The House on Downshire Hill

by Guy Fraser-Sampson

  Three steps lead up to a small porch area, where she stood as she rang the bell. Actually, ‘rang’ may not have been quite the right word for, listen hard as she might, she was unable to hear any bells sounding within the house. Noticing that there was an old knocker in the middle of the door, she gave it two or three peremptory raps.

  She waited a minute or two and, this having elicited no response, repeated the process. After a while, she did so once again. Just as she was turning to leave, the front door of the neighbouring house opened and a middle-aged woman came hesitantly outside. Desai reached into her shoulder bag for her warrant card, and showed it to the new arrival.

  “Police. Can you tell me anything about the man who lives here, please?”

  “His name is Taylor, but I haven’t seen anything of him for some weeks. Are you from the police station at the top of the road? It was me who came in and saw the Sergeant at the desk there. I’m Helen Barnes.”

  “Ah yes, of course. I recognise the name. Your report was passed to me to follow up, which is what I’m trying to do, but I can’t get any answer. Is there anyone in there do you think?”

  “Beats me, dear. I haven’t been able to get any answer either. Come inside if you like. I was just going to put the kettle on.”

  Had it been a man who had just called her ‘dear’ Priya would have been seriously upset, perhaps even to the extent of suggesting an impromptu demonstration of unarmed combat. The fact that it was a woman made it a little easier to accept, but only just.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “As long as it’s no trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  She stood aside as Desai came in and nodded for her to go through into the kitchen at the end. As she looked around the gleaming work surfaces and appliances she speculated that the kitchen and its installation may well have cost as much as somebody else’s one-bedroom apartment.

  “Do sit down,” Helen Barnes urged her. “Tea or coffee?”

  “I’ll have coffee if it’s going, thank you very much.”

  She perched on a stool which would not have been out of place in a Mayfair cocktail bar and watched with interest while the woman took coffee beans from a sealed container in a fridge whose doors seemed to run uninterrupted from floor-to-ceiling. These were introduced into a grinder, which ran briefly but noisily, and finally to a silver coffee machine festooned with knobs, tubes, and gauges.

  “Would you like milk with it?”

  “No, I’m fine with black, thank you.”

  It seemed that the machine was largely automatic in its functioning, for Mrs Barnes now simply selected a position on a dial, pressed a button, and stood waiting while a small quantity of fragrant black coffee collected in the small coffee cup which she had placed under the outlet, forming a perfect crema. She passed it to Desai, who raised it to her nose and sniffed appreciatively.

  “What an amazing machine.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? It’s one of my husband’s toys, actually. One of the toys of my husband, I should say. I only have the one, naturally – husband, I mean.”

  She smiled, and Desai began to warm to her.

  “So what can you tell me about next door?”

  “Well, we’ve only lived here for about two years. When we moved in I went and knocked on the door, you know – the way you do with new neighbours. He seemed a little suspicious when he answered the door, and even after I explained what I was doing there he seemed reluctant to let me in. I found out later, from people at the church across the road, that he is a real recluse. Hates visitors, and all that.”

  “But he let you in?”

  “Yes, just into a little front room off the hallway. It was quite an experience, I can tell you.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Well, everywhere, all over the floor, there were papers.”

  “You mean newspapers?”

  “Partly, yes, and I couldn’t help noticing that some of them must have been very old. They’d gone yellow, you know – the way old newspapers do. But there were other things as well, things that looked like journals or professional magazines, and even just loose sheets of paper with typewriting on them. And when I say they were all over the floor, I mean they were deep. It wasn’t just a few things scattered around, it was like wading through water halfway up to your knees. They told me later at the church that he’s highly eccentric. It certainly seemed that way to me, I can tell you.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “It seemed like a long time, but it was probably only 10 minutes or so. Certainly nobody seemed to want to make me feel welcome.”

  “Nobody? You mean he wasn’t on his own?”

  “No, there was this really strange man. Indian, I think he may have been. They seemed to be living there together, although on what sort of … you know, basis, I’m really not sure.”

  “How was he strange?”

  “Well, he just sat there and stared at me. He didn’t greet me, didn’t introduce himself, just came into the room, sat, and stared. I tried asking him a few questions but he just sat there quite impassively.”

  “Do you think he understood you? Did he speak English?”

  “No idea, but he must at least have understood it, don’t you think? I found out later that he’d been living there for at least the last year or so.”

  “Hm, yes that does sound very strange, doesn’t it? What about Mr Taylor? What did he have to say for himself ?”

  “Not very much, really. He was just answering my questions, not asking me anything himself. He did say that he had lived there for a long time.”

  “Can you remember anything specific at all?”

  “Yes, now you come to mention it, I can. I asked him if any of his family were living with him, and he reacted really strangely. It seemed an innocent enough question, but his reaction was almost as if I’d asked something shocking, something rude. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I think so. You struck a nerve, as it were.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Do you know anything about his family and what might have happened to them?”

