by J G Alva
*
On the way out, passing by the reception desk in his progress to the front door, Felicity was on the phone, for which Sutton was grateful.
But that didn’t stop her giving him a bawdy wink as he went by.
*
Outside, Sutton pulled out his mobile phone and dialled the number on the business card.
He was surprised when it was answered almost immediately.
“Hello?”
“I need your help.”
*
CHAPTER 5
FRIDAY
Sutton waited in his car across the street.
He had picked up a used BMW 3 Series 2.0 from a guy in Clevedon who repaired cars, even though he had been retired for a decade already. It was meant to be a bargain. It was meant to be eco-efficient. Besides the steering being a little inconsistent, it had enough muscle under the hood to be satisfying.
The house looked much the same as when he had last visited. It was a three bedroom house in the suburb of St Georges, with a garden and a front lawn. There were signs of alteration however. No, not alteration, he thought…neglect. The lawn was getting wild. The climbing ivy near the main front windows now covered most of the windows themselves. Leaves choked the guttering. The gate on the side of the house looked weather worn and had split down its right side. In the back, a big Conifer tree hung low over the shed he knew was there, untamed and wild.
A car pulled into the drive.
A silver Prius.
Diane got out and stood looking up at the house.
Sutton got out of his own car and crossed the road to join her.
She jumped when she became aware of him.
“God, I didn’t hear you,” she said. “You’re like a cat.”
He smiled.
“Years of practice.”
“I’m not really sure we should be doing this,” she said uneasily.
“You have the keys?”
Reluctantly, she held them up for him to see. None of them fit the lockbox, of course.
“I just want to look around,” he said.
“Why? I mean, what purpose will it serve?”
Sutton stared at the house. What purpose would it serve? He already felt guilty enough. How would being able to picture where the murder had taken place make him feel any better?
If Gavin had been murdered because of the scam, then Hill would find it out. So that meant there was no reason for him to get involved at all.
“I need to find out what’s in that lockbox,” he said. “I’m assuming the key is somewhere in Gavin’s house.”
Diane took a breath, nodded, and then led the way to the gate.
*
Diane unlocked the back door, and they went in.
The smell was still there, Sutton thought, as Diane flicked the light switch beside the door. An animal scent, of blood and sweat; the lingering molecules of violence, still detectable by olfactory senses. The long fluorescent sparked into life, stuttering briefly, before bringing everything in to sharp focus: patterned blue-grey countertops, the cooker to the right, the extractor hood above it, the sink under the back window, the central kitchen island bench with cabinetry…and against the base of one corner of it, a half-hearted attempt at scrubbing it away had left a dull brown-red blotch behind, like the ghost of a tragedy. There was also another mark on the linoleum, although this was fainter still: the other half of the blood stain.
Dead.
Battered about the head.
Had this always been on the cards? When he had met Gavin all those years ago, had this already been preordained? And if that was the case, where was his end? Had that already been marked down: a time, a place, a person, a method?
Sutton shook his head. You could become too obsessed with the wonder of yourself; like now, for example: thinking about himself when his good friend had died.
When he looked at Diane, her face was white and pinched.
“They’d said they’d cleaned it,” she said, faintly outraged.
“Come on,” Sutton said. “Let’s see if we can find that key.”
They checked the kitchen first, and found a set of keys in a drawer by the back door, but none of them fitted the lockbox.
The Living Room was one large room that covered the entire front half of the house. A three piece suite in brown leather sat beneath the front window and the wall opposite the TV. Bookcases covered the wall that separated the rooms; two of them, pushed together, liberally filled with books. While Diane looked through the knick-knacks on the windowsill, Sutton scanned the spines. This was mostly Rachel’s bookshelf, he thought; a schoolteacher, it was she who had been the reader, at least of fiction. Gavin had stuck to technical manuals and biographies: technical manuals of complex engines and racing cars, and biographies of successful businessmen. Gavin had done back breaking ten hour days in a garage to afford to study Engineering, but before he could finish the course he had thrown in the towel to marry Rachel. Sutton still couldn’t decide if Gavin had been foolish or an incurable romantic, but thought that perhaps the two states weren’t mutually exclusive. Gavin had been blissfully happy while married to Rachel, and Sutton guessed he had never regretted his decision.
Strange then, that he should have the book Engineering for Dummies.
Out of curiosity, Sutton pulled the book out and idly flipped through it.
Well, he would have idly flipped through it if the pages hadn’t been stuck together, and a rectangle cut out of the middle of the book. In the hollow was a large bundle of £50 notes, held together with an elastic band. A nice bundle of money. How much? Sutton estimated something like £5000.
“Find anything?” Diane asked, looking through items on a shelf beside the TV.
“No,” Sutton said immediately, and then wondered why he had lied. Too late to go back now. “Nothing.”
On the inside cover was a note in Gavin’s neat writing:
Sutton. To cover the basics. Gavin.
