Wild Chamber

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘But that’s just what I mean, pretending that nothing happened—’

  ‘No, I know what I did and it was harsh, I admit that, fair play, and you’ve every right not to talk to me again,’ Renfield blustered. ‘I got uncomfortable and scarpered. I thought it wasn’t for me, all of this …’

  Longbright folded her arms and stared at him. ‘All of what, exactly?’

  Renfield blew again, waving a hand. ‘Oh, you know, everybody arguing and Mr Bryant setting fire to things, and those workmen tearing up the floors and cats everywhere. But going back to the Met … When I heard you were short-staffed it seemed right to come back.’

  ‘So my feelings weren’t a factor, then?’

  ‘You? God no, I’d almost forgotten you were here, to be honest.’

  He had certainly not forgotten that Janice was here; how could he when she haunted his sleep? He admired her – that was the word for it. She was an admirable woman, full of hip and lip, good-humoured, smarter and braver than anyone he knew, but he feared that she would never need him, and now that his weakness had been exposed he was in her thrall. The sensation made Renfield uncomfortable. He was a good man, but not always a modern one.

  ‘Hm.’ Longbright gave him what her mother would have called an old-fashioned look. ‘I get why you went. I’m not sure I understand why you’ve returned, so let’s just see how it goes, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, great, yes, I mean of course, whatever. But we can be friends, yeah?’

  ‘Friends – I think so.’

  ‘Friends, cool, sure.’ He jumped up and clasped her hand like a teacher congratulating a pupil on prize-giving day, held it fractionally too long, then released it as if he’d been electrocuted. ‘So, we’re all together in this space now?’ As conversational segues went it wasn’t the smoothest.

  ‘Raymond’s keeping his old office, and John and Arthur have their own room because nobody wanted them in here with us. Are they back yet?’

  Renfield smiled. Janice was the only one who dared to call Mr Bryant by his first name. ‘I think so,’ he said.

  ‘Then let’s get everyone together and find out what’s going on.’

  Happy to have something to do, Renfield nodded a little too vigorously and went to work.

  The furniture in the old briefing room was pushed to the back because several of the floorboards were still raised. Since one of the workmen could be heard gonging a pipe somewhere under the carpet, the group gathered as if stepping through a minefield. They were joined by a six-foot-tall woman in her late twenties. The sides of her head were shaved in a Camden cut, leaving a thatch of thick blond hair on top that made her look like a river bird. She had an extraordinarily long neck and wore a nose ring, which would have been considered a health and safety issue in any other police department.

  ‘This is Steffi Vesta,’ Raymond announced with pride. ‘She’s from …’ He racked his brain. It was a town in Germany that had something to do with grooming products …

  ‘Cologne,’ said Steffi, with only the faintest trace of an accent.

  ‘Yes, well – she’s going to be with us as Christmas cover, seeing how a British specialist unit operates, so try not to make her uncomfortable.’

  Steffi turned and gave the group a confident smile. Colin grinned back, but stopped when he saw that Meera was watching him. Steffi’s skin was as smooth as a dinner plate. She looked far too young and healthy to be working in a rundown police unit in King’s Cross. It made Meera feel sick to look at her. She felt her lip curling.

  As everyone took their usual places they surreptitiously watched the door like a congregation waiting for the bride to arrive. As soon as the detectives entered, Raymond Land leaped up and ushered them to a pair of seats before taking a proprietorial place in front of the room’s whiteboard.

  ‘What’s happening here?’ Meera asked from the side of her mouth.

  ‘Raymond’s doing a business management course,’ said Colin. ‘Janice reckons he’s trying to assert himself. He’s bought a pair of glasses because he wants to be taken seriously.’ They stifled their laughter together.

  ‘Right, you lot,’ said Land, tapping the whiteboard. ‘We’ve got a female Caucasian, Helen Forester, twenty-nine-year-old head of a public relations company, found strangled in the gardens of Clement Crescent, Holland Park, at approximately seven fifteen this morning while she was out walking her dog. Dan’s still at the scene and hasn’t put in a report yet, but he reckons somebody came up the footpath and surprised her because the dew on the grass had only been disturbed by the dog, which incidentally is missing. So far Dan’s found nothing in the bushes or the surrounding area.’

