The House on Downshire Hill

by Guy Fraser-Sampson

  She did a little ballerina curtsy and then sat down again.

  “You remember that day we had lunch together? When we were just getting to know each other?”

  “You mean the lunch. Of course I remember. It was the guvnor’s idea, wasn’t it? We just finished all the papers on that murder case, the first one where he was SIO, and he sent us away to go to lunch somewhere.”

  They both fell silent and looked at each other. The relationship which had caused them both so much pain and ended unfortunately had begun over that lunch table. Come to think of it, the court case to which he was referring had not had a happy outcome either.

  “Yes, well, I didn’t mean to rake up any bad memories,” she said hesitantly, reading his mind. “What I was thinking of was that conversation we had about serial killers. It was your theory, wasn’t it? Do you remember? You were talking about the number of people who just go missing every year, adults who just go out one day to work, or a party, or a football match or something, and are never seen again.”

  “Yes, of course I remember, and we’ve discussed it again since haven’t we? But what about it? My point was simply that if you look at the numbers it seems very difficult to explain it in any other way. Particularly now in the information age, when it’s almost impossible to do anything at all without leaving some sort of electronic signature behind you. How would you get around in London without an Oyster card, for example? Or draw money out of an ATM without a cash card?”

  “But that’s it exactly, Bob, don’t you see? It would make a marvellous paper. And it wouldn’t take that long, either. The guvnor’s was different. That was on human resources and organisational behaviour and there’s a huge amount of stuff – articles, ‘literature’ they call it – that you need to read and review before you can even get started on your own work.”

  “So mine would be different … how exactly?”

  “Well, for a start, there’s almost no existing literature – I checked. Just some rather general stuff about serial killers and criminal psychopaths.”

  “Aren’t all psychopaths criminals – at least potentially?”

  “Oh, Bob, come on, you know better than that. How many times have you heard Peter talk about it? There are many social psychopaths out there, some of them very successful. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘a successful psychopath’?”

  “All serial killers are psychopaths, but not all psychopaths are serial killers, you mean?”

  “Yes, exactly. But let’s get back to this paper idea. I think it would really be quite simple. All you need to do is get hold of the numbers, make sure that they are all properly referenced, and then advance some alternative theories and choose your hypothesis.”

  “My hypothesis?”

  “Yes, it’s the theory which you choose to test in the paper. In this case you would advance your idea that the numbers cannot be explained except, at least in part, by there being a number of undetected serial killers active in the country at any one time. I haven’t really given it too much thought, but I suppose what you’d do is look at other possible explanations and see if you can rule them out. You’d also want to state the various things which you believe support your point of view: the electronic signature stuff, for example.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Do you really think I could do something like that? I’m not sure I’ve got it in me.”

  “Oh, Bob, don’t be so negative. And don’t forget that Peter would be happy to co-author it with you. He does this sort of stuff all the time.”

  He shook his head with a smile and looked again at his watch. At last it was a time at which he could just about justify clocking off.

  CHAPTER 4

  The following morning found Priya Desai knocking on the front door of Conrad Taylor’s other neighbour, Jack Rowbotham. This was a much smaller house and did not boast a nameplate. Instead the number ‘26’ featured neatly on a small blue plate to the side of the doorway. After some delay a shuffling noise presaged the arrival of a dark shape behind the small window in the door, which was then opened, but only a crack. Nor was the chain removed.

  A man of about 60 peered bleakly at her. He was unshaven, his hair was dishevelled and she could not help noticing that he was wearing old-fashioned red carpet slippers.

  “You’re from the police are you?” he asked warily.

  “Yes, Mr Rowbotham, I’m DC Desai. I phoned you from the police station, remember?”

  “All right, well I suppose you’d better come in. Just wait there.”

  The door closed, the chain rattled, and then the door reopened.

  “You can’t be too careful, you know,” he said conversationally. “I don’t get many visitors.”

  “You live here on your own then?”

  “Yes. I prefer it that way. Can’t be doing with people. Come through.”

  He led the way into a living room which faced out onto the garden. In marked contrast to their proprietor, both were elegant and well-kept. She took the opportunity to gaze out through the window. Though she was no gardener, she sensed that it was Italianate in design, featuring flowerbeds, stone pathways, and flanked on each side by brick walls which were now pleasantly aged.

  “Do you do the garden yourself ?”

  “Yes, though it pretty much looks after itself. I designed it that way. It’s just a question of keeping the weeds under control and cutting everything back at the end of the summer. Do you like it?”

  “Very much, though I don’t really know anything about gardening. My dad used to do a bit.”

  “Doesn’t he still? Why not?”

  “Oh, he died,” she replied, feeling a sudden catch in her throat. It was ridiculous, she told herself fiercely, that she should still allow it to affect her in this way.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Won’t you sit down?”

  With old world gallantry he waited for her to perch herself on the edge of the sofa before sitting down himself in an armchair opposite.

  “You said you wanted to ask me about my neighbour,” he prompted.

