by Nick Louth
He jumped in, plunged up to his thighs first in mud and then in water. He reached out and grabbed her arm. She was cold but looked at him through narrowed eyes. He scooped her up in his arms. She weighed almost nothing and was shivering. It was only five yards from the shore, but it was a struggle to keep his footing as he attempted to wade through the reed bed. She held him tight, her arms about his shoulders, her freezing face pressed to his neck.
‘What on earth would you want to do something like that for?’ he asked, when he finally got her ashore. She looked as miserable as a drowned dog. All she was wearing was a nightdress and underwear. He badly needed a blanket to wrap her in.
‘Please, give me a cigarette,’ was the first thing she said to him, as he stood her up on dry land. She had some kind of foreign accent.
‘No chance,’ he replied. ‘You need a cuppa and some soup.’ His jacket was wet, but he wrapped her in it for want of anything else. He hurried her along the path, scooped up her cardigan, and had got halfway back to Westgrave Hall when two uniformed constables arrived. One swapped his dry jacket for Woodbridge’s wet one and put his arm around her. The shivering PC followed on behind, his teeth chattering. He felt he was dying, goodness knows what the girl must be feeling like.
A few minutes later he was sitting in the grand morning room of Westgrave Hall, warming up in front of a roaring log fire, with a blanket around him. The girl was being attended to in an ambulance.
* * *
By first light, the spooks and their three unmarked vans had melted away from Westgrave Hall’s car park, along with most of the snow. Surrey Police was back in charge of the crime scene, and with fifteen officers tramping backwards and forwards, much of it had turned into quagmire. As senior investigating officer, Gillard had been keen to make sure that the evidence was secure. He had appointed Detective Sergeant Vikram Singh as evidence officer, working out of a long-wheelbase Transit van. The Sikh had already set up shelves inside the vehicle which were turned over to ballistic evidence, footwear, clothing and DNA markers.
‘So where are we with this lot?’ Gillard asked, peering at the footwear shelf. He picked up three hefty brown paper envelopes, which were marked as containing the footwear of PC Butterfield, Sophie Cawkwell and Wolf, the head of security.
‘We’ve got shoes from all three victims too,’ Singh said. ‘We’ll get the clothes once they’re at the mortuary.’
‘What about Yelena Yalinsky’s high heels?’
‘Nope. Maybe MI5 has ’em.’
Gillard sighed heavily. His own voicemail message to DCS Corrigan, asking about the whereabouts of his notebook and tape recorder, had so far gone unanswered. ‘Have they asked you for anything from our evidence collection?’
‘No. They wanted to know how many guns we’d found, and I told them: two. We’ve also located forty-six cartridge cases from the library, and located and marked nineteen bullets embedded in walls, books and so on.’
‘Even they wouldn’t be so stupid as to start levering bullets from walls.’
‘No, and we have photographs of each of those bullet holes,’ Singh said. ‘Butterfield did a tremendous job. We’ve got excellent pictures of the footprints and we should at least be able to start figuring out who was where when shots were fired.’
‘Did you get the footage from the Russian TV channel?’ Gillard asked.
‘Yes. They’ve sent us a copy which apparently captures the sound of every shot.’
‘Great. Then we will be able to ascertain whether we are missing any bullets.’ Gillard looked at his phone, where a message had just come through. ‘Ah, the Khazi is on its way.’ The mobile incident room, a notoriously cramped and ill-ventilated Portakabin mounted on the back of a truck, was brought into use whenever a complex crime scene demanded detectives remain on site.
Logistically, the next stage was going to be the most difficult. Gillard had already rung and woken up an ill-tempered duty magistrate to grant the required warrant to search Westgrave Hall. It had arrived by email an hour later. He now needed the manpower to make it happen. With fifty-five bedrooms, over a hundred other rooms, a converted stable block with twenty-six rooms, and at least twelve cottages for various employees across the 4,000-acre estate, he was going to need an army. He had been jotting down how he hoped to do it and had already emailed a request to the chief constable for at least fifty uniformed police for three days. One thing he knew for certain: he would be enduringly popular with the rank and file for the overtime they would earn.