  ‘Not true,’ called Bryant. ‘We have a Swiss army knife. It may not be related but there are prints on it.’

  Land pursed his lips and allowed for a stage pause, unhappy about being interrupted. ‘Mrs Forester rents a house in the crescent,’ he continued. ‘These are properties subdivided into very expensive flats. White-collar, professional, more than half sold to overseas buyers. Mrs Forester was in the middle of a messy divorce. We haven’t spoken to the husband yet, mainly because he no longer works at his old office and his mobile number is dead. He’s not officially a suspect but he was overheard fighting with her a couple of weeks ago, so can somebody try to find out where he is?’

  He looked down at his notes and withdrew a pair of tortoiseshell glasses so preposterous in design that everyone stopped listening and stared at them.

  ‘Helen Forester walked the dog at the same time most days. There was an ongoing dispute about that with the neighbours, who don’t allow unleashed animals in the communal gardens. The lady who identified her, a Mrs Farrier, heard her front door slam at around seven a.m. The problem is, the garden gates can only be opened with a key. To obtain one of these keys you have to be a resident in the crescent, and only one key is allowed per property. The residents’ association is extremely strict about that.’

  ‘How many keys in total?’ asked May.

  ‘How do I know?’ said Land. ‘I’m just telling you what it says here.’

  ‘How did her attacker reach her?’ asked Renfield. ‘Did he climb over the wall?’

  ‘I haven’t started questions yet, have I?’ Nettled, Land stabbed his glasses further up his nose. ‘The railings are high and impossible to climb, so the killer must have a key. Mrs Forester was found by the gardener, who is … Why isn’t his name up here on my board?’

  ‘Ritchie Jackson,’ said Longbright, reading her notes. ‘He saw her just before the assault and very soon after—’

  ‘So where was he when the attack occurred?’ asked Renfield.

  ‘He says he was on the other side of the lawn taking photographs when she walked past with her dog,’ Longbright replied. ‘When he heard her call for the dog he came back and found her lying on the ground. He knew she was dead but was scared of disturbing her, and stayed by her side while he rang the emergency services. He didn’t see anyone else, and can verify that the gate was locked when he arrived. The sun was coming up but it was misty and the light was very low. Dan’s found two sets of tiny blood spots, one beside Mrs Forester and the other from Jackson, who says he tore his hand pulling out some brambles.’

  ‘Don’t gardeners wear gloves?’

  ‘He hadn’t put them on yet.’

  ‘What was he doing spying on her anyway?’ asked Land. ‘Bit of a perv, is he?’

  ‘He was taking shots of the gardens,’ Bryant piped up. ‘It’s his hobby.’

  Land looked mystified. ‘Why would he be lurking around snapping pictures of shrubbery first thing in the morning?’

  ‘He’s interested in plants, you mounter,’ snapped Bryant. ‘Oh, I meant to think that, not say it out loud.’ He turned to May. ‘Mounter, a provider of false information, 1780, obsolete.’ Lately Bryant had decided there were too few appropriate insults in the current English dictionary and had been studying archaic slang to improve the strength of his invective. ‘Ritchie Jacks
on graduated from horticultural college with a degree in environmental science, then trained as a photographer at Goldsmith’s, but he didn’t finish the course. He took on short-term work, contract stuff, but still likes to take photographs and recently submitted several to an exhibition—’

  ‘Can we stay on topic?’ begged Land, exasperated. ‘We don’t need to hear about this bloke’s pastimes, we just need to know whether he got off spying on girls.’

  ‘Don’t be such a roof-scraper, Raymond,’ said Bryant. He glanced back at May. ‘Roof-scraper, someone who misses all the important details, spectator standing at the back of a gallery, 1909, colloquial.’

