by A P Bateman
The door opened with the usual creek and resistance. This was Cornwall, so the weather was damp for almost half of the year and damper for the rest. He didn’t plane the door because for the eight weeks it dried in the summer, the gap would be large enough to post letters through. Or parcels. He hit the lights, flicked on the combi-boiler in the cupboard under the stairs and dropped the overnight bag onto the slate floor in the hallway. The place smelled damp and dormant, but the heating would soon take that away.
As usual, there was a pang of emptiness as he walked through to the kitchen. Jane had designed and furnished and decorated. It still had her stamp on it. Caroline had respectfully started to leave her mark on the property, with little knick-knacks and ornaments, a few scatter cushions and lifestyle magazines on the coffee table. And candles. Always candles. King would often joke that she needed to embrace electricity. But it was all about the various aromas, apparently.
There was always a feeling of being torn between the material things, the two defining chapters of his life, but King was not big on possessions and if he couldn’t carry it on his back, he knew he didn’t really need it.
He made his way back out into the hallway and took the bag upstairs to the master bedroom, dumped it on the bed and considered whether he had time to take a quick shower. He got his answer when he saw the headlights sweep across the window. The vehicle emerged from the rutted lane and the headlights swept across the cottage as the car parked next to his hire car and the lights switched off.
He knew he had made an error in judgement.
The end of a conversation, the offer, the rebuff, the alternative, the acceptance.
Twenty seconds of conversation that he now needed to move past, control and not allow to escalate. He took the stairs quickly, glanced into the hall mirror as he walked towards the front door. He was a rugged man, fit and handsome in an untidy, naturally casual way. But he only saw a man and had no idea whether he appealed to people. He thought his grey-blue eyes looked cold, a little cruel. People often thought he was angry when in truth, he was just looking at them. Caroline would often joke that his lack of pride in his appearance was what made him so appealing. He remembered his wife had said something similar. Like Indiana Jones towards the end of an adventure. Beaten up, but still going. Still worth betting on.
He opened the door and smiled at Amanda Cunningham. She had changed, put on a figure hugging dress. It was low and high. Low cut on the cleavage and high up the leg. Caroline always insisted that she would only ever do one, but not both. Flesh both top and bottom was an indication of desperation and sent out signals. King felt a pang of anguish. He had been naïve. Old enough to know better, young enough to still feel schoolboy excitement.
“Are you going to let me in?” she asked. She wore red lipstick and her hair was down, waves running through it. It looked salon fresh. Smelled like a salon too.
“Sorry,” he said, stepping backwards and holding the door open. Stupidly he had stepped the wrong way and when she stepped in, she was forced to duck under his arm and brushed across his chest. She smelled of subtle perfume, hints of jasmine. She smiled again, handed him a bottle of wine. “Thanks,” he said, taking it from her.
“What are we having?”
“Steak,” he replied. He was regretting his offer. He had wanted to talk further, maybe over a drink. In truth, he had just needed a cup of tea after seeing all the death. He had made a point, a long time ago, of not drinking alcohol when his mood was down. Many years later he realised his mood was seldom up. His work had made for a flatline in emotion. “Is that okay?”
“Delicious,” Amanda smiled. “I’ll get some glasses, red okay?”
King wasn’t planning on drinking more than a glass. He nodded and opened the patio doors. Outside was a barbecue he had paid too much for and he lifted the lid and looked at the bag of charcoal underneath. He had left a box of matches on top. It may have been a little OCD, but he just liked to be prepared. He opened the box, struck a match and lit the corner of the bag. The fuel soaked paper caught quickly, and flames licked high in the air.
Amanda joined him with two glasses of red and brushed against his shoulder. She shivered. “Rather chilly for a barbecue,” she said. She sipped from the oversized glass. Caroline had picked them out at a local art shop.
