(2011) Only the Innocent

by Rachel Abbott

  A young crime scene technician with pale skin and a spotty face looked up from where he was packing up his equipment and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

  ‘Not much to go on, sir. We’ve got some prints, but nothing to compare them with other than the victim, so they could be legit. The only thing we have found of any consequence is one very long hair. Discovered it in the bathroom. It’s a red hair - I don’t know if that’s significant. We’ll have it checked out and get back to you. If we’re lucky it might have some root attached to it. And then there’s the knife.’

  Tom turned and glanced back at the bed, with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Based on a conspicuous absence of blood, I can only presume he wasn’t stabbed?’

  ‘No - he wasn’t. Which is what makes the knife a bit odd. It was on the bedside table, right next to him. No sign of blood, no fingerprints. It’s one of a set from the kitchen, and I think it’s what you’d call a boning knife so it’s very sharp - it appears to have been very recently sharpened, actually.’

  ‘Any idea what it could have been used for?’

  ‘None at all, I’m afraid. But we’ll take it back and do some more tests to see if anything shows up.’

  Tom nodded to the other technician, who was leaning casually against the wall, having clearly finished his work.

  ‘Thanks, guys. I presume you’ve taken the cleaner’s prints?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Yep - all done. She’s in a bit of a state, though. We’ll leave it up to you to find out from her who might come into this room in the normal course of events, so we can rule out their prints.’ He closed his bag of tricks with a decisive clunk.

  ‘Right. That’s us done. We just need to bag the scarves, when you’re ready, then we’ll be off.’

  Tom turned towards the bed where a large man with an equally large girth was leaning over the body, peering over a pair of half moon spectacles. The deceased’s arms and legs were tied to the four corners of the bed with dark red scarves, and the mouth gagged. The body was naked and in good shape for a man of Hugo Fletcher’s age. Tom stood and stared at the body. First champagne, then some form of bondage. But it didn’t look like a typical BDSM scene either. There were no physical signs of discipline or sadism.

  He hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the pathologist before, and walked over to introduce himself. He always liked pathologists; he’d never met one that wasn’t a bit quirky.

  ‘Good afternoon. I’m DCI Tom Douglas. Thanks for keeping the scene intact for me, but I think we can release his hands and feet now.’

  ‘Rufus Dexter. Won’t shake your hand just now,’ he said, waving a gloved hand that had been God knows where in Tom’s general direction. He leaned over to start the untying process whilst the crime technician started on the other side of the bed.

  ‘Strange one, Tom. He’s tied up, so foul play? Probably. Sexually motivated? Scarves would certainly suggest that. Died on the job? Don’t think so. Possible, though. No evidence that he actually was on the job. Penis is clean - I’d say it hasn’t been inside a woman since his last shower. Have to check that, though. Could have been oral, I suppose? Don’t know.’

  Tom interrupted this flow of information.

  ‘A bit of an assumption that it was a female, don’t you think?’

  ‘Hmph. Suppose so. Always appeared pretty straight to me when I saw him on the box. Ever hear a whisper about him having the remotest interest in men? Thought not, though anything’s possible, I suppose. No signs of anybody being on or around him - female or male. The bed is undisturbed. I’ve been over his body and haven’t found any hairs - pubic or otherwise - that don’t belong to him. He’s clean as a whistle.’

  Strange, thought Tom. All the evidence suggests that sex was on the cards, but nothing appears to have happened.

  ‘Any idea on the cause of death?’

  ‘Can’t see any immediate signs of anything being done to him. Possibly he was tied up and left, and the resulting panic caused a heart attack, or he’s been poisoned in some way? We’ll test the champagne, of course. Won’t have any answers until I open him up and get some tox results. Sorry.’

  Tom asked if they could turn the body over - just to check for any marks that could suggest some form of erotic sexual preference that might be linked to the bondage. The back was clear, but bruising left by the scarves on both the wrists and ankles did suggest a struggle.