  ‘What are you saying about me?’ Land demanded to know. ‘No, don’t look at your friend, I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Arthur’s still not feeling a hundred per cent, I’m afraid,’ said May hastily. ‘When Ritchie Jackson arrived for work this morning, he says, the gates were definitely locked. He drank a coffee, took some shots of the lawn and his new planting, and he also took this.’

  He rose and tacked a blown-up photograph on the whiteboard. It showed Mrs Forester in her white tracksuit and scarlet coat, side profile, the white terrier running ahead of her on its lead. The brightest light source came from the top deck of a bus which could be glimpsed through the dark green branches of the trees behind her.

  ‘Why did he take the picture at all?’ asked Bryant. ‘If he’s often there and she walks the dog most mornings, they must know each other. So why sneak off this shot?’

  ‘He obviously fancies her,’ said Land. ‘Why else would he creep about taking photos on the quiet?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to make him a suspect?’ asked May. ‘As soon as he found her body he called it in. And it’s a good thing he took the photo, because there’s this.’ He walked to the board again, drawing a circle on the photo with a red crayon. ‘Look in the bushes.’

  Everyone came forward to see. Land tried to remember if there was any advice in his management manual that would help him take back control of the meeting, but his mind had gone blank.

  ‘There’s a man’s face right here.’ May pointed out a shadowy oval between the laurel leaves. ‘Steffi’s digitally enhancing the shot for me. The contours are clearly delineated but his features are indistinct. He’s crouching, looking up in Mrs Forester’s direction.’

  ‘I may be able to get more detail from it,’ said Steffi. ‘He’s on his – what are these parts?’ She tapped her thigh.

  ‘Haunches,’ said Colin.

  ‘Yes, he is on his haunches in the bushes right behind her, watching.’

  ‘Oh, man, that’s really creepy,’ said Meera.

  ‘Jack in the Green,’ said Bryant.

  ‘What, you know who this is?’ demanded Land.

  ‘I was merely citing the garland-covered May Day participant, the trickster embodiment of natural fertility in English folklore,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Well, can you not? We don’t need you dragging in mythological figures. Steffi, can you get any more out of this?’

  ‘I think perhaps I will manage a facial contour and an approximate height,’ said Steffi, nodding.

  ‘How do we go about finding him?’ Renfield asked.

  ‘John’s going to talk to Mr Jackson while Meera and Colin interview the keyholders,’ Bryant said. ‘Janice, I need you to run a background check on Mrs Forester and pull together a list of names. Steffi and Jack, you help Dan. See if you can come up with anything more from this picture and from the gardens. Your main priority is to find the husband, but let’s dig out anyone else she might have seen recently – family, friends, the lot.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Land, once more feeling like the last pupil to be picked for the team. ‘I’m the boss here, I should be of some use.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay here and keep the press and the Home Office off our backs?’ suggested Bryant. ‘I think they’re going to be interested in this one. It would be an enormous help.’

  Land waited for his most senior detective to add an eighteenth-century insult, but nothing came. Maybe his health scare has had a beneficial effect after all, he thought, happy to do as he was told for once.

  ‘Trillibub,’ muttered Bryant as he left the room. ‘A portly fool, 1800, derogatory.’

  Ritchie Jackson had no faith in the police. He swung back and forth on his stool, his hands between his knees. He was a solidly built, tall young man, but awkwardly set and uncomfortable with strangers. Now he was anxious to get back to his garden.

  ‘Well, there’s not too much damage on your CV,’ said May, reading the page Longbright had given him. ‘A drunk and disorderly and a caution for possession, nothing to get excited about.’

  ‘Yeah, surprising considering,’ Ritchie murmured, swinging back and forth.

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘I don’t need to remind you about the odds of a black guy getting stopped in a wealthy area.’

  ‘That may happen in Holland Park, Mr Jackson, but we’re in King’s Cross,’ said May. ‘You’re in the big wide world here, not Little England.’

  ‘That’s comforting to know.’

  May studied his witness. He was scruffily dressed in a bagged-out grey jumper and mud-streaked jeans, and had dirt under his fingernails, but looked powerful enough to take a life.

  ‘Show me the cut on your hand?’