He just hoped they managed to find something to justify the cost.
* * *
The day shift took over at eight a.m., led by DI Claire Mulholland. She had with her an experienced uniformed sergeant from Staines, Vince Babbage, and six of his constables to start the search. They would be based at Steeple Risby village hall, which the parish council had kindly agreed to provide as a bunkhouse. That wasn’t bad for short notice on Christmas Day. But it was only a start. Gillard had just had confirmation by text that at midday a coach would arrive with fifty-eight uniformed officers, overtime-hungry volunteers from all over the county. Gillard knew this crew was guaranteed to be made up of the badly overdrawn, the gambling-addicted or the unhappily married. Anyone for whom Christmas was less important than a few hundred extra quid.
‘How are you doing, Craig?’ Claire asked, as she found Gillard in the hall’s elegant drawing room.
‘Not too bad. The crime scene is a total mess, but at least it’s self-contained.’ He briefed her on what had been found so far. ‘I’d like you to start with the bedrooms occupied by the victims and their partners, principally Volkov and Dr Sophie Cawkwell, Maxim Talin and Yelena Yalinsky, plus of course Bryn Howell.’
‘Who’s he?’ Claire asked, struggling to hold the myriad details in her head.
‘Volkov’s bodyguard. He was late into the crime scene and got shot dead for his troubles.’
No one can work twenty-four hours a day, and picking the moment to take your break is quite an art. Having passed the baton to Claire, Gillard had been planning to drive off for a couple of hours’ nap at home. However, the Westgrave Hall housekeeper had a better idea. She was a thin and severe-looking woman in her sixties called Mrs Bell. ‘We have a number of rooms spare that we are happy for you to make use of, to sleep in but also if you need to have interviews or store evidence.’ She had a thick Scottish accent, and a face seemingly built from decades of disappointment. If she was shocked by the night’s events, she didn’t show it.
‘That’s very kind,’ Gillard replied. The bunkhouse being organised at the village hall was the alternative, but it would be busy now with plods sorting out their equipment. Rigby had demanded a ten a.m. incident room meeting, so Gillard would be able to get twice as much sleep by not having to drive. ‘I think we will have to remove all physical evidence to a secure location, but would certainly like to take you up on the offer to interview those witnesses whom we have persuaded to stay.’
‘Would this room be suitable for interviews?’ Mrs Bell asked. She showed him into the Fitzroy Room, which she described as a small ballroom. It was far from being small, with enough room to play a game of doubles tennis. The 250-year-old teak flooring still bore the imprints of high heels, and Gillard could almost imagine the gavottes and minuets that had occurred here in its heyday. With an exquisite wood-panelled ceiling, gigantic tapestries and a profusion of porcelain vases on lacquered stands, it seemed an incongruous venue for the discussion of murder.
‘I can see it’s not quite suitable,’ she said. She then led him down by a narrow staircase into a warren of corridors adjacent to the kitchens. Finally, she showed him into a dark low-ceilinged room, lined with iron racks from which wicked-looking hooks dangled. ‘The scullery, originally used for hanging meats to age. If you want something a bit more Dante-esque this fits the bill.’
Gillard looked around. The only thing missing from the place was a mediaeval rack. ‘If you don’t mind, I think we’ll rev
ert to the ballroom.’
Mrs Bell had just the scratch of a smile on her granite features. ‘I’ll show you to your bedroom now.’ She led him up a grand curving staircase to the first floor. ‘I’m afraid the place is a bit of a rabbit warren, and there is still a lot of work to do on the eighteenth-century annexe where you’ll be sleeping. But I think it will be perfectly adequate for a doze.’
She showed him through a smaller door in wood-panelled wainscoting to a narrow panelled corridor which looked out over the interior quadrangle of the main house, a dizzying distance beneath. He was led up a metal fire escape to a narrow corridor with a low ceiling in what was clearly the attic. There were three numbered rooms; she took out a key and unlocked the first, and showed him in. The room was a dormer bedroom with a sloping and badly cracked ceiling. It smelled musty, and the ancient electric light struggled to cast more than a pale glow. The double bed was of heavy wooden construction, and there was a plain dark crucifix over it. The pink worn-out candlewick bedspread clashed with the orange nylon paisley-pattern pillowcases. The whole place was depressing, the kind of garret where Gillard could imagine some young Victorian chambermaid dying in agonising childbirth while bearing the illegitimate offspring of the landowner.