  ‘Can’t take that to mean anything,’ announced the young spotty technician. ‘They’re supposed to writhe around in ecstasy when they play these games. It’s how they show they’re enjoying it. Doesn’t mean he was struggling. And they don’t always have sex - you know, in the usual way. She could have just jacked him off.’

  Tom looked at the crime tech with interest, but resisted the temptation to ask him how he knew so much about bondage. And fascinating though this speculation was, it was time to get some facts. He turned to Rufus Dexter.

  ‘Any idea of the time of death?’

  ‘Cleaner’s a silly bat,’ he responded. Didn’t call it in for over an hour. In too much of a panic, she says. She’d been here quarter of an hour before she found the body. How long had he been dead when we arrived? Max three hours, more like two and a half.’

  The minute the pathologist paused for breath, Tom jumped in.

  ‘I understand we were called to the scene and arrived just before 2, and you got here at about 2.30. So time of death was between 11.30 and 12. Yes?’

  Rufus nodded.

  ‘Okay Rufus, feel free to get the body moved when you’re ready. When are you going to do the PM?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning okay? Prefer to do it early. Press will want some answers. Bloody Prime Minister too, no doubt, considering who it is! Eight am okay for you?’

  Tom winced as he thought about the phone call he was inevitably going to have to make. ‘Put it like this - I’m going to be in enough trouble as it is for buggering up Saturday, so I don’t think Sunday’s going to make things any worse. We get an extra hour anyway - the clocks go back tonight. I’ll speak to DCS Sinclair to see if he wants to attend. Sounds like he’s here now, actually.’

  Through the open door, the quiet but authoritative voice of Detective Chief Superintendent James Sinclair drifted up the stairs. Tom knew that he would be giving orders in such a way that they seemed more like suggestions, but ones which nobody would even question. His strange lopsided face had left him burdened with the nickname Isaiah, which Tom was ashamed to admit he had failed to comprehend until it was explained to him, but it was always spoken with affection. He had infinite respect for this man, and although Tom hadn’t known him long, he was genuinely delighted when he was appointed to work as his deputy in the murder investigation team. Although he had other reasons for moving to London, working for James Sinclair was an absolute bonus.

  The undertakers had been summoned to move the body, and Tom took the opportunity to have another look around. He now realised what seemed wrong with the room. There were no feminine touches at all. He’d never seen a woman’s bedroom that didn’t have at least a couple of bottles of perfume and some evidence of makeup or face creams. But here there wasn’t a trace. He opened the wardrobe door and looked inside. Nothing but smart suits. He walked over to the chest of drawers, and found the same story. Laundered shirts all perfectly folded, and underwear and socks in another drawer.

  Leaving the men to do their work, he wandered down the corridor and into a second bedroom. This one was just as featureless as the first, with similar furnishings. The chest of drawers was completely empty, and only the wardrobe held any evidence of a female member of the family, with a few dress bags containing evening gowns but no day clothes at all. It was abundantly clear that the apartment was only used by Hugo Fletcher as a rule, and then only during the working week. Even somebody as apparently important as this man would be unlikely to wear a smart suit or dinner jacket to relax in at the weekend. And from what he could see, the wife only came for special occasions.<
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  Deep in thought, he made his way downstairs to where the DCS was talking to Becky Robinson.

  ‘Becky, one of the PCs has been trying to get some joy out of the cleaner, but apparently she isn’t making much sense and just keeps going on about the embarrassment of seeing the victim ‘in the buff’ as she puts it. Could you have a go, please? You know better than most how important this is - and time is everything.’

  ‘Okay sir, I’ll see what I can do.’ Becky made for the stairs to the basement, having already got the lay of the land, it seemed.

  Tom looked quickly around him. He hadn’t noticed much on his way in, but now realised that the ground floor was mainly laid out as very smart offices, each of which looked more like an elegant study than a place of work, whilst the two floors above seemed to be living space.

  Now that they were on their own, he turned to his boss and filled him in on his conversation with the pathologist. He could see that James Sinclair was quietly assimilating the facts.