  “Nothing directly. But you might speak to Jack. Oh, he’s the neighbour on the other side by the way. He’s retired and I think that he travels quite a lot so he’s not always there. He’s lived there a long time like Mr Taylor, so they go way back together, although they’re not very close. They hardly speak at all.”

  “Why’s that? Have they fallen out over something?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think it’s just Mr Taylor. He won’t let anyone get close to him. Jack’s fine with me. He told me that Conrad – that’s what he calls Mr Taylor – has been living at the house for as long as he can remember, but he very rarely goes out and almost never lets anybody in.”

  “Maybe I should see if I can have a word with him. What’s his full name?”

  “Jack Rowbotham. He used to be in property, I believe. I’m sure he said something about that.”

  Desai jotted some notes in her book and then looked up.

  “And what was it that worried you enough to approach the police? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, not really. It was just that I suddenly realised I hadn’t seen anybody – nobody at all – going in or out of the house for some weeks. Normally I would see at least the Indian chap every day or two. I think he used to walk down to the supermarket in Belsize Park to do their shopping. But I haven’t seen sight nor sound of anyone. I’ve even tried banging on the door a few times, like you just did, but there’s no sign of life at all. It’s just that sometimes you get a feeling, you know? A feeling that something’s not right.”

  “Did you speak to Mr Rowbotham about this at all?”

  “Yes, he came round with me the last time I tried knocking at the door. We tried peering through the letterbox, but all we could see was lots of papers. That’s when I said we should go to the police.”

  “And what did he think of that idea?�
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  “Not a lot, actually. I think in his own quiet way he’s a bit of a recluse as well. Said he didn’t want to get involved. I tried to persuade him, of course. I said ‘imagine if that poor old man is lying sick or injured somewhere’, that sort of thing.”

  “But he wasn’t concerned?”

  “Not really, no. Oh, you know what men are like. They don’t like making a fuss about anything, do they? So then I decided to go to the police anyway myself – and here you are.”

  “And here I am, as you say. Well now, I’m not really sure where we go from here. I think I need to go back to the police station and have a chat with my guvnor.”

  “That’s what you call your boss, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, it’s police slang. It was he who suggested I call, actually.”

  “Isn’t there some procedure as to what happens next?”

  “Not really, no. If it was a child or a vulnerable adult who’d been reported missing then we’d have a major manhunt mounted within an hour or two, but with adults it’s different. So many go missing all the time, you see, and most of them show up again sooner or later. If we investigated every report we wouldn’t have any officers left to do anything else.”

  “But surely it’s usually something like a wife running away from a husband, or vice versa, or a teenager running away from home, something like that?”

  “Usually, yes. And like I say, they either show up again or they are deliberately concealing their whereabouts for reasons which are usually nothing to do with the police.”

  “But this isn’t like that is it?” Helen Barnes persisted. “I’ve really been wracking my brains as to why that poor old man might have just gone missing, but I really can’t think of anything. I’m sure something is wrong. Just a feeling, I know, but a very strong one.”

  “Well,” Desai said as she put her notebook back in her shoulder bag, “I’ll have a chat with Mr Collison straightaway. It’s his decision at the end of the day.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “That does sound rather strange, I must admit,” Collison said later as Desai sat in front of his desk in what felt like a very large office for just one person; Hampstead police station was still officially slated for closure and the room had originally accommodated four detectives.

  He stood up and gazed out of the window while he marshalled his thoughts. As seemed to be the case pretty much whenever he looked out of the window, an ambulance went past with its lights and siren noisily active – what the police called ‘blues and twos’– on its way down the road to the Royal Free Hospital.

  “Have you checked public records: you know, the electoral register, that sort of thing?” he asked as he turned around.

  “Yes, guv. There’s a record of Conrad Taylor living at the house right enough, but nobody else, so this Indian guy, whoever he may be, is a bit of a puzzle.”

  “What about family?”

  “I had to go and rummage around in the archives for that. Would you believe it’s still on microfiche? But anyway, there’s been no record of anyone except Taylor for about the last 20 years. Before that a family lived there, name of Schneider. Two adults and two children, a girl and a boy. I cross checked with the land registry, and their records match. There’s a change of owner logged around the same time.”

  Collison thought deeply for a moment. Whatever decision he made might have serious implications. On the one hand, launching an investigation might just lead to the discovery of a crime, perhaps even homicide. On the other hand, this could tie up significant police resources on what might ultimately turn out to have been a wild goose chase.

  “What’s your recommendation, Priya? You must have come to some views.”

  “I don’t like it, guv. Mrs Barnes seemed very genuine and very concerned. There’s something not right about this.”

  “Copper’s nose?”

  “If you like, yes. But it would be awful, wouldn’t it, if he was lying in there dead and nobody did anything about it?”