“Well, I’m only here for one night, two at the most, and it saves on dishes. Besides, it’s the best way to cook steak,” he replied. “Thanks for coming,” he added, a little offhandedly. “I wanted to talk about your findings, see what you have planned for tomorrow. It’s not the sort of talk for a hotel lobby.”
“Quite right,” she said. “You live here? I’m confused. I thought you came down from London?”
“I own it, used to live here with my wife,” he said.
“And, where is she?”
“She died,” he said, though not casually enough to make her feel uncomfortable. “Five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
King shrugged. “Don’t be. It’s all part of life, isn’t it? I come down here a few times a year,” he said, then added, “With my fiancé.”
“Congratulations,” she said and sipped more wine. “I’m in a relationship. Have been since university. Or at least on and off. We’re very much on now, have been for some time.” She held out her ring finger for inspection. It was quite a rock. “We’re getting married next year. Just as soon as his divorce is finalised,” she smiled. “It’s complicated…”
Complicated or not, King relaxed a little. Mutual talk of their partners put a barrier out there. A condition. They wouldn’t cross the line if they talked about the significant other in their lives.
Would they?
“What does he do?”
She laughed. “Jesus, relax, will you?”
“What?”
“I’m not going to jump on you, Mister King! You’re worried that you invited me here now. Well, don’t be. No one will ever know. It will be our little secret…” She sipped more of the wine and walked back into the lounge. She picked up the bottle and poured another glass. “God, what a day!”
King followed her inside. “I know,” he said, seemingly relieved. “You must find it difficult to deal with, day in and day out.”
“We all die,” she said quietly. “It’s not the bodies, that’s merely an organic experience. A process. We die, our body starts to decompose. On a cellular level, it’s meat and fat and bone.”
King nodded. He’d spent much of his adult life analysing death, from the metaphysical to the biological. He had felt the need to justify and live with some of the things he had done. It hadn’t helped much.
“But it’s the abstract details,” she continued. “Had Mr and Mrs Jameson argued? Had they made love the night before, fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Cuddled all night? Had they realised what was about to happen, mouthed I love you before…” She drank more of the wine, half a glass in a gulp. “Liam Jameson. He would have been terrified. He would have wanted his mummy and daddy. He will never kiss a girl, drive a car, go to university…” She wiped a tear away from her cheek.
King looked at her. She was barely thirty. And she was burned out. He had seen it before. She was at the top of her field, but she was done. She didn’t know it yet, but her path led to addiction and failure. He watched her drain the glass. She still had failure to go, but it looked like the addiction was covered. He watched her pour another glass. The bottle was empty, and she drank the glass, the empty bottle still held in her other hand.
“How about those steaks?” she called out to him.
King dropped the two ribeye steaks on the grill and wiped his hands on a cloth. The steaks were thick and well marbled. The fat started to melt, and the flames licked at them through the bars. He twisted on some pepper from an oversized cruet, then he peeled back the lids on the two ready-made salads, and spooned them onto the plates. Caroline had designed and organised the outside kitchen area and they had enjoyed wonderful evenings sat
outside, warming themselves from the evening chill beside the barbeque, which King would load up with kindling and logs after they had eaten. They would watch the flames and talk into the early hours.
He felt ridiculous. What had possessed him to offer to cook dinner? And now the woman was getting drunk. He had suggested a cup of tea or coffee, she had felt like a drink, offered her hotel bar, but he had not wanted to talk anywhere too public. Snell’s death had been subject to a non-discloser, or Section D. Nothing would be reported in the press until the authorities had looked at the cause of death. King had suggested his place and before he knew it she had taken it as an invitation for dinner. Now, as he spooned out some of the freshly prepared potato salad next to the coleslaw and dropped a few rocket leaves onto the plate, he knew he had crossed a line in his relationship. He knew he was not going to do anything with Amanda Cunningham, but he wouldn’t exactly be telling Caroline about this scenario either. That was enough to tell him he’d been an idiot in letting it get this far.