  ‘What do you think about the knife, Tom? Do you think he died of a heart attack, and the knife was originally there to cut him free if he’d stayed the course, so to speak?’

  ‘It’s possible, but we won’t really know until after the PM. The knots were tight, but not so difficult that you’d need a knife. I’ll get someone on to the make of the scarves and see if we can find anybody who was daft enough to buy all five in the one shop with a credit card, but somehow I don’t think so. He clearly knew whoever was with him; there’s no sign of forced entry, and the champagne certainly suggests it was planned. We need to check if anything was taken, but there are no obvious signs of ransacking the house, and there’s some valuable stuff around.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you that the eyes of the world will be on us for this one. But there’s nothing like a high profile case to test your credentials, eh Tom?’

  Tom glanced around the hallway at a series of pictures he hadn’t noticed before. They were mainly framed photographs of the victim taken with various high ranking politicians and several with other famous philanthropists. It was strange, somehow, to relate the smiling man in an impeccable dinner jacket with the bound and gagged naked body on the bed.

  James Sinclair followed Tom’s gaze.

  ‘Old Hugo may have been loved by the general public and the media, but he ruffled a lot of feathers in his time, you know, and quite frankly I’m surprised that somebody didn’t seriously beat the shit out of him before now. I understand that he had bodyguards. Where the hell were they today?’

  Tom looked towards the front door.

  ‘This place is very well protected. I expect he thought he was safe in here, and perhaps didn’t want the bodyguards to know what he was up to. I’ll have them tracked down and see what they can tell us. I think I’ll go and check on Becky’s progress, though. With those vultures outside I’m not sure how long we can keep this to ourselves.’

  Tom headed down into the basement where Becky was seated on a low sofa in what appeared to be a very pleasant staff sitting room, gently holding the hand of a person who he could only assume was the cleaning lady. Although not in any way doubting her genuine distress, Tom could see that she was making the most of the attention. A PC was making her a cup of tea in the adjoining kitchen, and what looked like a small brandy sat in front of her on a low coffee table.

  Still wearing her coat and a rather odd shaped brown knitted hat the like of which Tom had never seen before, he would have put her age at about sixty. Becky was talking to her in a soothing voice. Tom decided to stay in the background and leave her to it.

  ‘Beryl, you’ve been incredibly helpful. I know it must have been a terrible shock for you. But we desperately need to find Lady Fletcher. Do you have any ideas?’

  Tom was momentarily surprised to hear the title. He’d forgotten that Hugo Fletcher had been knighted for his charity work. He never kept up much with the Honours List though.

  ‘That poor Alexa. She loved her dad so much, you know.’

  ‘Beryl, I don’t want to nag - but we can’t tell Alexa until we’ve told Lady Fletcher.”

  Becky’s pretty face was starting to go quite pink, which Tom assessed as frustration.

  ‘You should ask Rosie - she’ll know where she is.’

  ‘Who’s Rosie and how I can get hold of her?’ Becky asked, with a hint of desperation.

  ‘Rosie Dixon - she’s one of Sir Hugo’s secretaries and looks after all the diaries and stuff. Her number’s in the red book in the office. Try her mobile first, because if I know Rosie she’ll be in Harvey Nick’s. She spends the best part of every day there, as far as I can see. Why he puts up with her behaviour I’ll never know.’ Instantly realising her inappropriate use of the present tense, Beryl’s face fell.

  There was no time to comfort her now, though, and Tom turned towards the stairs and made his way hastily back to the main office. Becky followed, leaving the PC to look after Beryl.

  ‘Rosie Dixon’s number - found it,’ he said a couple of minutes later. ‘Can you phone her, Becky and get her here fast. And ask if she knows where we can get in touch with Laura Fletcher urgently.’

  Tom made his way to the front of the house where the DCS was talking to the policeman who had been first on the scene. Within a few minutes, a shout came from the office.

  ‘Result, sir!’ Becky raced out of the door waving a piece of paper. ‘Rosie’s on her way here, so we need to get somebody to talk to her. But I’ve found out where Lady Fletcher is. Rosie says she’s due back from their place in Italy this afternoon, arriving at Stansted any time soon. We need to intercept her.’

