The Murder Map

by Danny Miller

  Frost and Clarke gazed down at the ‘felon’ at their feet. Plato, the tenacious little terrier, barked, proud of its handiwork.

  ‘Of course we can’t just blame him, he did have an accomplice. Banes, it seems, had an allergy to cats. And the cat scratches he had on his arm, presumably the work of Flossy Wheaton’s cat, went septic and caused a blood infection. And when mixed with the untreated encephalitis, it was lethal.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Susan couldn’t help but look impressed. ‘Cat and dog working together. Rather like you and me, Jack.’

  ‘What’s the old saying? “Revenge is a dish best served with a saucer of milk and a bone.”’

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’

  ‘Keep him in custody. Until we find him a good home, I suppose?’

  Plato and the two detectives got in the car. Twenty minutes later and they were pulling up at Grey Gables. Frost went inside, Clarke stayed in the car and tickled the tummy of the ‘prisoner’.

  Frost found Vanessa in the living room. There were cardboard boxes, some tea chests and piles of newspapers and bubble wrap, as Vanessa prepared to pack the house up.

  ‘Emptying a house can be quite emotional, Inspector. I didn’t think it would be, quite so much. All these things have memories attached to them. You wonder if they’ll return, or just stay in the boxes.’

  ‘I had to go through it when my wife passed away.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘My in-laws took care of most of it. The house was officially theirs, and most of the furniture, too. I just came away with a couple of boxes.’

  ‘Have you unpacked them?’

  ‘No.’ Frost swiftly changed the subject. ‘I’ve just come from the hospital. It seems Mr Parker will make a full recovery.’

  ‘Yes, I was there this morning. They induced a coma while the swelling goes down. He should be out of it by tomorrow. Is he in trouble for what he did?’

  ‘Let’s just say, we will need to talk to him in some detail.’

  ‘But that’s not why you’re here, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  Vanessa, who had been stood at a side table, wrapping her old photos in newspaper, stopped what she was doing and sat down on the sofa. Frost didn’t join her.

  ‘I believe that you were the last person to see Ivan alive.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because when you went around to see him, or maybe confront him, he was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, which he had been in for the last few months. He was unshaven, unwashed, dishevelled. Pretty typical condition for a bottoming-out alcoholic. And you shaved him, and dressed him. Gave him back some of his dignity. But he was dead by then. He died an alcoholic’s death, no doubt about that. It’s written in black and white in the post-mortem report: heart attack, organ failure. But the bruising and marks around his neck and shoulders suggest that—’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course,’ said Vanessa, cutting him short. ‘Once he gave me and Sally those paintings from Conrad, I knew it was too much for him. It always had been.’

  ‘Your affair with Conrad Wilde, and Sally being his daughter – Ivan knew about this?’

  ‘As I tried to tell you, it was complicated. Sally in many ways was Conrad’s gift to Ivan. Conrad didn’t want children. And as we discovered, Ivan couldn’t have children. So, they worked it out between themselves. And of course, I knew, but didn’t say anything to either of them. I wanted a baby. So it all remained unsaid. It just happened.’ She smiled. ‘And nine months later the stork flew over and delivered me a baby. My beautiful Sally. And Ivan was the proud father, and Conrad was happy for us. But soon after, the dynamic changed. As, in hindsight, it was always going to. Conrad slowly began to distance himself from us. He was always at our house before Sally arrived, but then he just stopped coming. I never said anything. Again, it was between Ivan and Conrad. Closer than brothers. They kept up their … their business arrangement, though.’

  ‘Did you have any contact with Conrad, without Ivan knowing?’

  ‘No. But I did keep track of him. I knew what happened to him. Prison, insane asylums. The tragedy of it.’

  ‘And you blamed Ivan?’

  ‘Not entirely – how could I? We were all complicit. But what seemed like an amicable arrangement for everyone quickly soured.’

  ‘Ivan couldn’t accept that Sally wasn’t his biological child. Looking the image of Conrad as she did, how could he? And he also couldn’t accept that you had always secretly loved Conrad? And maybe Conrad couldn’t accept that he had given up a daughter?’

  ‘Exactly. It turned Ivan into a drunk. But also his guilt at putting Conrad away to save his own skin. He knew Conrad better than anyone. He knew that he couldn’t bear being caged. They were that close, and being close, like brothers, brings its own familial rivalries. It had all remained unsaid all these years, buried in the past. Then Ivan gave us the paintings. A gift from Conrad, who had just died. Ivan said we should talk. So I came here. He’d been drinking … and all the bile, the resentment came out … On both sides, Inspector. I must admit to that. He said he was going to tell Sally the truth. There was some pushing and shoving and … yes … yes, I grabbed him … and he died in my arms …’

  There was a silence. Frost let her mind scroll back to the moment.

  ‘… I held him … I told him I loved him, that I always had … He smiled, said he knew that. Said he was sorry … and … and we hugged each other. We didn’t want to let go. Then it happened. I could feel it. It wasn’t what they said in the medical report … in black and white, as you say. It wasn’t a heart attack. It was just broken … just broken …’

  Frost took out the pack of tissues from his jacket pocket and handed her one.

  ‘Of course, I’ll … I’ll make a statement.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard all I need to.’

  ‘I’m guilty, Inspector.’

  Frost considered this, then let his mind seek out a memory. The time when he was in uniform and was called to a house. The milk bottles lined up on the doorstep. The man in the chair, surrounded by empty bottles and little else.

  ‘It could have been a lot different. I, or one of my colleagues, could have been called to Grey Gables to break open the door. And find Ivan, as you found him. As far as I’m concerned, the only difference from what’s written in the doc’s report is that he died in your arms, Mrs Fielding. And not alone.’

  The detective made his way down the path, leaving Vanessa to her packing. The art, the antiques, the objects of desire and the memories. He’d leave the medical report and the theory of Ivan’s demise as they were. If it was good enough for Superintendent Mullett and the powers that be, then it was good enough for him. Now that he had all the facts. But as she had agreed, nothing was ever black and white, it was usually a heady swirl of foggy grey. Jack Frost enjoyed solving cases and finding out who did what, and when. And sometimes why. But he reckoned working out where true justice lay, having that moral certainty, without question or doubt, was at times tantamount to trying to figure out the meaning of life. It was way beyond his comprehension. You needed to be a philosopher. Or a dog.

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  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Written for the Estate of R. D. Wingfield by Danny Miller

  Copyright © The Estate of R. D. Wingfield 2019

  Cover photograph © Silas Manhood

  Danny Miller has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Reference on p. 48 to ‘Matchstalk Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs’ written by Brian and Michael; Reference on p. 264 to ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’ written by Mick Jones, ‘Total Eclipse Of The Heart’ written by Jim Steinman and ‘Purple Rain’ on p. 265 written by Prince.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781473555709

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