Amanda scrolled down the file to Claire. The girl was eighteen, a first-year medical student at DeMontfort University. Still living at home with her mother. The university fees were paid by her father as part of a child-maintenance agreement. He lived in Australia. Amanda skipped to the mother: Margina Sullivan.
Pre-judgment went against the nature of Amanda's training, but Margina's record made it difficult to avoid. She had three children, each with a different father each of whom was wealthy enough to support their offspring with independent schooling and an allowance. The Inland Revenue had no employment record for Margina Sullivan. Her tax returns (always filed late) listed a couple of small trust funds as her income source. She owned the bungalow in Uppingham where she lived along with Claire, Tamzin, and Daniel, her nine-year-old son; but her credit rating was dismal.
By the time they arrived at the address, an image of Margina had swollen into Amanda's mind, hardening like concrete: aging brittle harridan.
The Sullivan bungalow was just beyond the center of town, in the middle of a pleasant estate dominated by old evergreen pines which had survived the climate change. The wood and brick structure itself was well-maintained, with glossy paintwork and a roof of new solar panels, but the garden clearly hadn't seen any attention for years. Two cars were parked outside: a BMW so old it probably had a combustion engine, with flat tires and bleached paintwork hosting blooms of moss; next to it was a smart little scarlet and black Ingalo, a modern giga-conductor powered runabout that was proving popular as a first car for wealthy young trendies.
Margina Sullivan opened the door. Amanda assumed they had caught her going out; she was wearing some extravagant dress complemented by a white shawl cardigan. Heavy makeup labored to re-create the youthfulness of what was undeniably an attractive face. Not a single bottle-red hair was out of alignment from her iron-hard curled beret style. She put a hand theatrically on her chest when shown Amanda's police ID card and oohed breathlessly. The phoney concern changed to shock and barely concealed anger when Amanda regretfully informed her of Byrne Tyler's death. Margina hurried over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large Scotch.
“How am I going to tell Tamzin?” she gulped. Another shot of whiskey was poured. “God in heaven, what are we going to do? Starlight was paying for a bloody wedding exclusive, not a funeral.”
A curious way of expressing grief, Amanda thought. She kept quiet, looking around the lounge. It was chintzy, with lavender cloths covering every table and sideboard, tassels dangling from their overhanging edges. Figurines from the kind of adverts found in the most downmarket weekend datatext channels stood on every surface. Tall, high-definition pictures of Tamzin looked down serenely from each wall, campaigns for a dozen different fashion products. Amanda would have liked to be dismissive, but the girl really was very beautiful. Healthy vitality was obviously The Look right now.
Claire and Daniel came in, wanting to know what was happening. Amanda studied the younger girl as her perturbed mother explained. Claire didn't have anything like her elder sister's poise, nor was there much resemblance—which was understandable enough. She had sandy hair rather than lush raven; her narrow face had a thin mouth instead of wide full lips; and her figure was a great deal fuller than that of the lean athlete. Nor was there any of Tamzin's ice-queen polish, just a mild sulkiness.
Daniel was different again…wide-eyed and cute, with a basin-cut mop of chestnut hair. Like every nine-year-old, he could not stay still. Even when told of Tyler's death he clung to his sister and shivered restlessly. The affection between the siblings was touching. It was Claire who soothed and comforted him rather than his mother. Amanda's attitude hardened still further when Margina went for yet another shot of whiskey.
“Where is Tamzin at the moment?” Alison asked.
“Paris,” Margina sniffed. “She has a runway assignment tonight. I must call Colin at Hothouse—they're her agents; he can arrange for her to be flown home. We'll release a statement on the tragedy from here.”
“A statement?”
“To the media,” Margina said irritably. “Hothouse will see to it.”
“Perhaps you should call the Hothouse people now,” Amanda said. “In the meantime I have some questions which I need to ask Claire.”
Margina gave her a puzzled glance. “What questions?”
Amanda steeled herself. This wasn't going to be pleasant. She could do the preliminary interview with the girl here or at the station. Either way, Margina, and after that Tamzin, would find out why. I'm not a social worker, she told herself. “We think Claire might have been the last person to see Mr. Tyler alive.”
“Impossible,” Margina insisted. “You said he died at home.” She rounded on Claire. “What does she mean?”
The girl hung her head sullenly. “I saw Byrne on Wednesday evening.”
“Why?”
“Because he was screwing me,” Claire suddenly yelled. “All right? He'd been screwing me for months. How the hell do you think I bought my car? From the money my loving father gives me?” She burst into tears. Daniel hugged her tighter, and she gripped at him in reflex.
Margina's mouth opened. She stood absolutely still, staring at her daughter in disbelief. “You're lying. You little bitch. You're lying!”
“I am not!” Claire shouted back.
Amanda stepped between them, holding her hands up. “That's enough. Claire, you're going to have to come to the station with us.”
The girl nodded.
“You could have ruined everything,” Margina cried shrilly. “Everything! You stupid stupid bitch. You've got a whole university full of men to sleep around with. What the hell were you thinking of?”
“Don't you ever care about anyone but yourself? Ever? You don't know anything, you're just an ignorant old fraud.”
