by James Damm
But that dream was now over. The protector was dead.
Juliet’s own gaze moved away from John’s eyes to the rest of his body. The hair looked dishevelled while John’s jawline sported whiskers that showed he hadn’t bothered to shave for days. The white t-shirt he’d worn was in tatters, with punctures and holes joining the heavy scarlet stain. The number of holes suggested a frenzied stabbing. John’s trainers were scruffy and old, his jeans just jeans, yet the jacket brought half a smile to Juliet’s face. The superheroes in comics wore armour, masks and capes. Their superhero had worn a black leather jacket. Always.
Juliet continued to scrutinise the scene. The broken neck of a smashed wine bottle, caked in blood. The attacker dropped the weapon less than ten metres away, with a small yellow evidence marker now by its side. Shards of glass littered John’s clothes and the ground around the body, with a trail of blood dotting the tarmac leading up to the where it lay.
To an investigator, the evidence should always guide the case, and there was no absence of material to work with around John Fitzgerald’s body. First, the murder weapon of a broken wine bottle. Had the attacker clubbed John with the bottle? Did the bottle smash on impact or had the attacker dropped it? Had the attacker taken the opportunity and gone for the frenzied kill?
Who would have a wine bottle to hand? There was a pub round the corner. Officers would shortly round up and interview all those who’d been there last night in the hours before it closed. As Juliet scanned up and down the industrial road, there were no signs of other bottles or broken glass. Whoever had killed John had surely brought the bottle with them, at least a short distance.
Why had John been there? Such a frenzied attack. What was the chance that the superhero would be down this road and that a broken wine bottle would be the most effective weapon against him? Juliet supposed John Fitzgerald surprised the attacker down this road, sparking the confrontation and eventual murder.
But that failed to answer the most important question in Juliet’s head: Had John Fitzgerald, of all people, really died just like that?
“I’ve watched footage of John deflecting bullets and moving through fire without a burn,” Juliet stated as she and Tom removed their protective clothing. “How does he die from stab wounds from a broken bottle? Who even thinks to try it?”
Tom didn’t answer as he removed the clothing. His thoughts were equally troubled, flicking between all these facts that already didn’t add up.
“I don’t know. But I think we’ll catch whoever did it soon.”
“How so?” Juliet asked.
“If you want to understand an artist, look at his work,” Tom said as he motioned at the area with his arm. “This wasn’t an assassination. The scene of the crime is littered with evidence from the body, the blood, to the murder weapon. Regardless of the time of death, the perpetrator won’t have gotten far. It’s a disorganised kill, feels in the moment, and there’ll be CCTV all around with so many businesses nearby.”
“Unless it’s set up to look that way?”
“A possibility, but it disagrees with the rest of the scene,” Tom acknowledged. “Did you see the lack of defensive wounds on his hands?”
Juliet had. “Maybe that means he knew his attacker, that or it was a blitz attack that took him by surprise.”
Before either could continue their train of thoughts, the senior investigating officer approached. Tall, black, athletic, something about the way the man carried himself suggested he was former military – his posture and frame fixed. The confidence in his steps jarred with the thoughts inside his head. The man was nervous, the murder of the superhero landing on his desk was nobody’s plan. Often called a red ball, the case would take precedence over existing active cases. They could and often made or broke a detective’s career.
“Ethan,” he said outstretching a hand which Juliet shook. “Anything you have that will save my sorry self?”
“Nothing you won’t have already,” Juliet replied. “I’ll be of more value if we can get witnesses or a suspect into custody. Rattle their cages a little and I can see what falls out.”
“We’ve already got officers speaking to the landlord of the pub down the road and any others nearby. We will question any punters that ordered bottles of wine or seemed suspicious. Plus, we’ll look at their CCTV,” Ethan said before pushing his luck. “Anything from those people over there?”
A small crowd formed at the blue police tape, curious to see inside the white tents that hid the crime scene from view. Their chattering thoughts were entirely out of curiosity, with no specific mention of John Fitzgerald. On an average Tuesday morning, nobody thought the road outside their home would have such far-reaching consequences within the world at large.
“Worth a shot,” Ethan smiled as he watched Juliet shake her head. “The DLR station is being closed; I want the body out of here before too long. As soon as this story breaks, and it will, members of the public will come in their droves.”
“Whatever we can do to help,” Tom smiled.
Being a member of the UK’s Investigative Support Unit, Juliet would assist police and intelligence agents in their enquiries, although her presence wasn’t always welcome. The police managed and owned the case, and whichever detective they put in charge became the king or queen of proceedings. Even with a person like John Fitzgerald flying in the sky, Juliet had encountered many who considered her powers voodoo, over-egged or just plain unwanted.
Still, with hundreds of requests a year, neither Tom nor Juliet cared if some detectives never picked up the phone through stubbornness. There were plenty out there who wanted help, more cases than Juliet could ever handle. This obstinacy was especially true of old-school detectives who had been around a while, many of whom wanted to be left to their own devices. Sometimes the decision to bring in Juliet would go over their heads, a higher-up worried their team had become too blinkered. In those cases, Tom and Juliet needed to tread carefully through an unwelcome terrain. Often there were still results, but it made it harder, battling against the investigator and the case itself.
