The Murder House

by Simon Beaufort

  I was amazed at how a few glasses of wine and Colin could make me feel so much better. He was really good at telling stories. He could transport anyone away from a hard chair and the smell of pizza to his office pranks, or his holiday in Turkey, or wherever else he happened to want you to be. James receded further still.

  ‘Have you heard about James?’ Frances asked suddenly, bringing me back to Earth with a thump. We’d been chatting about a school trip we’d once taken to Paris. James had been there, although I don’t recall him doing anything special – not like Colin befriending some Russians, or Frances and Gary getting in trouble for staying out late. But it was probably the memory of Paris that brought James to Frances’ mind.

  My heart started thudding again, although it was nothing like it had been on The Night. I reached for my wine and my hand was unsteady. I didn’t drink any, in case I spilled it and drew attention to the fact that I was shaking like a leaf.

  ‘What about him?’ My voice was more steely than I’d intended, so I forced a smile. ‘I haven’t heard anything for months – years. Not since he used to come here and meet us.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Gary. ‘The last time I saw him was when we went to see that awful film about the alien invasion. What was it called, Fran?’

  They began to debate the name of the film, which led to a discussion about science fiction in general. While they argued, Colin turned to me.

  ‘James once told me that you and he had … you know. Once.’

  ‘He did?’ I asked in panic. Had he bragged to many people? What had he said? That I was a poor and uninspired lover? That it hadn’t been worth the price of the meal he’d bought me? The thought was horrible. ‘It wasn’t a very good night,’ I muttered.

  ‘You did, then?’ Colin sounded surprised. ‘I just thought he was being mean, to get at me because he knew I liked you. He can be spiteful.’

  ‘He can,’ I agreed. ‘Did he warn you off or tell anyone else?’

  ‘Only me, as far as I know.’ If Colin was bemused by the questions, he didn’t show it. ‘Like I said, he told me because he knew it would hurt my feelings.’

  ‘Well, it was pretty dismal,’ I said. It didn’t surprise me that James had aimed to wound Colin. He was that kind of person. I went on, remembering to refer to him in the present tense. ‘He looks good, but it’s all show and no substance.’

  I suppose I should have denied having sex with James, so he would think that James’ claim was sheer malice. He would have believed me, as he obviously didn’t like the thought that James and I had been together. But the wine had taken the edge off my wits, and I hadn’t been quick enough to think it through. I changed the subject quickly and started to talk about my pizza, but Colin turned to Frances.

  ‘What about James?’ he asked. ‘Has he been promoted again? I never see him at Sainsbury’s these days. I suppose he’s graduated to Waitrose.’

  ‘He failed to turn up for a court case,’ replied Frances. ‘First on Thursday, then again today. My mum told me. She occasionally temps for Urvine and Brotherton, and she overheard people talking about it. The rumour is he’s gone off on holiday to a gay resort.’

  ‘He’s gay?’ asked Colin. ‘But I thought …’ He couldn’t help glancing at me. Fortunately, neither Frances nor Gary seemed to notice.

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ said Frances. ‘I’ve heard he’s a dismal lover, and he’s never really been one for girls. Too good looking, that’s what my mum says.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe it,’ said Gary, shaking his head. ‘I’m serious; I really don’t. How do you know he’s not gone off with a woman?’

  ‘Mum says he doesn’t have one,’ replied Frances.

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Gary, winking.

  ‘It wasn’t a warning,’ said Frances, rather sharply. ‘If he’s managed to resist your charms all these years he’s not about to jump your bones now, is he? I was telling you because I thought you’d be interested.’

  I lifted my glass to my lips, but my hand was steady now. I’d have to brace myself for many more mentions of him in the coming weeks, especially once his body was discovered. I couldn’t go to pieces every time. I’d need to appear puzzled but calm when they confronted me with any evidence they found. I’d need to say that I’d no idea why James should have phoned me, of all people, the night he died. And, as for the murder weapon I’d been so worried about – well, the rock was rough and dusty, and fingerprints don’t adhere well to those sorts of surfaces. Perhaps I’d be lucky.

