Jackson nodded slowly. “A fire in the lounge. Not within close proximity of the boiler and not the cause of the explosion.” He tapped the paper. “According to the report. So what the hell was it?”
Limb waited, whereas Belmarsh leaned forward, showing some engagement for once. She said, “The explosion was deliberate and the person who did it—who caused the gas leak—wanted to ensure it happened.”
Dixit said, “Like an accelerant or primer.”
“But it went out.” Jackson nodded. “And I don’t think he meant it to be an explosion. I think it was supposed to be a fire caused by a gas leak. We wouldn’t have the discrepancy with the time of death if he’d just created a fire fuelled by the gas.”
He spun the manila folder round. “So we have our confirmed murder investigation. Each of you read the file later. Meanwhile, how have your investigations gone so far?”
DS Limb reported his interview with Ellen Champion’s parents. “Confirmed that Alex MacLure was her friend since university. They haven’t seen him for a long time—years. No other notable acquaintances. She has a brother, eight years her senior. He’s in Singapore working at some financial institution. Do you want me to speak to him, sir?”
Jackson said, “Not at the moment.”
Limb continued: “Nothing from either neighbour.” Limb provided the names and addresses. “They were both at home all night and during Tuesday morning. No one heard or saw anything unusual until the explosion.”
“What about her landlady?” Jackson prompted.
“She’s in Lanzarote. I finally spoke to her after leaving a couple of messages. She’s been out there for four months and hasn’t returned. Never met Miss Champion and was probably a bit shocked. She wasn’t very talkative. Says she suffers from angina. On top of everything, the insurance claim seems to be stressing her out a bit.”
“Give her a few days and try again. See if you can get more details out of her. Get to the bottom of what’s worrying her. See if her story tallies each time. Probably nothing but you never know. Maybe there’s a connection.”
Belmarsh said, “You’re wondering if Miss Champion was collateral damage?”
Jackson looked at the second DS. She looked tired. More tired than usual. She never discussed her private life. He understood she was a single mum and he respected her for the effort, though her animated arm movements could be annoying.
“Like I said, you never know. Until we get a firm lead, rule nothing out.”
Belmarsh nodded and then reported that she’d spoken to the staff at Highclere, again with little in the way of discovery. “They all confirmed she worked long hours and didn’t interact with the staff. I also spoke to her boss at the British Museum”—she looked at her notes—“Professor Beatrice Lloyd. “Miss Champion has been an employee and research fellow for over six years. Never any trouble. She recently turned down the chance to go on a dig in Egypt.” She let her right arm flail for a moment, presumably as she was thinking. “Saqqara.”
“Near Cairo,” Limb said.
Belmarsh continued: “Champion wanted to help out at Highclere Castle instead, acting more like a guide. The prof gave me the impression she wasn’t that impressed with Champion, though called her a nice girl a few times. Quiet but hardworking.”
Jackson said, “Good. Why was she so keen to stay behind? As I understand it, most of these types can’t wait to get out on a dig. And why Highclere?”
Belmarsh nodded.
Jackson said, “How was Alex MacLure?” He switched his gaze to Dixit.
“Alex MacLure confirmed he was the ex-boyfriend.” He paused. They all knew the statistics. Roughly seventy per cent of women violently attacked or killed knew their attacker. Half of those were husbands, partners or ex-partners.
Dixit said, “There was no obvious sign that they were anything other than friends, although I find it odd that she left on Sunday morning. MacLure said she was going for lunch to her parents.”
Limb chipped in, “The parents didn’t see her on Sunday 8th. In fact, they hadn’t seen her for about three weeks.”
Dixit said, “Either he’s lying or genuinely didn’t know.” He looked at Belmarsh. “Jo got under his skin.”