He took off his shoes and lay on the bed. It creaked alarmingly and sagged in the middle.
He picked up the telephone, an enormous black Bakelite object with a woolly cord, and heard a dialtone like a purring cat. Wondering if it worked, he put his finger in the metal dial and rang Sam, listening to the whirr as each digit unwound. She answered, her voice edged with an echo as if in another solar system. He let her know that he wouldn’t be back by breakfast time as she had expected.
‘The TV news is full of it,’ she said. ‘Multiple shooting with three dead. There’s even video footage where we can hear the shooting.’
‘That didn’t take long to find its way into the media,’ he said. ‘We’ve only just got a copy of it ourselves.’
‘So I expect you’re not home for Christmas lunch,’ she asked.
‘No, sorry. Save me some turkey.’
‘Okay. Don’t work too hard.’ Gillard could hear the disappointment in Sam’s voice. She been making great progress with her therapy for the PTSD since the abduction, but she did have relapses when she felt anxious being left alone. Her parents were coming down on Boxing Day from the Lake District, but this would still leave her largely alone on Christmas Day.
He blew a kiss, told her he loved her, and placed the heavy receiver back on its cradle.
He could hear crying. A female voice, faint but insistent.
Gillard made his way over to the window and pulled apart the heavy dark curtains. Pale morning light was beginning to filter through. The mullioned window looked out over a steep slope of mossy slates. To the right were several other gables like his, culminating in a belfry on the roof of which a bronze lion gazed towards the horizon. Below him was a modern flat-roofed building. There was no indication where the sobbing was coming from, even when he opened the window and leaned out as far as he dared.
He could see through an open window two storeys below. Two slightly-built dark-skinned men in white kitchen uniforms were labouring at a sink under cold strip lighting.
They weren’t crying.
He wondered about the future of the stately home and its dozens of employees, many of whom had probably never met Alexander Volkov during his period of ownership. How often might that have been true over the centuries. If you worked in the kitchen it probably didn’t matter to you whether the owner was a Russian oligarch, a French aristocrat or an obscure member of the German royal family. Long hours, low pay, and little recognition.
The detective closed the window, drew the curtains, lay on the bed and fell immediately into a deep but troubled sleep.
* * *
Detective Inspector Claire Mulholland was standing in Westgrave Hall’s grand entrance lobby with security manager Wolf, the bulky figure of Sergeant Babbage, and his half-dozen bobbies. Just a quick glance at Wolf’s floorplan showed that the stately home was as big as London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, and searching it properly could take weeks.
Wolf handed a hefty bunch of keys to the big sergeant and said: ‘Please. Is very important you not break, scratch or nick work of art and antique stuff here. Very valuable things. So especially not nick,’ he said.
‘I can assure you we will be very careful and gentle,’ Babbage said. ‘My lads are honest to a fault.’ He then turned to his boss. ‘So where do we start, ma’am?’
‘On the first floor, the principal state bedrooms occupied by our murder victims,’ she said. ‘Here’s how I want you to do it. Everyone wears latex gloves. In each room, video the room before you go in so we can put everything back as you found it. For each room you’ll have a plastic sheet, four feet square, which should be set out in the middle of the room. We’re looking for phones, laptops, wallets, purses, handbags. And guns, should we be so lucky.’
‘Righto,’ Babbage said.
‘Electronic items should be labelled, bagged and brought out to Vikram Singh’s evidence wagon. Non-electronic items should be photographed and placed on the plastic sheet, with the evidence tag number visible. We patently do not have enough space to store everything that might turn out to be of interest, so most items will remain in the rooms where you found them. When you finish with a room, photograph everything on the square, and detail exactly what has been removed before locking it.’
‘Has CSI been through?’ Babbage asked.
