by stewartgiles
EIGHT
BODY BAG
Friday 25 December 2008
“I’ve got to warn you,” DS Thompson said as Smith got out of his car, “it’s a bit of a mess in there; the mothers dead, the daughter is pretty badly banged up and the father is just sitting in the corner of the room not making any sense at all.”
Smith walked straight past him, took a deep breath and opened the front door. His first impression when he went inside was that the scene did not seem real. There was blood on the walls, a lot of blood. Smith thought that if Picasso and Dali were to have a competition to see who could come up with the most macabre art, this would be the winner. There was a body bag on the floor. The paramedics had just zipped it up and were about to carry it out to the ambulance. Must be the mother, Smith thought. More paramedics were attending to a smaller figure on the other side of the room. The child could not have been more than eight years old. Smith walked over. She had bruises on her face and neck and her hair was matted with blood. One of her arms stuck out at an unnatural angle and an IV drip was attached to the other arm.
In the corner of the room sat two men. One of them was covered in blood but there were no real signs of injury. He rocked back and forth on his haunches. He had the look of a wild animal in his eyes; a wild animal that needed to be put out of its misery. The other man was obviously trying to calm him down.
“Not a pretty sight,” DS Thompson interrupted Smith’s thoughts.
“Who are they?” Smith asked.
“The Willow family,” Thompson replied, “sounds like a reality TV family doesn’t it?”
“No it doesn’t Thompson. Names?”
“The mother is Wendy, Pennys the daughter and that quivering piece of jelly in the corner over there is the father, Martin. Looks like he killed his wife and just about did in his daughter too.”
Smith looked him in the eye.
“I can see why you’ve been a DS for fifteen years,” he said, “Martin Willow. He’s a lecturer at the University.”
“How do you know that?” Thompson asked.
“Try to keep up Thompson. The dead student on Hull Road. Found this morning. She was their babysitter. Who’s the other guy?”
“Frank Paxton,” Thompson said, “friend of theirs and I know nothing about a dead girl on Hull Road.”
“Has anybody spoken to him? The father, I mean.”
“Not much point,” Thompson said, “he seems to have retreated into his own world and he’s not coming out any time soon. He keeps mumbling Penny, Penny.”
Wendy Willow was being taken out the door on a stretcher. Martin Willow did not even look over.
Smith walked over to him and crouched down.
“Mr Willow,” he began, “do you know what happened here?”
There was no response. Martin Willow continued to rock back and forth. Smith found the look in his eyes quite disturbing.
“Excuse me,” Smith said to the other man, “my name is Detective Sergeant Jason Smith. Are you the man who found them?”
“Frank Paxton,” the man answered, “yes, I came here about seven this evening. Penny, Martin’s daughter left a book at our house last night. I knew she would want it back; she only had a few pages left to read.”
“I know this is unpleasant Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “but could you tell us exactly how you found the place when you walked in.”
“How I found the place?”
“Yes, our friends in the paramedics do a bloody good job but their main priority is to save lives, not preserve crime scenes. What did the place look like when you walked in? First impressions.”
Smith took out his note book.
“I parked the car outside,” Paxton said.
“Were the lights on or off?” Smith asked.
“They were on. As they are now. All of them; the upstairs ones too. Martin and Wendy weren’t short of a few bob; they didn’t exactly worry about the electricity bill.”
“What then Mr Paxton?” Smith urged.
“I knocked on the front door and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again but still nothing.”
“Then what?”
“I took out my phone and dialled Martin’s number. He always had his phone nearby; he takes calls at all hours from his students. That’s why he’s so popular I suppose. Anyway, I heard the phone ringing inside the house. He has this cheesy 80’s ring tone. When I heard the phone, I tried the door handle. The door was open. That’s when I found…” Frank Paxton’s lower lip started to quiver.
“That’s when I found this.” He gestured with his hands to show the whole room.
“Nearly finished,” Smith assured him.
“It took me a moment to take it all in. I saw Wendy lying on the floor. There was blood everywhere. I was still holding the book but I dropped it when I saw Penny on the other side of the room.”
He was about to say something further but hesitated.
“Go on,” Smith said.
“That’s when I heard the noise.”
“What sort of noise?”
“At first I thought it was a wild animal and I became scared. I thought maybe a lion or a tiger had escaped and was still here. I thought that Wendy and Penny had been attacked by an animal. There was a low growling noise. That’s when I saw Martin in the corner, as he is now; rocking backwards and forwards. He had a look in his eyes. It was like he was.”
Paxton hesitated again.
“Like he was what Mr Paxton?”
“Like he wasn’t Martin anymore; he was almost feral.”