Quickly, he took the money out, put it in his pocket, and returned the book to the shelf.
What was he doing with so much loose cash? And stored in a book instead of a bank account?
The answer to that was of course simplicity itself: it was the scam money.
“Can I ask you something?” Diane said, intruding on his thoughts, and Sutton casually turned from the bookshelf to give her his attention.
Engineering for Dummies.
Only someone who knew Gavin’s history would know it was out of place on this bookshelf.
Did that mean it was for him?
The note would seem to indicate that it was.
“What?”
She was frowning. With her thick glasses the eyes were magnified hugely, and coupled with the frown creasing her brow, she looked like some kind of monkey.
“How did you know all those things about Detective Hill?”
“Ah,” Sutton said. “Well.”
He had noticed a small porcelain fish on the top of the bookcase nearest the door to the kitchen, and Sutton reached up and scooped it down. On closer inspection, it might actually be a dolphin. Who had liked dolphins? Rachel? He couldn’t remember her ever expressing any sentiment in that regard.
“Intelligence is just connection. Right? Take this little porcelain dolphin, for example. The more I know about it, the more connections I can make, the more intelligent I am…or at least appear to be. So I recognise this as a dolphin…but is that all I know about it? Not necessarily. I know that porcelain was discovered in China around about 1600BC. I know that the correct Latin term for a bottle nosed dolphin is Tursiops truncates. I know that dolphins are not actually fish, but mammals; that current theory holds that they crawled out of the ocean a hundred million years ago, developed lungs, and then for whatever reason, thirty million years later decided to go back in; I think their closest genetic land ancestor is the humble hippopotamus. You see?” He put the porcelain dolphin back on top of the bookcase. “With Detective Hill, I just connected
the dots. I read the quote on his tie pin: all the arguing in the world will not stay the moon. It’s a bit of an obscure one, but I think it’s from a poem by Louis Simpson. Nobody without a deep love of literature would use it, and if you had such a deep love, naturally you’d pursue the study of it.”
“And how did you know it was his daughter that bought it for him?”
Sutton smiled.
“Prejudice. Sons wouldn’t be quite so thoughtful.”
“And how did you know he had two daughters?”
“Law of averages. Most families have two kids. It’s statistically rarer to have one of each sex than it is to have two of the same.”
Diane seemed shocked.
“Is that true?”
Sutton shrugged.
“I see. So, okay then. Was he right about you? Those things he said?”
Sutton pulled a face.
“Some things he was right about,” he said. “Some things he wasn’t.”
“Except you’re a painter. Not a sculptor.”
Sutton looked at her sharply.
“So Gavin told you about me.”
“A little,” she admitted.
A little? Or a lot?
Perhaps she and Gavin had been closer than he had originally assumed. If Gavin had told her about him, about his friend that did things, sometimes illegal things, to help people in trouble, then they must certainly have been closer than friends.
“There’s nothing down here,” he said, changing the subject. “Let’s check upstairs.”
But upstairs their searches were equally fruitless. Everything was tidy and impersonal, and they could find no hidey-holes, no concealed safes. And certainly no keys.
It didn’t make sense, Sutton thought. Why give him the lockbox but not the key? He had found the money that had been left for him. Was the key in a similarly personal hiding place?
“I’m going to call someone,” he said, taking out his mobile phone.
“Who?”
“Someone who can connect dots better than I can.”
*
“Why do you always take so long to answer the phone?” Sutton asked.
“Why do you always wait so long for me to answer it?” Fin replied.
Finley Henk was pale and thin, a twig of a man with a long feminine neck and a mop of hair so dark and thick it almost looked like a wig. He was twenty two, but looked almost a full decade younger. Except of course for his eyes…his eyes looked tired and ancient, as if they had seen it all, more than once. He liked Indie Rock and played the guitar badly. He wore skinny jeans and white short sleeved shirts on top of grey vests. As people, both he and Sutton had absolutely nothing in common, but Sutton liked him immensely, and he thought the regard was reciprocated.
“I asked first.”
Fin paused. Sutton could hear the smile in his voice.
“Because I know you won’t give up.”
Sutton laughed softly.
“Alright. Are you busy? I need your help. Where are you now?”
“Uh…I’m having a massage.”
“What? Are you joking?”
“Hey. I’ve been tense.”
“I need you to find something for me. A key.”
“Okay,” Fin said hesitantly. “What kind of key?”
“Smallish. It’s for a lockbox.”
“Uh, is there some kind of-“
“In a house where someone was murdered.”
“Ah.”
“Can you do it?”
“When?”
“Tonight. If possible. There’s money involved.”
“Where?”
“In Weston-super-Mare. I’ll text you the address.”
“Am I…legally entering the abode?”
Sutton was amused.
“Yes. I’ll have the executor of the estate give you the keys.”
“Goody. I was getting all tense again. My masseuse also thanks you.”