Rarely, but still out there, were those concerned with the morality of Juliet’s power. Many believed they should designate the skull as a domain of absolute privacy. No one should be able to probe an individual’s mind against their will, and law enforcement should forgo the use of Juliet’s power, even though using it may serve the public good.
Ethan seemed to belong to the more accepting group. With no ego, he recognised that a case of this magnitude needed solving well and solving fast. Traditionally, to get a successful prosecution and conviction in a murder case, you need conclusive forensic evidence, eyewitness accounts, a confession, or good, strong circumstantial evidence. Ethan’s attitude was to tick every box as thoroughly as possible. The acceptance of what Juliet could offer was refreshing.
“Later, when we’ve tracked down all those patrons from the pub, I’d appreciate you giving them the once-over with my detectives. Any patrons who last night left with a wine bottle or acted suspiciously, we’ll see if anything marries up with the CCTV. Meanwhile, I have officers at John’s flat, going through his possessions to ascertain who was in his inner circle. In all the chaos that will come, we can’t forget the basics. Most murders are committed by somebody we know, somebody we love,” Ethan said. “It may be Fitzgerald, but we need to approach it the same way. If possible, I’d like you to speak to the neighbours, get a sense of how often John was there, any familiar faces or overheard arguments. A simple way to track how he got to this road is to discover who he was with this past week.”
“We can do that,” Tom nodded as he looked to Juliet.
“Anything you specifically want us to look out for?” Juliet asked.
Ethan paused a second, his eyes involuntarily glancing over at the white tent. “Soak it all up, see what the neighbours say and anything suspicious you can find. But also keep an eye out for what’s not there, anything missing that you’d usually expect.”
The story
of the murder broke ten minutes into the car journey. Social media users from the area had posted images of the white tent, asking if anybody knew what had happened. Half an hour later, one user proved to be the ignition and stirred the crowd up into a frenzy. The cousin of an officer told them it was John Fitzgerald. The absence of any acknowledgement by the mainstream media or why there was such a large police presence fanned the flames. His name began trending. The newspapers and mainstream voices remained silent. Foreign press, not gagged in the same way as the UK press, posted stories acknowledging the rumours and the sketchy details. What really caused the situation to stir was the announcement that at nine the Prime Minister would make a statement.
“What do you think of Ethan?” Juliet questioned as they drove past busying streets. It was approaching seven in the morning and more people were emerging for their commutes to work.
“A rising star, they’ve given the red ball to someone they want to see handle it well,” Tom replied. “He was the SIO in the Patrick Goddard murder case. No forensics, no obvious suspects. He conducted one hell of an interview that eventually led to a full confession.”
“Good, then?”
“Someone who will get this case solved fast.”
The drive to John’s home only took ten minutes: a penthouse suite on the forty-eighth and forty-ninth floor. As the car approached the change in scenery became obvious. Gone were the tightly congested flats near the crime scene. These apartments were at the complete other end of the scale, a starkly contrasting world.
As the car pulled up to the entrance, police officers were already stationed at the door, checking the identification documents of those entering. With rumours already beginning to circulate, it wouldn’t take long for reporters or snoopers to rock up to John’s place of residence to get some extra gossip.
A man just over thirty greeted the pair. “Toby Jones,” a voice stated with an outstretched hand. “I’m the hospitality manager for the Invictus Building.” Wearing a three-piece suit, smart watch and with a subtle hint of an expensive aftershave, the way Toby presented himself gave the impression of utmost professionalism. When dealing with millionaires, bankers and the entitled, the idea the ‘customer is always right’ went a step further.
“Tom Harper, and this is Juliet Reynolds. We’re hoping to speak briefly with a few of the staff and neighbours.”
Toby offered a tight smile, a false shield to protect himself from the wrath of the rich and powerful who could get him fired with one phone call.
“I can make the introductions,” Toby assured them as he led them inside past the police officers. “We have an in-house team available to residents around the clock. Anybody you wish to speak to is available.”
High-beamed ceilings, a significant water feature and trees greeted Juliet and Tom in the Invictus lobby. As Toby led them inside, he gave them the rundown of all the things a resident could expect living in the building. Garden sanctuaries throughout, an environment designed to make the best use of space and light. A residents’ private cinema, swimming pool, rooftop observatory and sky lounge with dining facilities. At the heart of Canary Wharf, the building had views over the dock and a resident could happily spend days without venturing outside of its doors.
“A private sky garden?” Tom questioned aloud, confused.
“It’s a simple difference, but a game changer: Invictus’s apartments do not just have balconies but fully fledged private gardens. The spacious exteriors mean the benefit of an expansive outdoor area, rare in such a central setting, is granted to each apartment. Not only that, the floor-to-ceiling windows create an enhanced sense of space even when you are inside,” Toby enthused. “With the doors open, the private garden becomes an extension of the residence. The boundary between home and garden, comfort and discovery, can be exactly what you want it to be.”