  Tom stopped briefly to give the DCS a quick update, and followed Becky out of the door. ‘Okay, we can do the organising from the car - let’s get to her before the news breaks.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Becky was doing her best to get them to the M11 as quickly as possible. She tried to concentrate on the road ahead in order to shut out the difficult conversation that her boss seemed to be having, but it was impossible. Especially as she could hear the strident voice of a very angry female on the other end of the line.

  The conversation ended abruptly, and she heard DCI Douglas exhale slowly as he leaned back against the headrest. She risked a quick glance, and saw that his eyes were closed. For the first time she realised that he carried an air of sadness about him, and the skin around his eyes had a bluish tinge as if he didn’t sleep well. She felt a strange urge to grab his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Ridiculous notion. Telling herself to get a grip, she was wondering how to break the silence when he saved her the trouble.

  ‘Sorry, Becky. I would have preferred you not to hear that.’

  ‘That’s okay, sir. Sorry for you, really.’

  ‘Under the circumstances, I think we can dispense with the formalities. When we’re on our own, call me Tom. After all, you’ve just heard my ex-wife berating me and generally making me feel even more of a bastard than I did already.’

  ‘Ex-wife’s prerogative, sir - sorry, Tom. My mum used to scream at my dad all the time.’

  Tom gave a half smile. ‘I don’t blame her for being mad, if I’m honest. I was supposed to be picking my daughter up today. She was going to stay with me overnight for the first time since I arrived in London. We were both looking forward to it.’

  ‘Your daughter will understand, I’m sure,’ Becky said.

  ‘Lucy’s only five. All she knows is that her dad can’t have her for the weekend like he promised. And do you really think that her mother will present the reason in a positive way?’

  Tom gazed out of the window, obviously not expecting an answer. After a brief pause, he turned back towards Becky with a self-deprecating smile.

  ‘Okay, back to business,’ he said. ‘Before I got a bollocking from my ex-wife, I passed on the details of Lady Fletcher’s flight to Ajay in the office. I told him to contact the airline and ask a flight attendant to have a quiet word, and take Laura Fletcher into a pri
vate room when they land.’

  Becky glanced at Tom.

  ‘You do realise she’s on a budget airline don’t you?

  She could see that Tom didn’t appreciate the relevance.

  ‘There are no assigned seats - it’s like a bus. You get on and find a seat wherever you can. And with a plane load of Italians, not known for their queuing skills, I can’t imagine it’s a bundle of laughs for somebody of Laura Fletcher’s wealth and status!’

  ‘Christ - how the hell are they going to find her then? I suppose they’ll make an announcement. What on earth is Laura Fletcher doing using a cheap airline?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her that. Given her husband’s apparent gazillions I would have thought they’d have had a their own Lear jet, or something.’

  ‘Well it’s intriguing, but not exactly relevant to the enquiry. Did you get anything interesting out of the cleaner, by the way?’

  ‘Not really, except that apparently she shouldn’t actually have been at Egerton Crescent that day. She doesn’t work Saturdays, but she’d left her purse on Friday. I had a massive long tale about an argument with her husband who wouldn’t lend her any money to take the grandchildren to McDonalds. So she had to come all the way on the bus to pick up her purse. Luckily for her, the argument made her miss the first bus, otherwise she’d have got there at about the time Sir Hugo died. She said she wouldn’t have gone upstairs normally, but she realised the alarm was off, so she assumed Sir Hugo was in the apartment. She went up to explain what she was doing there. That’s when she found the body, and she was so terrified she locked herself in the staff room for about an hour in case there was a killer still in the house. There was no phone, so she couldn’t call us.’

  ‘I heard her mention Alexa,’ Tom said. ‘Sir Hugo’s daughter, I presume?’

  ‘Yep. Lives with the ex-wife.’

  Becky was about to make some tactless remark about ex-wives when fortunately her mobile rang. Fiddling briefly with the earpiece behind her left ear, she answered.