAV4 had left, driven by a woman. I leant across in front of the controller and pressed the Transmit key. ‘Did you get the number?’ I asked.

  ‘Hi, boss, that you?’ came the reply, irreverent as always. ‘Course we got the number. We remembered our training. Always get the number, we were taught. And besides, it’s the most excitement we’ve had since the shout came.’

  Excitement. That’s what most of us joined the force for, although we didn’t admit it at the interview. Then it was all about putting something back into society; making communities that were safe for women and children; helping any brother who’d strayed off the straight and narrow to repair his ways. We didn’t mention the pension scheme or the housing allowance, either. Or the decent football and cricket teams. Or the like-minded female officers, some of whom looked sensational in or out of uniform. What was it that Confucius said? May you live in exciting times. Except he meant it as a curse. He was right, though. I’ve had enough excitement to last me to the end of my days. Sometimes, on a winter’s morning, a little piece of metal wedged against my spinal column reminds me what excitement feels like, and I can do without it. A decent penalty shoot-out on Match of the Day satiates my adrenalin craving on any day of the week.

  So why was I in the back office, grovelling under the counter, looking for a stab-proof vest that still had its Velcro tabs attached and didn’t have a family of mice nesting in it? Because of Hotel Yankee 2, that’s why. The crew might be irreverent but at any minute they could be asked to outface a nutter with a gun, and I’d put them there.