“You’re not selling me the place, kid,” Tom replied laughing and Toby became visibly dampened. Prick was the word Juliet could read at the forefront of Toby’s mind, but she kept that knowledge to herself. The company rhetoric rehearsed down to a sentence, there’d be no open and honest conversations with any of the staff. Luckily Juliet didn’t need one. As they approached the lift to the apartment, Toby fished out a key. Juliet made a mental note that to get access to John’s top-floor apartment, you needed one.
“How often would John ever get the lift?”
“Rarely,” Toby admitted. “It being the penthouse suite, he usually just flew in from above. He still received post and occasionally had guests though, so came up and down those days.”
“Did he have guests often?”
Toby racked his brains, looking for the answer Juliet wanted to hear, and came up empty. The thoughts that stirred in his brain were that, despite John living there for four years, he’d only seen the man twice. That felt like the wrong answer though, and he kept it vague. “Here and there.”
“Are you able to get us electricity and meter readings?”
Toby nodded and Juliet smiled and got in the lift, pressing the topmost button to the forty-eighth floor.
“Why the metre readings?” Tom quizzed once they were alone.
“I want to get a sense of how often he was here,” Juliet replied. “Even a superhero uses electricity.”
As the doors opened and Juliet walked into the flat, the sense of space she’d found in the lobby continued. Every room possessed a wall of glass, meaning the backdrop in every corner of the property was a skyline view of London stretching to the horizon. From bed you’d be able to see The Shard, The ‘Walkie-Talkie’ and the Thames with nothing blocking the view. Unable to help it, Juliet pictured herself waking up in the mornings, having coffee and breakfast out in the private garden. The property was another world.
Passing officers searching the place, Tom and Juliet moved from room to room steering clear of them. The bedroom was their first stop, a king-sized bed surrounded by two glass walls. The bathroom similarly made use of the light, which bounced off the marble walls and white surfaces. The feel of the place was very similar to a top-end hotel, not a speck of dirt anywhere, even the windows, and it was hard to picture someone living there full time.
“It doesn’t look lived in,” Juliet remarked as they left the bathroom.
“A place like this wouldn’t,” Tom replied, a level of bitterness in his voice. “If you can drop a few million pounds to live in a flat like this, having a cleaner multiple times a week, even daily, isn’t a stretch.”
“So where’s his toothbrush?”
The question prompted a shared glance between Juliet and Tom; he turned a head back to look at the sink and while there were plenty of expensive toiletries, a toothbrush was nowhere in sight.
Into the kitchen, Juliet moved to prove her point further. Opening the fridge, she revealed it being completely bare.
“Not out the ordinary for a superhero that busy to not find time to do a food shop. Did he even need to eat?” Tom commented.
“He had to eat,” Juliet scorned. “The point I was making was that if you have a cleaner, and live in a place like this, it’s not beyond reason he’d pay to have food delivered and packed away for him. I don’t see any longer-lasting products either. Even a superhero would have had a preferred condiment.”
“Ketchup?” Tom queried.
“From the North East? I reckon a brown sauce kind of man,” Juliet replied.
“Maybe he mostly ate out?”
“For every meal? If so, where?”
“What is it you’re saying, Juliet?”
“I’m not saying a thing,” Juliet replied. “Ethan asked us to keep an eye out for anything missing that you’d usually expect. We’re in his home. Supposedly the one place on this entire planet where John Fitzgerald could rest his head or come for a break. I’m saying that this doesn’t look much like a home, even for somebody who uses it fleetingly. No photos on the wall, no books, no personal bits and bobs. It feels like a showhome.”
“Okay, so where t
o next?” Tom enquired. “Want to speak to a few of his neighbours?”
“The neighbours won’t have seen him. He flew in from the sky most of the time. Didn’t Toby mention a sky lounge with private dining facilities?”
“He did.”
“Should we get him to show us?”
“I can’t stand hearing any more of the company lines,” Tom replied. “I’m sure we can find it ourselves.”
Leaving Ethan’s officers to photograph and look for anything of interest, Juliet and Tom headed out of the flat. The route to the sky lounge from the flat proved a bit of an adventure, down a floor in the lift, along a corridor and up a staircase. When they reached it, the place felt immediately like a collector’s den. On every table, in most of the space, were objects like globes, binoculars, old books and antiques. In another environment Juliet would have them pinned as tacky imitations, but it was clear from the cost of the Invictus Building they’d be very much real.
There were groups of people dotted around, some reading the morning papers, some having an early breakfast. A member of staff’s eyes flicked up from behind the bar and immediately glanced away. The contrast between the friendly, fake smiles Juliet had encountered so far grabbed her interest. Cautious in her style, Juliet chose not to make an approach right away, leading Tom on a long meander as they attempted to appear interested in their surroundings. The barmaid had something in her locker, all right. Her eyes continually flicked in their direction with a single sentence repeating in her mind: Give nothing away.
Finally, Juliet led the approach and without the need of her ability to mind-read, watched the body language of the barmaid tighten.
“Hi, we’re hoping to speak to a few members of staff for a moment. What can I call you?”
“Elspeth.”
“I’m Juliet,” she said, taking a seat at the bar. “Have you worked here long?”
“Over a year,” the barmaid smiled.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I have questions about John Fitzgerald?”