She said, “He got quite agitated at one point. He didn’t like any suggestion that there was anything other than a friendship between them. There was also an attractive Polish woman there when we arrived.” She checked her notes. “Nadja Dabrowska. He said she walks his dog and cleans the house. I don’t know, maybe she was more. Maybe Miss Champion found out about it. Secondly, the house was spotless. I think the room Ellen had stayed in had been cleaned. Could be innocent, but could also be hiding something. I tried to get to him, wind him up a bit.”
“MacLure picked up on Belmarsh’s name.” Dixit grinned. “I didn’t know it was so infamous. Jo has an interesting ancestor.”
Belmarsh said, “Each time I mentioned there was something more between them, MacLure flushed. Friends-with-benefits, I kept saying. He didn’t like that.”
“Alibi?” Jackson asked.
Dixit said, “On his own Monday evening and claims to have been in bed all night.”
Jackson waited.
“But most of all, I thought he was withholding something. He seemed very keen to know if we’d found her briefcase. Her research.”
Jackson looked at DS Limb, who pulled out a sheaf of papers that listed all the items catalogued at the crime scene.
“One leather briefcase. Burgundy,” he said.
“Anything else?”
Dixit said, “While Jo checked out the bedroom where Champion allegedly stayed, I checked out the rest of the apartment. Nothing of interest except the books.”
“Eclectic!” Belmarsh coughed into her hand.
“Quite a mix,” Dixit said with a sideways glance at her. “There must have been a hundred books, mostly non-fiction, and one in particular caught my attention: a handbook of karate.”
“Karate?” Jackson said, thinking. The victim had died in a struggle. The cause of death was a broken neck, not the blunt instrument trauma. Could it be MacLure? “OK,” he said, dismissing them. “Let’s get a look at the briefcase. And Belmarsh—”
“Sir?”
“Talk to MacLure’s neighbours. I want to know if they had an argument when she stayed over.”
EIGHT
Alex struggled to sleep. Since the detective’s visit he kept wondering who had murdered Ellen? Who had a motive?
When he did sleep, he had the same dream.
He was walking on the path from the gym towards the low-rise block that stood on its own. His footfall echoed dull and leaden on the flagstones. The air was bitingly cold, the sky a patchwork of pewter and tangerine, and he knew it would be snowing before the end of the day. That’s how it had been. It was as though he was there again, back at school, fifteen, only now he knew he was dreaming. He also knew, no matter what, he couldn’t change what was about to happen next.
From behind he heard an odd pitter-patter that grew louder and louder. And then thwack! A force almost knocked him from his feet. Something was on his back, arms wrapped around his neck, choking him.
Alex swung around, forcing the attacker to let go. It was a small boy in his rugby kit and fresh off the playing fields. Tommy East, the scrum half. Others of the team ran up and formed a circle. Before Alex knew what had hit him, Tommy threw a roundhouse to the jaw.
He stumbled and Tommy kicked his legs away, sweeping him to the floor. There was a stamp on his chest followed by a flurry of kicks. One glanced off his head and again there was severe pain above his right eye. And then it was over and, through the fog of near unconsciousness, he heard the boys laughing as they walked away.
The assembly hall looked just like it had back in the day, its block wood floor smelling of varnish and the stage with its Prussian blue velvet curtains. The form master was there and he told Alex the culprit was in the rugby team; he knew because of the stud marks on Alex’s shirt
. So there they were, the whole damn rugby team lined up, all staring ahead, all thinking cold menacing thoughts.
Alex walked along the line, looking but not looking. When he walked past the little scrum half, their eyes met but, just like then, he couldn’t bring himself to point Tommy out. The form master said something, and as Alex turned, he saw the man’s face change into that of Detective Dixit’s.
The man said something.
“What?” Alex couldn’t hear. He leaned in.
“Who did it?” he snarled. “Point out the murderer!”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Alex felt panic rise.
He jerked upright, awake and drenched with sweat.
In was 4am, Sunday morning, and he was now fully awake. He got up, made a cup of tea and Topsy jumped onto the sofa next to him. He changed the TV channel. The new headline was that Highclere Castle had been burgled.