  Ritchie held up his right palm. ‘I was on my way in and saw some branches that had come loose overnight. I tried to pull them loose and they sprang back. Hazard of the job.’

  ‘What did you use?’

  ‘I’ve got a Swiss army knife that I use for pruning.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  Ritchie looked blank. ‘I had it earlier. I must have put it down somewhere.’

  ‘How many times had you noticed Mrs Forester in the garden before?’

  ‘I don’t know – a few.’

  ‘Five, ten, what?’

  ‘Maybe half a dozen times.’

  ‘Over how long a period?’

  ‘A couple of months, I guess. She usually came in before I got there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’d see her leaving. I think she went early knowing that most people wouldn’t be up. She liked to let her dog off the leash.’

  ‘Did she ever say hello?’

  He shook his head. ‘To me? No. I’m the invisible bloke with a rake in one hand.’

  ‘But she knew who you were?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess so.’

  ‘What’s the foot traffic like in the garden? You get many people coming in during the day?’

  ‘Not many. It always seems a bit of a waste to me. I guess there was a time when all the houses in the crescent were occupied by families, but you don’t see many lights on now. Everyone’s at work or in another country.’

  ‘The usual.’ May nodded, tapping a pen against his list. ‘Overseas investors and single professionals. I guess they’re not the kind of people who take walks in parks. Even so, you must see some of the same faces.’

  ‘Not that many. I don’t know anyone’s names apart from Margo Farrier, because she heads up the committee and I have to follow her planting schedule. And Professor Clarke at number forty-two, who hired me from the agency. And there’s an elderly Indian gentleman, I can’t remember his name. I keep all the beds and borders trimmed according to Mrs Farrier’s plans, and I have to know the names of everything I plant because she tests me. So yeah, we sometimes talk.’

  ‘Why did you take Mrs Forester’s picture?’

  Ritchie shrugged. ‘I’d already lined the shot up to frame the winter planting in the flowerbed. I was looking for some colour to go in it. She walked into the frame wearing that red coat.’

  ‘My colleague thinks it’s odd that you let the buddleia remain.’

  Ritchie laughed. ‘There are over a hundred different species of the butterfly bush. It’s also known as the bombsite plant because it sprouts in rubble. It’s us
ually invasive but ours is a sterile seed variety. Mrs Farrier likes them because she says they remind her of London after the war.’

  ‘Ever photograph Helen Forester before?’

  ‘No, man.’ The gardener pointed to his phone. ‘You’ve got all my shots going back nearly a year. It’s mostly reference for the planting. I have the rest marked with dates and locations on my hard drive. You can go through them if you want.’

  ‘What do you do on the days you’re not at Clement Crescent?’

  ‘I help out in other parks and gardens. Wanstead, Syon, London Fields, Bishop’s Park, Kensal Green, all over. I don’t just do gardening. I do some seasonal delivering and I design websites for mates.’

  ‘When you took the shot, did you realize there was someone else in it?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t see much in the background. The light source was limited.’

  May walked to the window and looked out. It had started to rain hard, which would make Banbury’s job more difficult. ‘So you didn’t see anyone else this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does anyone ever manage to climb into the gardens? Do you get any break-ins?’

  Jackson pulled at a thread on his sweater, thinking. ‘The railings were repaired and repainted recently because some women had tried to get in and dig up the plants. They had baby buggies with them, loaded with flowers they’d cut from people’s front gardens. I’d heard about some Albanians doing this over in Hackney but never in Holland Park before. We chased them off.’

  ‘How did the workmen get in and out?’

  ‘I let them in; they never had keys.’

  May stood thoughtfully for a moment. Banbury had checked the gardener’s shed and had found only secateurs, fertilizer and shovels.

  ‘There’s one thing,’ said Ritchie. ‘It may be nothing. I’d seen Mrs Forester coming in through the gate a couple of times. Before she unlocked it she always looked around, left and right, like she was doing something wrong. I don’t want to say anything bad about a dead lady, I just remember noticing. It was like she was checking for someone.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘Man, who’d have thought you could lose your life just walking a dog? Gardens aren’t supposed to be lethal.’