“That’s nice. Also…I’d like you to examine the crime scene.”
“Alright. Are we looking for anything in particular?”
“Well…”
“Like incompetence?”
“Uh…call it small town inexperience.”
“Right.”
“Let me know what you find as soon as you can.”
“I’m almost on my way.”
“Almost?”
“I’ve got to be de-oiled.”
“Are you really having a massage?”
“It’s meant to, you know…help with my problem.”
“Okay. Speak soon.”
“Will do.”
*
Sutton and Diane stood by her Prius.
“I’ve passed him your number,” he said. “Are you okay to let him in?”
Diane did not look happy to be appointed such a task.
“Detective Hill is a very good detective,” Diane said suddenly.
“You’ve had dealings with him before?”
She nodded.
“On occasion.”
“You may be surprised to know that I agree with you,” Sutton said, and as if on cue she gave him a look of surprise. “But he didn’t get down on his hands and knees and dust for prints himself, did he? That’s what Fin will do.”
“Who is he?”
“A young man affected by a consummate meticulousness.”
“What?”
Sutton smiled.
“He’s just very thorough. I’ve used him from time to time. He has a way of collating data…it’s a gift.”
“Does he work for the police or…?”
Sutton shook his head.
“No. He’s an interested amateur, that’s all. But I trust him.”
“I’m not sure-“
“What harm can he do? Gavin’s already dead.”
It was a low blow, and Diane momentarily looked like she’d been punched.
Softly, Sutton said, “it can’t hurt, can it?”
Diane stared at her feet.
“I suppose not.”
“What relation is Detective Hill to you?” He asked. “Uncle?”
Diane’s head came up smartly, her mouth open in a perfect O.
“How…?”
He smiled.
“Just connecting the dots.”
The informality between the two of them, the familiarity, the visit by a detective to a solicitor’s office to supply a friend of the victim with information…all of it had smacked to Sutton like a favour for a friend.
“He’s my uncle,” she confirmed.
Or a beloved niece.
Sutton nodded.
“Would he give you the police file if you asked for it?” Sutton posed.
He looked down the street. A quiet, peaceful street, with trees lining it, silver Birches and the like, all swaying gently in a faint wind; a cold wind. It was December after all. The shadows of their leaves cast by the streetlights were moving in the road, like animals in a coordinated dance; an unceasing play of light and shadow. Beautiful in its way. Sutton would never try to paint it. It wouldn’t look real, in paint. It was the movement that made it so, the constant shifting of all the shapes…
Some moments in life were too real to ever be captured in pigment.
“Gavin’s file?” She said, sounding strained.
“Yes.”
“I…don’t know.”
“Maybe make some vague semi-truthful rule up that a copy of the file needs to be accompanied with the death certificate for the will?”
She seemed shocked and angry in that moment. She turned her face away from him, but the only way to turn was toward the house.
Gavin’s house.
Where he had been murdered.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Give it to Fin.”
She nodded, distracted, but then shook her head.
“What are you doing?” She challenged him.
Good question.
What was he doing?
Grimly, he said, “w
hat I should have done three weeks ago.”
*
CHAPTER 6
NOW
Barrow Gurney Mental Hospital was over eighty years old.
Construction had started in 1934. Its design was innovative at the time: to be more like a village than a traditional hospital. In a secluded hollow now tucked away underneath the A370, it was comprised of a collection of “service” buildings, to which the main working body of the hospital would be assigned; staff cottages were built surrounding these central buildings, and the whole thing took on the air of a community rather than an institution. Further secluded by woodland, it was peaceful, idyllic, tranquil.
Its relative secrecy gave rise to an inevitable slew of ghoulish stories about the place: that patients who misbehaved were burnt in the incinerator; that radical and inhumane experiments were performed within the hidden bowels of the hospital, on patients incapable of defending their human rights; that it was haunted. The truth was more prosaic, but in its own way just as disturbing: that it was poorly run, unclean, and coming down around everyone’s ears. In a recent survey it had been rated by inspectors as one of the dirtiest hospitals in the country. At the turn of the millennium, the rot had set in enough so that the authorities put plans in place to close it down…but not before part of the ceiling collapsed on to a patient, severely injuring him.
It had been completely abandoned for over a decade; Sutton could see evidence of this first hand. He had never visited the place before, but had heard rumours that they were knocking it down, one building at a time; that it had been sold and was due for redevelopment.
Not soon enough…at least not soon enough to avoid his current predicament.
While he was on his feet, he returned to the steps and, with trepidation, ventured down to the next level.
If he had thought the smell was bad above, then it was nothing compared to this. The air was moist and cloying, full of the smells of mould, must, urine and something else…perhaps animal faeces. Thick cobwebs hung like streamers from the ceiling as he made his way down into even deeper darkness. The mould here was worse, fully covering the walls, the paint cracked and bubbled where the growths had punched through.