The steaks were ready for turning and he flipped them, huge flames engulfing the meat and lighting up the area briefly. He tossed on some sea salt that was flecked with seaweed and three kinds of spice. He couldn’t remember what they were. It had been a purchase of Caroline’s at a local food market. The fact he was using it made him feel worse.
“Looking good!” Amanda said, sidling up to him. Again, her shoulder brushed his arm. He noticed she smelled good, not only the expensive perfume he recognised as Caroline’s favourite, but shampoo or conditioner with a hint of vanilla. She was drinking white wine now. King hadn’t seen her carrying anything other than a small handbag and the bottle of red. He knew there were a few bottles in the kitchen, but wine wasn’t his thing. He sipped his red, more for a distraction than to slake a thirst, and took the steaks off the grill to rest on a plate. “I’m starving,” she said, slurring her words a little. The wine was evaporating fast.
King served up the steaks. He felt awkward about eating in Caroline’s outside dining area and made a move towards the lounge. He carried both plates. Amanda followed. Her glass was empty. She had put the bottle on the coffee table and King noticed it was half-empty.
“I’ll get us some cutlery,” she said and walked out to the kitchen. There was a sway to her hips that hadn’t been there before, but there was a lot of sway everywhere else that hadn’t been there before either. She came back with the knives and forks and perched herself down on the edge of the leather sofa. “This looks wonderful,” she said, and started to fork at the coleslaw.
“So, what got you into pathology?” King ventured.
“Well, you’ve got to seriously fuck up to harm the patients!” she giggled. “What got you into your line of work?”
He shrugged. “A lifetime of poor decisions.”
“Don’t you like what you do?”
“I suppose so,” he said. “My tasks have changed a bit over the past year or so. It’s been workable.”
“Do you work with your partner. Your fiancé,” she said, a little harsh emphasis on the word.
“Sometimes. We’re in the same department.”
“So, where is she?”
“She’s on something else.”
“Really? Your department doesn’t deem this important enough for a bigger team?”
King shrugged. “I don’t make the decisions.” He concentrated on his steak and picked at the salad. He watched her drain her glass. The elephant in the room was how the hell she was going to get back to her hotel in Truro. She’d put away too much to drive, and he had a sinking feeling she was going to suggest staying the night. He would suggest the spare room, but he could see matters getting messy. “Are you going to perform the autopsy tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “It’s pretty cut and dry,” she said. “A bullet the size of your index finger went straight through the man’s head.”
“Even so…”
“Cause of death is massive head trauma, a projectile penetrating the frontal lobe and taking the brain stem, the Medulla Oblongata, with it and exiting the cranial cavity. Pretty cut and dry, Mister King.”
King said nothing. When women called him Mister King in that same tone, they were either interested in him but not strictly available, like placing a barrier between them, yet willing him to cross it. Either that, or he was in trouble with payroll. “Even so…” he started.
“Powder scorch marks on the curtain at the Jameson house, three dead bodies…” she interrupted again. “Even a dead dog,” she added flippantly. Amanda ate some potato salad and sat back in the sofa. Her glass was empty, and she fingered the rim absentmindedly. “And the target was shot through the head.”
“Murder victim,” King said.
“What?”
“He was a murder victim. Assassins refer to the target. Home Office pathologists generally say murder victim.”
She looked at him, her eyes burning into him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just an observation.”
“Well, Mister CSI, you didn’t seem to be in the know earlier today.”
King shook his head. “I’m not a cop. But I know my way around a murder.”
“Meaning?”
“I just don’t take things at face value, that’s all.”
“So, there’s more to it than a simple gunshot?” She shook her head, looked around for the wine bottle. It was empty. King still had half a glass of red. She got off the sofa, wobbled unsteadily, checked herself and smoothed down the dress, which had ridden high up her shapely legs. She picked up her handbag, held it close to her. “Where’s the lavatory?” she asked curtly.
“Upstairs, on the left,” King replied.