‘No. They’re up to their eyeballs just with the library. We’re not doing fingerprints here at the moment. As long as we are careful about how we touch things, we might be able to do that in future if required. Likewise with DNA.’
‘How thorough are we going to be?’ Babbage asked. ‘I mean are we lifting floorboards or what?’
‘No. Desks, cupboards, drawers, wardrobes. Coat and jacket pockets, suitcases and other baggage. No need at this stage to remove bedlinen. Bathrooms should be checked for toiletries and I want toothbrushes and combs marked and brought in in case we need DNA.’
‘Cistern swab for cocaine, ma’am? Bound to be lots of cokeheads among the gentry.’
She shook her head. ‘We are not trawling for generalised evidence of criminality. I have no doubt that we could keep ourselves very busy doing just that. In the first hours we will be concentrating on the bedrooms of the murder victims and their next of kin, so we must behave with absolute respect.’
‘Received and understood,’ Babbage said.
Escorted by Wolf they trooped up the grand curving staircase into a wide wood-panelled corridor hung with chandeliers that would not have disgraced Versailles. As the uniforms padded along the thick carpet, Wolf pointed out four bedrooms, each one named after a British poet.
‘This one for Volkov, Ms Sophie next door,’ Wolf said. ‘Opposite is Mr Talin and Ms Yalinsky.’
‘Where is Bryn Howell’s bedroom?’ Claire asked.
‘Third floor, above the kitchen annexe, five minutes from here.’
They set to work, and Claire left them to it.
* * *
PC Simon Woodbridge awoke in a sleeping bag on a camp bed in Steeple Risby village hall. It was eight o’clock. There had been plenty of noise in the bunkhouse for the last couple of hours and he was unable to sleep through it anymore. Memories of last night’s soaking in Westgrave Lake came back to him. After delivering the shivering girl to the ambulance he had been wrapped in a blanket and escorted down to the bunkhouse. After a hot shower he had been given a sleeping bag by the sergeant in charge and had fallen asleep almost immediately he got in it. He wasn’t on duty until nine but got up and dressed in a spare police-issue fleece and trousers and made his way towards Westgrave Hall.
Outside the Khazi he saw an overweight detective whom he recognised as DC Hoskins, eating what looked suspiciously like a bacon sandwich. Hoskins beckoned him over.
‘Was i
t you stopped that suicide attempt last night?’ he said, chewing his sandwich.
‘It was. Not sure if she wanted to kill herself.’
‘Well, she is Volkov’s daughter. Anastasia’s her name. Her dad was murdered yesterday, so she’s probably not a happy bunny.’
‘Did she go to hospital?’
‘Nah. She’s all right. Just cold, I heard. She’s in her room on the second floor.’
Woodbridge thanked Hoskins and, after finding the Westgrave Hall housekeeper Mrs Bell, was directed up the grand staircase to the higher floor. He knocked gently on the door, and was told to come in.
The room felt tropically warm. Anastasia was sitting up in a grand canopy bed against a mountain of pillows, with an enormous shaggy wolfhound lying on either side of her. Her chestnut hair was tied into a ponytail, and she looked young and vulnerable. She had been playing video games but set the console aside and turned off the TV as he approached. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she had clearly been crying. Dozens of discarded tissues were scattered on the bed and floor.
‘How are you doing then?’ the PC asked, as the two dogs yawned noisily.
‘Okay. Thank you for saving me.’ She managed a wan smile. Her face had the pallid androgyny of a catwalk model. There seemed nothing to her at all, he could imagine her with any personality he wanted. The dogs, woolly mountains with big brown eyes and shrewd expressions, gazed balefully at him.
‘I only did what anybody would have done.’
‘Not anybody.’
‘Why were you out there in the freezing cold at that time of night?’ he asked.
‘I thought I might as well kill myself.’
‘What a terrible thing to contemplate!’
‘My dad’s just been murdered, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Her face began to distend, and she sobbed silently.
He nodded. ‘I’m really sorry for your loss, but you have to look after yourself. Even if you won’t do it for yourself, think about your mother.’