  “Yes. Have you known him long?”

  “I’ve lived next to him for the last 20 years or so, but I wouldn’t say that I know him. Not sure that anybody does. He’s pretty much a total recluse you know.”

  “So you don’t visit him then?”

  “Now and then.”

  “How often?”

  He gave a brief laugh.

  “I’ve probably not been in the house more than a dozen times in all that 20 years or so. Once or twice because I had to – problems with the roof, guttering, that sort of thing – and a few times because he asked me.”

  “Really? I thought you said he was a total recluse?”

  “Actually, I think I said he was pretty much a total recluse. He’s strange; difficult to describe, but just strange. Every so often for no apparent reason he’ll ring me up and ask me round for a mug of coffee. Just instant, you know, he never drinks anything else.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Oh, just about ten or twelve weeks ago I think. Not that I stayed long. Raj was there, and he’s a cold fish make no mistake, so I didn’t feel exactly welcome.”

  “Raj? Is that the Indian guy I’ve heard about? The one who lives there?”

  “That’s him, though I can’t tell you very much about him. In fact I know almost nothing about him. He works in IT I think. I’m pretty sure I remember Conrad telling me that. But where I don’t know. He certainly seems to spend a lot of time next door – during the day I mean – so maybe he works from home.”

  “What’s he like to meet?”

  Again, Rowbotham laughed.

  “Bloody weird, to tell the truth. He hardly says a word. I’ve only actually met him a few times, though I’ve seen him coming and going quite a lot. That last time I was round there he just stared at me. It felt really hostile, as though he was making it clear he didn’t want me to be there.”

  “Hostile? You mean sort of … like scary?
”

  “Yes, a bit. You could tell Conrad was embarrassed by it. I think he hadn’t expected him to be there. When I went round there were just the two of us, but then Raj came in through the front door after we’d been together for about ten minutes. He said ‘hello’ in a very stiff sort of way. Then just the silent treatment. After a bit I made my excuses and left.”

  “And that was the last time you saw Conrad, was it?”

  “Come to think of it, yes it was. Not that I’d read anything into that necessarily. He hardly ever goes out of the house. I think Raj does all the shopping.”

  “What about Raj? When did you last see him?”

  Rowbotham thought hard.

  “Let me see. Not for a couple of weeks at least. I remember seeing him walking down the road one morning when I came back from the shop with my newspaper.”

  “You don’t remember exactly when that was, do you?”

  He thought some more.

  “I remember that I had a delivery the next day: some books I’d ordered. So I suppose it would be possible to check. I could have a look the next time I switch on my computer if you like.”

  “Yes, could you do that please? It might be quite important. Here’s my direct number.”

  She took out one of her cards and passed it across to him. Then she carried on jotting things down in her notebook. He watched and waited for her to finish.

  “So, to summarise, you were last in the house two to three months ago, and you haven’t seen anybody go in or out for at least the last couple of weeks?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you at all?”

  “You mean do I have any concerns for Conrad’s safety?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  He shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “I assume you’ve been talking to Helen, and that’s why you’re here. She tried to persuade me to come with her to the police you know.”

  “Yes, I do know. Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Partly because I thought she was making a bit of a fuss about nothing. And partly because I didn’t really want to get involved, to be honest. I’m not a recluse like Conrad, but I do like to keep myself to myself.”

  “You think she’s making a fuss about nothing? So you’re not worried that there might be something wrong next door?”

  “Now, now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not unfeeling, or uncaring, or anything like that. It’s just that I’m used to not seeing Conrad for long periods of time, though I must admit it’s a bit unusual not to have seen Raj.”

  “Do you know how long he’s been living there – Raj, I mean?”

  Rowbotham puffed out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows.

  “God, I’m really not sure. No, let me think … A year or two, certainly.”

  “Say two or three?”

  “More like one or two I suspect.”

  Priya made some more notes and wondered how best to phrase the next question.

  “Forgive me, but this may be important. Do you have any idea what the … well, the nature of their relationship is?”

  “You mean are they a couple? I really haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose I’ve always assumed so, yes. Bloody odd couple, though. There’s a big difference in their ages for one thing. No, wait. Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe I’m just letting myself be prejudiced by how I see Raj.”

  “Has Mr Taylor ever described Raj to you in any way? ‘My partner’, or ‘the lodger’ or anything like that?”

  “No, not that I can remember.”

  “OK, thank you. I need to go away and work this up into a report. But before I do, I wonder if you can help me with any background? About Mr Taylor’s family, for example?”

  “There’s certainly been nobody but him there for the last 20 years. I believe there was a family in residence around the time I bought this house, but I think they were gone by the time I actually moved in. The house stood empty for quite a while because I was having some building works done – including this room, and those garden walls incidentally – so it was 6 to 12 months before I could move in. I was getting divorced at the time as well, so there were all sorts of complications. You know, legal, financial, all that sort of rubbish.”

  “There are some references to a family called Schneider living next door. A family with two children, a girl and a boy.”