“I said: enough,” Amanda told them. “Mrs. Sullivan, we can arrange for a social case officer to counsel you and Tamzin if you would like.”
Margina was still glaring at Claire, her breathing irregular. “Don't be absurd,” she said contemptuously. “I'm not having a failed psychology graduate asking me impertinent questions as if I were some feeble-brained dole dependant. Colin will take care of everything we require.”
“As you wish,” Amanda said calmly.
Amanda decided to question the girl in her office rather than the station interview room. It was marginally less inhospitable. She got her a cup of tea, and even managed to find some biscuits in one of the desk drawers.
Claire didn't pay any attention, she sat with her head in her hands.
“Did you love him?” Amanda asked tenderly.
“Ha! Is that what you think?”
“I don't know. I'm asking.”
“Of course I didn't love him.” Her head came up abruptly, a worried expression on her face. “But I didn't kill him.”
“Okay. So tell me why you were having a relationship with him?”
“It wasn't a relationship. He seduced me. I suppose. We'd gone to see Tamzin at a fashion show in Peterborough this Easter. He fixed it somehow that I was driven back home in his limo. It was just him and me. I'd had a lot to drink.”
“Did he rape you?”
Claire gave a helpless grimace. “No. He was interested in me. That's never…Tamzin was always the one. She's always been the one. It's like she was born with two people's luck. Everything happens for her. She's so pretty and glamorous. Byrne Tyler was her boyfriend. I mean, Byrne. I used to watch him on Marina Days.”
“So you were flattered, and it was exciting.”
“Suppose so.”
“And afterward? Then what happened?”
“He said he wanted to keep seeing me.”
“You mean to have sex?”
Claire blushed and hung her head. “Yes.”
“So you went back? Voluntarily?”
“Mum's really frightened, you know? You wouldn't be able to tell, not with her. She doesn't let anyone see. But she is. We don't have any money
; mum's in debt to dozens of shops, just for food half the time. We can't get credit anywhere locally anymore—no bank will issue her with a card. Tamzin…well she can look after all of us. Since she met Byrne her career is really taking off. She earns tons of money.”
“So what did Byrne Tyler tell you?”
“He said to just keep things going the way they were. That he'd never tell Tamzin as long as he was happy, and everything would stay the same.”
“And he bought you the car?”
“Yes. It was so I could drive out to Bisbrooke whenever he wanted me. He used to call me in the evenings, when Tamzin was away on an assignment. I'd tell mum I had late study at DeMontfort. It's not like she'd know any different.”
“And you were there on Wednesday evening?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“When did you arrive?”
“About nine o'clock.”
“And you left when?”
“Just after eleven.”
“And Byrne Tyler was alive when you left?”
“Yes! I swear it. I left him in bed. I got dressed and went home.”
“Was there anyone else there with you?”
“No. Just me.”
“Claire, do you remember if it was cold in the apartment that night?”
“No. It never is. Byrne didn't like sheets or duvets on the bed. He always kept the bedroom warm enough so he didn't have to use them.”
Amanda noted that in her cybofax. “Interesting. I need to know about the bedroom, I'm afraid. Did you have champagne up there that night?”
“Yes.”
“We only found one glass. Isn't that a bit odd?”
“Oh.” Claire looked hard at the top of the desk. “I have the glass. Byrne liked to…well, he poured some on me.”
“I see. Did he say if he was meeting anyone else after you left?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Had he met anyone before you arrived?”
“I don't know. He never said.”
Amanda sighed, resisting the impulse to reach out and grip the girl's shoulder in reassurance. “Sounds like you've had a pretty rough few months.”
“It wasn't that…I know it all sounds awful. He really liked me, though. You must think I'm some dreadful cheap tart.”
“I don't think that at all. But what I'd like to do is refer you to a counsellor. I think you could do with someone to talk to right now.”
“Maybe. Do I have to?”
“No. But I'd like you to think about it.”
“I will. Can I go now?”
“Just about finished. I'll need a DNA sample from you to eliminate any traces we find at the apartment. After that you're free to go.”
“Why do you need that?”
“Because this is now a murder investigation.”
“Why is it murder?” Vernon asked.
“Claire claims the air-conditioning was operating normally when she left.”
“Tyler could have changed it.”
“We've been over this. That temperature isn't one you can live in. The only reason to change it is to fudge the time of the murder. And the controls were wiped. The murderer did that.”
“All right, damnit. I've done some background datawork for you. He was insured by his management agenda and we now have reasonable doubt. I'll squirt the appropriate information off to them. We should get a response fairly quickly.”
“Thank you. I'd like a scene-of-crime team to look at the apartment, and a full autopsy.”
“I can give you that now.”
“Great. I'll also need full access to all of Tyler's financial and personal data. Alison can start running it through some analysis programs.”
“Okay, I'll have a magistrate sign the order this evening.” Vernon fixed her with a thoughtful stare. “Did the girl do it?”
“She certainly had the motive. She was there around the time it happened. Unless we can put someone else at the scene, she's the obvious choice.” She caught his troubled expression. “What?”