  “Yes, you’re right of course, but I have to look at the wider picture. We could get a new major homicide coming through the door any day, and I need to make sure that we have people available to handle it when it does.”

  There was a pause. Priya looked obstinate and a little angry, but then she often looked obstinate and a little angry. Collison sighed.

  “Tell you what, Priya. Before we make a final decision one way or the other what if you can see that other neighbour, let me see… Jack Rowbotham it says here in your note. It’s just possible he might know more than he’s let on to Helen Barnes.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we? Thank you anyway, Priya. Good work.”

  •

  A few doors away along the corridor Metcalfe was in conversation with Willis.

  “You getting bored yet?” he asked, glancing aimlessly at the various administrative emails which were all that filled his inbox.

  “Yes, I don’t mind admitting that I am. Curious, isn’t it? When you’re on an investigation you sometimes think it will never come to an end and then suddenly it does, and you’re left with nothing to do. So you end up wishing the next investigation would land on your desk right away. Awful really, I suppose. After all, somebody has to wind up dead in order for us to have something new to do, so I suppose in a sense I’m wishing somebody dead.”

  “I guess so,” he replied as he repeatedly hit ‘delete’.

  “How are plans for the wedding coming along? I haven’t heard you and Lisa discussing it very much. Where is she by the way? I thought she was supposed to have moved in – officially, I mean.”

  He and Willis shared a large house in Frognal with her partner, Peter Collins. Metcalfe and his girlfriend, Lisa Atkins, had recently become engaged and she had become something of a fixture at the house.

  “Oh she’s away staying with her mother while she has some more tests done. Just routine, I think.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Willis said fervently.

  Lisa had been attacked in the course of a previous investigation, which was how she and Metcalfe had met. She had been left in a coma for a considerable time with a fractured skull which also seemed to have resulted in the onset of epilepsy. The doctors were still trying to discover exactly what might be the consequences of her injuries.

  “No second thoughts then?”

  “Strange, Collison just asked me the same thing. No, no second thoughts at all. Lisa and I are very happy together. To tell you the truth, I still can’t quite believe that I could get so lucky twice. Well, you know what I mean …”

  “I know.”

  She nodded awkwardly. The two of them had for a while been a publicly acknowledged couple and there were many of their colleagues who remained curious about precisely how that relationship had come to an end. Not acrimoniously, obviously, since there remained an easy intimacy between them.

  “Peter was wondering if there was anything he might do to help.”

  “Financially, do you mean?”

  “Yes, I think so. He’s too embarrassed to ask you himself. He wasn’t sure what Lisa’s mother’s circumstances might be.”

  “To be honest, neither am I. But it’s fine, really. We’re not planning a big wedding at all. The four of us, the guvnor and his wife, Lisa’s mum. That’s about it. Maybe just sign the book at the registry office and then have lunch somewhere.”

  “Sounds good. Sensible actually. After all, Lisa gets tired quite quickly at the moment, doesn’t she? So a big wedding might be a bit of a strain for her.”

  “Yes, I thought that too.”

  He closed down his email and looked at his watch.

  “This is bad,” he said. “Very bored, but too early to go home.”

  “I know. I was thinking of going out to do some shopping but I can’t really summon up any enthusiasm even for that.”

  “Hm. By the way, have you seen the guvnor today?”

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nbsp; “Yes why?”

  “Oh, is just something I heard in the canteen earlier. It seems that rumour has resurfaced about him being posted to the Branch. Did he mention anything about it to you?”

  “Not really, no.”

  It felt wrong to be lying to him, even in a good cause, and she felt herself flush slightly.

  “Bob, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Something I was chatting about with Peter, actually, and he felt the same.”

  “That sounds serious. What is it?”

  “Well, we were both wondering if you’d ever thought about writing a paper? You know, like the guvnor did for the ACC about reorganising the homicide teams.”

  “Good God, no. Why should I want to do something like that? Apart from anything else, do you have any idea how much time it took him? He was moaning about it to me for months.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all about that, but I do wish you’d think about it anyway. They say the Commissioner really likes the intellectual approach, so it might do wonders for your career.”

  “What’s wrong with my career? Have you heard something?”

  She hesitated. This was more difficult than she had imagined. Metcalfe had recently only narrowly avoided a disciplinary enquiry, and had been passed over for promotion as a result. It was only natural that he should feel touchy on the subject, she reflected.

  “No, nothing like that, don’t worry. But have you thought about what you’re going to do when you do get promoted to DCI? The next one after that is a big one, and it might really improve your prospects as a potential Superintendent if you had something like a paper under your belt. You know, something you could go around giving talks about. Peter said he’d be very happy to help you with it.”

  “What on earth would I write about? I’m no academic, you know that. I didn’t go to university like you.”

  She was starting to get cramp in one of her legs, so she stood up and performed a few little pirouettes on the old parquet floor.

  “Of course, you had dancing lessons, didn’t you?” Metcalfe observed. “It shows.”