  Colin was muttering that he couldn’t imagine why a nice, attractive, intelligent and sensitive woman like me had gone to bed with such an arrogant, self-centred bastard. I agreed. It hadn’t meant a thing, I said, not adding that it hadn’t meant a thing to James, either. The shock of hearing him mentioned had sobered me somewhat, and I wished again that I’d had the presence of mind to deny having a one-night stand. What would happen if Colin told the police that I was one of James’ conquests? It would be all over the station in hours, especially if Wright heard about it.

  Later, I was to learn that gossip was the least of my worries.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you at home, Mr Brotherton. It’s DI Oakley from New Bridewell. We met this morning in court.’

  ‘Did we?’ Brotherton sounded cool and uninterested. ‘It’s late. What do you want?’

  ‘Just one question,’ said Oakley quickly, sensing the ‘end call’ button was about to be pressed. ‘James Paxton’s mother is extremely worried. She says he wouldn’t have gone on holiday without informing her, and she’s asked us to look into it. Will you give us the number of his hotel, so we can put her mind to rest?’

  There was silence at the other end, until Brotherton said, ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘Did he tell you he was going?’ pressed Oakley. ‘Or did he just disappear?’

  ‘That’s three questions, Inspector. You said one.’

  ‘I didn’t realize they were rationed,’ retorted Oakley. ‘Will you answer them on the phone, or would you rather I came to your house? I can probably be there before midnight.’

  There was a gusty sigh. The prospect of a police visit nearly always brought witnesses to their senses. ‘He just went. What’s this really about, Inspector? Has he been caught drink-driving? Or curb-crawling, perhaps?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’ The police computer had been Oakley’s first stop, after he had persuaded Mrs Paxton to go home in case her son tried to contact her. Phoning hospitals and the mortuary had been the second. ‘And I told you what this is about: Mrs Paxton is worried. I hope her fears are groundless, but we’re taking them seriously, even so.’

  Brotherton was silent, so Oakley waited, too. There was a tendency in people, even self-assured lawyers, to fill gaps in conversations with words, and Oakley had been rewarded with all sorts of information with his wait-and-see approach in the past. Brotherton didn’t gabble, but he did start to talk.

  ‘Last Tuesday evening James told his secretary that he would be late the following morning, but he never turned up. I assumed he was making enquiries about one of his cases – he’s a partner, and we don’t keep tabs on each other’s movements. However, he was definitely expected for the Yorke remand hearing on Thursday, and he caught us unawares when he wasn’t there.’

  ‘He didn’t tell anyone at the office that he planned to go away?’

  ‘No, and believe me, I’ve asked. I was vexed about him not showing up for Yorke.’

  ‘Where do you think he might have gone?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Brotherton waspishly. ‘But I can tell you that he’ll be looking for another firm when he gets back. We can’t have unreliable partners.’

  No, thought Oakley grimly. Clients like Noble and Yorke were not to be let down. They were powerful men, with the money and connections to make life uncomfortable when things didn’t go their way.

  ‘What about his clients?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps we could ask them?’

>   ‘I couldn’t possibly give you names,’ said Brotherton irritably. ‘We have rules about that sort of thing. However, as you seem to be insinuating that James’ disappearance might be sinister I can tell you that Yorke is his only major active case, and he’s not in a position to do anything – he failed to make bail, as you know perfectly well.’

  ‘No, but Yorke’s friends and family are not behind bars,’ Oakley pointed out. There was a silence on the other end as the lawyer digested this.

  ‘James disappeared before Yorke’s remand hearing,’ he said eventually. ‘So they are unlikely to have harmed him.’

  It was a fair point, although it did occur to Oakley that Michael might be pleased to have his brother locked away, thus leaving the way clear for him to take over the family business.

  ‘Is there anyone at the office who might be better acquainted with James? A friend, perhaps?’