Smith heard sirens outside. A second ambulance had arrived to take the daughter away.
“Where’s the book?” he asked.
“Where I dropped it,” Paxton replied.
He pointed to a brightly coloured paperback on the carpet. Smith put on a pair of rubber gloves and picked the book up.
“The Folk of the Faraway Tree,” Smith said, “I remember it well. Thank you Mr Paxton. That will be all for now. We’ll need to ask you a few more questions but that can wait.”
“I understand,” Paxton said.
He handed Smith his business card.
“We must find out what happened here,” he added.
Smith took the card. It read ‘Frank Paxton. Chartered Accountant’ Smith thought for a moment. Chartered Accountant. Methodical, thorough. Paxton seemed a bit too calm in this situation.
“Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “One more thing. How did you know that Penny only had a few more pages to read?”
Paxton’s face reddened.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“You said earlier that you brought the book back because Penny only had a few more pages to read. How did you know? I don’t see a book marker in the book.”
“Oh,” Paxton’s face reddened further, “I just thought she must have nearly finished; she was reading for most of the night at our place.”
“Thank you Mr Paxton. We will be in touch.”
Martin Willow was being wheeled out on a stretcher. He was strapped down and the paramedics had sedated him.
“Where are you taking him?” Smith asked.
“Same place as his wife and daughter,” the paramedic replied, “he needs to be checked over.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“He’ll be at the hospital but I doubt he’ll be saying much for a while. I’ve never seen such a reaction to shock.”
“Shock?” Smith said.
“He’s in deep shock. His body has shut down for a while to adapt. If you don’t mind, I have to go.”
Smith was left in the house with DS Thompson.
“What do you think happened here Thompson?” Smith asked.
He was not expecting anything much from Thompson.
“Simple case,” Thompson said, “Husband gets drunk and kills his wife and daughter. I could smell booze on him.”
Smith was not disappointed.
“First thing Thompson,” Smith was becoming angry, “the daughter is not dead. Secondly, and I want you to pay particular attention to this one ok? We don’t yet know how the mother and daughter were attacked do we? Did you find the murder weapon?”
“No, but...”
“Listen Thompson, let me put it in a way that your dumb Yorkshire brain may be able to understand: If you had killed your wife and almost killed your daughter; would you dispose of the murder weapon and then wait to be found with the door unlocked?”
“I don’t like the way you talk to me Smith. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a DS for a lot longer than you. Have a bit of respect or don’t they teach that down under?”
Smith wanted to punch him squarely in the face but he was tired. He quickly regained his composure.
“Thompson,” he said, “it’s late and we’re in for a very long day tomorrow. I assume you’ll be showing your face at the station?”
Thompson did not reply; he snorted and left.
Smith was left alone in the house. Something was not quite right. The babysitter is murdered and it is made to look like suicide. A note is left. ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’. The babysitter is pregnant. Now he had another murder, almost a double murder. He looked at his watch: 22.30.
“Shit,” he said out loud.
He went outside.
“Make sure the place is secure for the night,” he said to a uniformed officer, “forensics will only be here tomorrow.”
He took out his phone and pressed one of his speed dial numbers.
“Marge,” he said “I’m so sorry; I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I hope he’s been no trouble.”
He had left Theakston with Marge at the Hog’s Head. Why does this sort of thing have to happen when I should be enjoying my new puppy? He thought as he drove. He stopped at an all night garage where he bought a box of chocolates. It had started raining again when he parked outside the pub. There were no other cars in the car park. He ran in. Marge was by the fire with her knitting and a cup of tea. Theakston was curled up on a blanket by her feet.
“Thanks so much Marge,” he said, “the DI would spew if I took a dog to a crime scene.” He gave her the box of chocolates.
“You shouldn’t have dear,” she said, “this little bloke has been very good company. I had to throw a couple of drunks out earlier and Theakston wouldn’t leave my side until they had gone; he barked at them the whole time. Will you stay for a cup of tea and a few chocolates?”
“I’d love to Marge, but I’ve got a feeling I’m in for a very long day tomorrow. Thanks again.”
He picked Theakston up and put him inside his jacket.
“Any time for you.” She kissed him on the cheek.
Smith was exhausted. As he drove home, he tried to process what had happened in the past twenty four hours. He put the car radio on and turned it off immediately as some offensive Boom Boom Boom music blasted out of the speakers and Theakston became agitated. He pushed a tape into the machine. Joe Bonamassa was playing India Mountain Time live. Theakston became calmer. Smith decided that when this case was over, he would buy himself a Gibson Les Paul guitar; a Black Beauty Custom with the three pick-ups. He had a feeling that that would not be any time soon.