  “Like I said, that’s probably before my time. If they were there when I bought, I’m pretty sure they weren’t there any longer by the time I moved in.”

  “Can you think of anybody else I can speak to who might know any more? Any of the other neighbours for example?”

  “God, no. Conrad and I are by far the most long-standing residents now, as far as I know. This road has changed completely, you know. When I bought this place the whole of Downshire Hill was family homes. Traditional family homes, I mean. The sort of places where people lived for generations. Ordinary people – well, pretty well off obviously – but nothing like today.”

  “So how is it today? What’s different?”

  “Pretty much everything. Except the church, that’s the same. But everything else has changed beyond recognition. What used to be a nice old decent boozer down the road is now a gastro- pub – what a horrible phrase. And any time a house is sold now it’s bought by an investment banker, or a hedge fund manager, like Helen’s husband. Oh, nothing against them – Charlie’s a decent bloke – but they’ve got no interest in Hampstead as a community, still less the spirit of the place. Oh God, that sounds very pretentious doesn’t it? I’m sorry.”

  “Not at all, I’m interested. Let’s see, Charlie, that’s Helen’s husband is it? Mr Barnes?”

  “Yes, and he’s a pretty typical specimen of what I’m talking about. No sooner bought the place than he and his builders were ripping the guts out of it. Even applied for planning permission for one of those bloody great basement extensions. Come to think of it, that’s why I visited Conrad recently. We’d both objected to the planning application, and it got rejected. I think it’s the only time I’ve seen Conrad really happy. Most of the time he seems pretty flat.”

  “So the basement isn’t going to get built then?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. It’s pretty routine around here that applications get rejected by Camden, but then granted on appeal. I have a horrible feeling that we’ll wake up one morning to find earthmovers outside – you know, like in The Hitchhikers’ Guide.”

  “What’s that – a film?”

  “It is, though I’d advise you to avoid it. Read the book instead, or books I should say.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Five. It’s a trilogy.”

  She stared at him in bemusement.

  “You said a trilogy, right?”

  “Yes, a trilogy in five parts, well six actually.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not getting this. Am I missing something?”

  He smiled.

  “Well, if you haven’t read Douglas Adams, then yes, I’m afraid you are.”

  Desai jotted down ‘Douglas Adams’ very neatly at the bottom of the page and then closed her notebook.

  “Well, thank you very much, Mr Rowbotham. Do let me know when you’ve checked up on that date, won’t you? Like I say, it could be important.”

  “I’ll do it straightaway as soon as you’ve gone.”

  “Thank you. I may need to speak to you again, by the way.”

  “You’d be very welcome. Like Conrad, I don’t get many visits, but unlike him I’m quite capable of enjoying them when they happen. Goodbye, Constable. I do hope we meet again.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The following morning Collison rapped briefly on Metcalfe’s door and went into his office.

  “Morning, Bob,” he greeted him, taking a seat.

  “Morning, guv. Anything happening?”

  “If you mean has anybody in North London been horribly murdered overnight then no, I don’t think so. But there
is this thing that Priya has been looking at. Have you had a chance to read her report? The full report I mean, after the interview with the second neighbour?”

  “Yes I have. I’m really not sure what to make of it. What do you think?”

  “I’m really not sure either. On the one hand it sounds a bit fishy and if something has happened to the old boy then we need to get in there and start investigating it as soon as possible. On the other hand, we’re going to look pretty silly – which I suppose really means I’m going to look pretty silly – if we throw a lot of bodies at an investigation which turns out to be a wild goose chase, particularly if a real murder comes in while we’re at it, and I have to start drafting in people from other nicks.”

  “Isn’t that sort of what the new arrangements allow for?”

  “Yes it is, but I’d rather not do it unless I have to. Things get a bit difficult if people are having to travel halfway across North London all the time. Not to mention the ACC, who I’m sure would have something to say about overtime and the budget.”

  “Reading between the lines Priya seems pretty concerned.”

  “Yes, and not just reading between the lines either. I’ve been chatting to her about it. She seems to have a very strong instinct that something sinister has happened.”

  “Copper’s nose? Not Priya surely. She’s always so matter of fact.”

  “Well, I’d agree with you there, but she’s really going out on a limb on this one. Don’t knock copper’s nose by the way. Tom Allen claims to have solved just about every one of his cases with it.”

  “Don’t I know it. Where is Tom by the way? I haven’t seen him for a few days now.”

  “He’s up at Edgware investigating the suspicious death of a Women’s Institute member.”

  “Really? Do they have a Women’s Institute in Edgware?”

  “A fair question: probably not. I believe the lady in question lived in Mill Hill.”

  “Oh, Mill Hill. That’s different.”

  They both smiled. Everybody who lived in Edgware aspired to live in Mill Hill, just as everybody who lived in Mill Hill aspired to live in Totteridge. Perhaps only in Hampstead were the residents truly content with their lot: after all, just about everybody in the whole of North London aspired to live in Hampstead.