  ‘James didn’t have any friends, although you could try Tim Hillier. But I’m sure James will turn up when he’s ready. Young people do, don’t they?’

  ‘Most of the time,’ replied Oakley.

  Colin insisted on escorting me home that night, which he’d never done before. I was still a little high from the wine, and I was enjoying his company, so I invited him in for coffee, and one thing led to another. I’d never made love to anyone so savagely before. It excited and frightened him, and it astonished me. I didn’t think I had it in me. But they say that sex and death are closely related, so perhaps I needed one to counterbalance the other. Or perhaps it was because it had been a while, I was tipsy, and Colin was a good-looking bloke.

  We lay in bed afterwards, talking in soft voices, although my walls were thick and there was no possibility of being heard by the neighbours. But it felt right, speaking quietly in the darkness. At first, the room was lit dull orange from the glow of the street lamp outside, but that reminded me of the house on Orchard Street, so I lit a candle and drew the curtains.

  ‘You don’t like being in the police, do you?’ he asked, running his hand across my hip and down my thigh. He looked as though he liked the feel of it. I certainly did.

  ‘Not much. I’m not very good at it – I don’t assert myself enough.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being stopped by you if I was speeding,’ he said dreamily. ‘But it would probably be some plod.’

  ‘They’re not plods,’ I said sharply. ‘People are always accusing us of being thick, but we’re not. The exams we take are tough, and we can’t be stupid and survive. And anyway, most have got A-levels and even degrees these days, like bank clerks, nurses and office workers – and they don’t have a reputation for being dumb, do they?’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. It’s just something that pisses me off. Plenty of my colleagues are really bright.’

  I reached for him and this time our love-making was gentler and kinder. When it was over, I found myself crying again, and couldn’t explain why when Colin asked. He probably assumed it was because I’d been lonely, and was pathetically happy now I had a companion. But I really didn’t know what made me weep with dry, wrenching sobs, only that it felt really good to feel the stress draining away and to have Colin holding me.

  Already extremely late for his date with Catherine, Oakley called her to cancel their dinner in order to be able to contact Paxton’s friend, Tim Hillier. Unlike the conversation with Brotherton, Hillier was more concerned than hostile, but although he was obviously keen to help, he knew nothing of consequence, other than the gossipy assumption at the office that Paxton had booked a last-minute gay holiday.

  ‘But I don’t think it’s true,’ he concluded. ‘I suspect it was started by Giles Farnaby, who hates him.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Oakley, jotting down the name. ‘Why?’

  ‘Giles has been at Urvine and Brotherton longer than James, and the next partnership should have been his. But James got it, basically by putting the word around that he was thinking of defecting to another firm. He wasn’t, of course, but it got him what he wanted.’

  ‘And Giles resents it?’

  ‘He certainly does! He still hasn’t got his promotion, and seeing James getting all the best cases must be very galling. That’s why he started the rumour.’

  ‘Is James gay?’ asked Oakley.

  Hillier shrugged. ‘He doesn’t seem interested in men or women as far as I can tell. However, I don’t think he’d have left Bristol for no reason. He isn’t the type. He’s too … well, calculating, I suppose. He’d never risk damaging his career.’

  ‘So, where do you think he is?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ replied Hillier sombrely. ‘But I’m a bit worried.’

  Oakley had only ever met Paxton in court, but had found him coolly ambitious and determinedly selfish. That sort of person would make enemies of jealous competitors. Moreover, his work put him in the company of powerful criminals, and Oakley was beginning to have a bad feeling about the mysterious disappearance of James Paxton.

  EIGHT

  Tuesday, 7 August

  The summer was turning into a scorcher. The temperature had climbed to the low thirties, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Britain’s beaches were crammed with holiday-makers, and when tattooed youths with heavy boots and naked torsos started a small riot on the seafront of Weston-super-Mare, officers from New Bridewell were sent to help restore the peace. Helen Anderson was among them, deemed by Sergeant Wright to be one of three officers he would rather be without – he didn’t like the two new probationers either, with their politically correct training still fresh in their impressionable minds.