At 8:30 his phone rang.
Dixit.
The detective asked, “Have you seen the news?”
“Yes.”
“Stay home. Colleagues from the Met are on their way to pick you up. We’d like you to help with our enquiries.” That easy expression laced with so much meaning.
Nineteen minutes after Dixit’s call, Alex’s mobile vibrated and then his doorbell rang. He ignored them and continued to read.
A neighbour must have opened the outside door, because there were heavy footsteps in the hall and then a sharp rap on the door to his apartment.
“Police, Mr MacLure,” a voice called.
Alex rubbed Topsy’s head. “I won’t be long,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
In the hallway, three uniformed policemen waited impassively. He stepped out and shut the door behind him, walked down the hall, two policemen ahead and one at his side.
As they stepped outside, the lead men reached the gate and cleared a huddle of reporters and photographers away, providing a route to a silver Omega with twin orange Metropolitan Police lines running along its length. The policeman beside Alex looped his arm through Alex’s and walked him briskly through the gap in the bodies.
The rugby maul of reporters and photographers surged forward. A boom microphone swung close and the policeman at his side swatted it away. Alex ducked his head into the car and sat on the rear seat. A camera flashed and suddenly a reporter was in his face.
The man shouted, “What have you got to say about the allegations?” before the policeman pushed him aside and slammed the car door. Immediately, the mayhem was replaced by the quiet sanctity of the police car.
Alex settled into the black leather seat and stared straight ahead. He didn’t notice the paparazzi chase the car along the road, snapping photographs at the window. He didn’t pay attention to the route they took or even the destination. His mind was trying to grasp what was going on.
The Met officers took Alex to a police station in Chiswick. He was kept waiting for almost an hour before being ushered into a room with DC Dixit and an older man with grey hair and weary eyes.
DI Jackson introduced himself.
Alex looked around the walls, cream-coloured and spotless. No pins, no ancient Blu-Tack marks, no two-way mirror and no sign of a camera. On the table was a digital recorder but it hadn’t been switched on.
Alex sat with a straight back and hands relaxed on the table in front of him. Between the detectives, but closer to Dixit, was a manila file. Dixit had a cheap blue pen in his hand and flicked it again and again around his thumb. Jackson, sitting directly opposite Alex, kept his hands under the table like a card player in a Hollywood western, threatening to draw a pistol.
“So, I’ve not been arrested?” Alex asked.
“We’d just like you to help with our enquiries.”
“Can I have a solicitor?”
“If you want one,” Jackson said. “Do you need a solicitor?”
Alex shrugged. “I’m not guilty of anything, so no, I don’t need a solicitor.”
“Good,” Jackson smiled.
Alex said, “So, is this about the burglary at Highclere last night?”
Dixit said, “We’ll come to that. Firstly, just to be open and clear, were you involved in any way in Ellen Champion’s death?”
“No.”
“You suggested we look at Miss Champion’s briefcase, correct?” Dixit waited for Alex to nod. “Why was that?”
“I wondered… if Ellen was murdered, maybe it had something to do with her research. Maybe it was in her briefcase. Did you find it?”
“Was her research about something at Highclere?”
“I think so, but I don’t know the details. And you know what it’s like to be a detective. She was following threads, trying to answer questions about the past. That’s what she found so fascinating.”
“And you?”
Alex regarded the Indian detective and wondered what his point was. “Yes, I find it interesting.”
“But not always so. For many years you were an accountant.”
“Yes.”
“Latterly at Shelley’s Recruitment.”
“Yes.”
Dixit leaned forward. “You like to think of yourself as a mathematician, right?”
“I like numbers. I like looking for patterns. Same thing again—like detective work, I mean.”
“What are the odds of winning the national lottery?”
“Do you mean getting all six numbers correct?”
“That’ll do. What are the odds?”