“I don't get it. She was smart enough to lower the temperature, so she must have realized everyone would find out she was sleeping with Tyler. Why not simply say he slipped, that it was an accident?”
“Guilt. Plain and simple. Trying to cover her tracks. You can see it in the way she talks. She's cautious about every word that comes out of her mouth, as if she'll give herself away just by speaking.”
“Okay, Amanda, if you say so.”
The next morning Amanda caught the Tyler story on Globecast's breakfast news. She was smoking an extremely illicit cigarette, trying to calm herself for the day to come. Tyler didn't rate much time: archive footage of him arriving at some glitzy party with Tamzin on his arm; the fact they were engaged, and she was believed to be flying home to be with her family; and a mention that the police investigation was ongoing, hinting that officers considered the circumstances unusual.
How do they find out so quickly? she wondered.
Amanda checked in at the station first, mainly to make sure there were no problems with Alison's analysis. The probationary detective gave her a grumpy look from behind her desk. Four terminal cubes were full of what looked like Inland Revenue datawork as she used her court access order to pull in details from his accountant, agent, solicitor and banks. Apparently Byrne Tyler's financial affairs were complex to the point of obscurity, not helped by the way showbusiness used accounting methods unknown to the rest of the human race. Amanda told her to concentrate on finding out if he had any large debts, and to confirm that he had bought the Ingalo for Claire.
With that part of the investigation on line she was ready to drive up to the apartment and supervise forensic's sweep. Vernon brought Mike Wilson to see her before she could get away. Wilson was from Crescent Insurance, who provided cover for Tyler. A real smoothy, she thought as they were introduced. Late thirties, in a smart blue-gray business suit at least two levels above a detective's price range, ginger hair neatly trimmed, a body he had kept in condition without being an obvious gym-rat. She didn't think he'd had any cosmetic alteration, his cheeks were slightly too puffy; but he certainly used too much aftershave.
“How much coverage did Tyler have?” she asked.
“His agency had taken out a full investigatory package,” Mike Wilson said. “Whatever it takes to get the culprit into court and secure a conviction.”
“Sounds good to me. Just give us your credit account details, we'll invoice you.”
Wilson's smile was tolerant. “I'm afraid it's not that simple. We like to see first hand what our money is being spent on.”
She gave Vernon a tight you're-kidding-me look. He smiled in retaliation. “Mike Wilson will be assigned to your team for the duration of the investigation.”
“As what?”
“I have worked on a number of police cases,” Wilson said. “I appreciate you don't want what you regard as outside interference—”
“Bloody right I don't.”
“—however, the facts are that I can offer immediate access to considerable specialist resources such as forensic labs and database mining, which the police have to outsource anyway. And I'm certainly happy to finance any reasonable police deployment, like the scene of crime search. That goes without question.”
“How active do you see your helpful role?”
“I only offer advice when I'm asked for it. It's your investigation, Detective.”
Her terminal bleeped for attention. Mike Wilson and Vernon Langley watched expectantly. Without making too big a deal of it, Amanda sat behind her desk and pulled the call through. It was Denzil.
“I have good news and good news,” he said. “From your point of view anyway, if not Byrne Tyler's.”
“What did you find?”
“Narcotic toxicology was minimal, except for a very recent infusion of Laynon. Our boy was improving his bedtime performance that night, but nothing more. But there were plenty of residual traces. He's a regular and longtime
user of several proscribed drugs. However he didn't have enough of anything in his bloodstream to impede locomotion or cause disorientation at the time he died.”
“The champagne?”
“Minimal alcohol level, he couldn't have drunk more than half a glass.”
“Thanks, Denzil. What else?”
“Dried saliva trails on his skin. And small scrapings of skin under two fingernails.”
“They must be from Claire.” She glanced up at Mike Wilson, raising an eyebrow. He gave a small bow. “Run a DNA comparison for me, Denzil.”
“Yeah, I heard we got money.” His image vanished from the screen.
Wilson gave Vernon a meaningful look. “If it is the sister, the tabloid channels are going to have a feeding frenzy.”
Amanda made an effort at conversation on the drive up to Bisbrooke. It wasn't that Wilson was unlikable; but her instinct was that he had no place on the investigation. Of course, intellectually, she appreciated his presence was due to social injustice rather than politics. External funding was a factor she would have to accept, especially in the future.
With the body gone and the air-conditioning back to normal, the apartment had lost its cheerless quality. Two scene-of-crime officers were moving methodically through the ground floor, examining every surface with a variety of sensor wands. Rex was out in the courtyard, taking statements from the neighbors.
“What do you need to move for a prosecution?” Mike Wilson asked as they took a look at the cast-iron stairs.
“Basically, a lack of any other suspects. I expect the prosecution service will accept she changed the air-conditioning. She is a medical student, after all.”
“So you'll interview his friends to see if anyone threatened him?”
“Friends, his agency, people he worked with. The usual. I'd love to try and track down his supplier, as well. But that would really cost you—they don't exactly rush out of the woodwork at times like these.”
He gave a small grin. “I know.”
“Previous case?”
“Crescent insures a lot of celebrity types. Having dealt with them before, I can see why we set the premiums so high.”
The Suspect Genome (greg mandel) Page 4