  Oakley went to Paxton’s flat, which was in one of the most expensive and desirable locations in the city. Mrs Paxton went with him, to ensure he didn’t touch anything. James, it seemed, disliked fingerprints on his metal and glass furniture, and even she was nervous in the shrine to costly minimalism that was his home. Henry was thriving under her care, but she refused to take the plant home. Oakley understood why: it would be like admitting that her son might never be there again to water it himself.

  The flat’s walls were white, so that carefully selected artwork supplied the only colour and automatically drew the visitor’s eye towards them. The chairs were chrome and leather, and there was a selection of glass-topped tables. The ceilings were high, and large windows afforded pleasing views of the yachts moored along Redcliffe Wharf. Oakley thought the place sterile and unwelcoming, and he couldn’t imagine relaxing there with a beer or the paper. The CD stack contained a lot of jazz, which Oakley associated with dull people hoping to make themselves appear interesting. The thick, leather-bound address book was full of clients, but very few friends.

  Oakley opened the wardrobe, and asked whether any of James’ clothes were missing. Mrs Paxton’s face crumpled as she gazed into the cavernous spaces with their neat ranks of expensive suits and laundry-ironed shirts.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘He has so many that I’ve lost track.’

  ‘Shorts?’ suggested Oakley helpfully. ‘T-shirts? Casual stuff like that?’

  ‘You mean the kind of thing he’d take on holiday,’ she said heavily. ‘I told you – he wouldn’t go. He doesn’t like foreign countries.’

  ‘What, any of them?’ asked Oakley, amazed that someone could make such a statement.

  Back at the station, he and Evans began to dial the phone numbers in Paxton’s address book, only to discover that nearly all the information about his friends was out of date – they’d moved on, and either hadn’t told him or he hadn’t bothered to amend the entries. Meanwhile, while they waited for Paxton’s email provider to give them access to his personal account, Tim Hillier helped them look through Paxton’s emails at Urvine and Brotherton. Every message pertained to work, and Oakley thought about his own account, which was liberally strewn with personal correspondence as well as official. He began to see Brotherton had been right: Paxton had no friends, and his life ce
ntred around work – which meant he was unlikely to risk it by jaunting off on holiday.

  The investigation upped its pace. Colleagues were interviewed, and it quickly became clear that Paxton was unpopular. The gay-holiday tale was repeated several times. Unfortunately, Giles Farnaby was also away, so Oakley was unable to question him about his vindictive rumour-spreading. Nor was he able to question Paxton’s clients, details of whom were withheld.

  Then a three-year-old child went missing, last seen with an uncle who had convictions for sexual assault, and Paxton was forgotten. After the child was found unharmed, there was an armed raid on a post office, followed by arson at the M Shed. The missing lawyer was no longer a priority, no matter how much fuss his mother made.

  Friday, 10 August

  By Friday, James had been dead eleven days. I tried not to think about what would be happening to him in the intense summer heat. But I took to walking along Orchard Street on my way to work. It wasn’t much of a detour, and something made me want to look at the house as I trudged to and from the station. They say that murderers are drawn back to the scene of their crimes, and it’s true, or at least partly true. I didn’t mind walking past the place, but I felt that wild horses couldn’t drag me inside.

  I was due to work the two o’clock shift at New Bridewell after three pleasant days doing nothing at Weston-super-Mare – the thugs who’d started the riot soon slunk away when they saw that extra police had been brought in. I strode past number nine, glancing sideways at it out of the corner of my eye, but the house looked the same. The curtains were drawn, and the tiny front garden had an overgrown, unkempt appearance. I wondered again whether the client who had loaned it to James for his shady meetings had been Yorke. If so, it explained why no one had discovered its grisly contents. If Yorke was sent down for life, then maybe James would never be found.