“The probability of pulling six balls out of forty-nine is one in forty-nine times one in forty-eight times—”
“What’s the answer?”
“One chance in thirteen million, nine hundred and eighty-three thousand, eight hundred and sixteen.”
“So about fourteen million to one.” Dixit raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, if you want to be less accurate.”
“You know that and yet you claim to have played and won.”
“It was a whim and I like certain numbers.”
Jackson said, “You don’t strike me as someone who acts on whims.” He put emphasis on whims, perhaps mocking.
“Well each number has an equal chance of being drawn, irrespective of past draws—the so-called law of averages is nonsense. And sequential numbers are just as likely as any random combination. However I play the lottery every now and then when the whim takes me, and the numbers I chose were 2, 5, 10, 17, 28 and 41.” Alex smiled but could see they didn’t get it. “They are the ascending sum of the first six prime numbers, so 2 plus 3 is 5. Then add 5, the next prime gives you 10 then add 7 then add 11.”
Jackson again: “And you won?”
“Five of the numbers…”
Dixit leaned forward and smiled. “So you won millions?”
Alex shrugged ruefully. “The problem was that there were a bunch of people playing the same sequence. Probably all number freaks like me. I got a few pounds shy of seven hundred thousand. Did you know there’s a one in fifteen chance that a London telephone number is prime?”
Dixit ignored the question. “What was the date of your win?”
Alex gave him a date almost six months ago.
Dixit said, “We’ll check of course.”
Jackson said, “Because otherwise you can see why we might be suspicious of you coming into a large amount of money.”
Alex looked from Jackson to Dixit and back. “Is this what you wanted to speak to me so urgently about?”
Dixit said, “We spoke to your ex-colleagues. They said you just resigned. They knew nothing about you winning the lottery.”
“I did win. I didn’t tell them for obvious reasons. If you have money, other people get jealous and want it. The only people I told were Ellen and my mother.”
After a beat, Jackson nodded as though to himself and said, “Let’s talk about the matter exciting the press this morning, shall we?”
“The burglary at Highclere.” Alex had read the reports, which were thin on information. The theft had
been executed with surgical precision, it appeared. There was one witness to the arrival but no one saw them leave. The guard had been “rendered unconscious” according to most, although one referred to chloroform or something similar. He was in his room and saw a dark-coloured van come through the gates. The CCTV was black and white so he couldn’t report the colour, though he guessed blue and thought it looked like a Ford Transit. He hadn’t been alarmed. It drove to the rear yard and he thought it was maybe a delivery. He’d left the room and headed for the rear door. Before he got there, someone was already inside. He briefly thought he saw a movement, possibly someone big, but that was all. He was reported as not requiring medical attention.
Jackson asked, “Where were you last night between the hours of 2 and 4am?”
“At home in bed. Alone. No alibis.”
“Did you go to Highclere?”
“No. I was at home in bed.”
“With no alibi,” Dixit repeated.
Alex said nothing and waited.
Dixit said, “How did they gain access?”
Alex looked from one to the other. “I have no idea. Break the lock?”
Silence.
“They used a pass card—a British Museum pass card,” Jackson said, and paused. “Your pass card, Mr MacLure.”
Alex breathed in. He breathed out. “I think I’ll call my solicitor now.”
NINE
They left Alex alone while he waited for his solicitor to arrive. He’d called his mother who said she had one she’d recommend. A family friend apparently. She called back a few minutes later to let him know it would be Tanya Wilson. She wasn’t a criminal lawyer, but she was good and would help. “She hopes to be there within the hour. And Alex… be grateful, no matter what,” his mother added. “It is Sunday and she’s doing us a big favour.”
Alex said he would.
While he waited he also called Pete.
“Sorry,” Alex said as Pete answered groggily. “Working last night?”
“As ever. What’s up?”
“Have you seen the news about Highclere?”
Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner Page 5