He watched her walk unsteadily up the open wooden staircase, then looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. It wasn’t the night he had planned. He wasn’t sure what he had planned, but it certainly wasn’t this. He rested his head back against the sofa and thought what a mess he was in. First, the seemingly impossible task of investigating Snell’s death, and the whereabouts of the people behind Anarchy to Recreate Society. GCHQ had quickly traced the computers used, the separate IP addresses and tracked them to random accounts set up in India. Posts had been done via smartphones using data roaming and were unable to trace the cash bought phones as they were pay as you go, and not contracted.
Now this. A drunken, seemingly provocative young woman in his house. There was something about her personality, her mood. She had the demeanour of someone who would take down everybody around her, if it came to it. If not for her own ends, then merely for her own entertainment. He had known women like her before. They had been brief affairs, nothing more. Women King had left behind after assignments. No forwarding address, no number.
Amanda reappeared at the top of the stairs and walked down slowly. She seemed a little more composed, but her expression wasn’t as soft as it had been up until his comment. He had touched on a nerve. “So, CSI. What’s the big conspiracy? Why is a bullet not enough for you?”
“I never said it wasn’t,” King replied neutrally. “I was sent down here by someone who had met with the Prime Minister just twenty minutes after receiving the news that Sir Ian Snell had been killed. I was half an hour away from London at the time. I got into town, met with my boss in my department and was on a plane to Newquay airport within the hour. You arrived at the house an hour before I did. Now that tells me that forensic and pathology tests were important enough to this incident not to draw quick conclusions. I think every contingency needs to be looked at. It’s called processing steps.”
“I know what it’s called!” She slinked out into the kitchen and returned with another bottle of Caroline’s Australian chardonnay. It wasn’t cheap, but it was cheap enough for a screw cap and she had it undone, dropped the cap onto the table as she poured into her glass, the wine washing up the sides of the glass and spilling onto the coffee table. “I know my job, Mister King. Mister CSI…” she smirked.
“How did you ge
t down so quickly?”
“By helicopter,” she said. “Maybe Home Office pathologists rate more highly than inexperienced investigators? I had a government Sikorsky. What were you in, Ryanair?”
King sighed. There was too much tension between them, albeit loaded on her side, to make headway with the investigation, or anything else. Even talking civilly, or so it would seem. “Look,” he ventured. “It’s getting late. Or late enough for another long day tomorrow. I’ll make you up a bed and we can talk some more in the morning.”
She sat down heavily on the sofa and downed the glass. “Fine,” she said, curtly.
King went upstairs and opened the door to the spare room. The bed was unmade. The covers, sheets and pillow cases were all in a trunk at the foot of the bed. It was another of Caroline’s touches; she had found the trunk in an antique shop in Falmouth. The shop had been having a closing down sale, and she had bought quite a few pieces.
He wasn’t an expert with duvets, but he got the basics sorted and had started to shake it out when he heard the vehicle. He peered out of the window and saw Amanda’s hire car tearing up the lane. He spun around and ran out across the landing and down the stairs. He snatched the keys off the hall table and ran out into the night. He couldn’t let her drive with the amount of alcohol she had consumed. The roads were narrow, and she risked hitting another car, perhaps even injuring or killing innocent people. But he also realised that if he chased after her, she would drive even more erratically. She certainly wouldn’t pull over and calmly stop, agree that she had a touch too much to drink and was being ridiculous.
King drove the Ford down the lane, turned right and made his way down the tree lined road. It was a single lane with no white markings. The trees had met overhead, their branches entwining, and it gave the effect of driving through a tunnel. He hung a right and after another mile, turned right again onto the main Truro to Falmouth road.
Truro was around six miles away and he approached sixty miles per hour until he crossed over a roundabout and accelerated up a steep stretch of dual carriageway. There was no other traffic and he got the Ford up to eighty, slowed for the next roundabout and kept the car at fifty for the next winding stretch of road into the city of Truro, Cornwall’s only city and capital of the duchy.