The Murder House

by Simon Beaufort

  Brotherton sighed irritably. ‘Very well. Give me a moment.’

  He was gone for more than fifteen minutes, and Oakley was on the verge of going to see what was happening when the door opened and Tim Hillier came in. He shook Oakley’s hand.

  ‘Mr Brotherton asked me to give you this,’ he said, passing over a piece of paper with a scribbled name and address.

  ‘Too busy to do it himself, is he?’ asked Oakley, a little sourly.

  Hillier had the grace to flush. ‘He was called away to an urgent phone call.’

  Oakley took the opportunity to quiz the junior partner. ‘He said no one’s heard from Paxton since Tuesday the thirty-first of July. Is that true?’

  Hillier nodded. ‘There’ve been rumours about where he is – I told you about them. But we’ve not had a postcard.’

  ‘Where do you think he is?’

  ‘I really don’t have the faintest idea. Giles Farnaby reckons he saw James going into a gay bar that evening, but even if James is gay I don’t see him disappearing because of it. Personally, I don’t believe Giles. I think he made it up. And even if he didn’t, and he really did go inside, I doubt he was there long enough to see much. A dark-haired man in a suit.’ He gestured to his own attire. ‘How many of those are there in Bristol?’

  Oakley supposed he would have to question Farnaby again. ‘Now, about Orchard Street. What do you know about the owners?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs George Harton. He works in oil. We did the conveyancing when they bought the property. The oil industry’s a bit uncertain, and the Hartons aren’t sure when they might come back, so James recommended that they lease it short term, so they won’t have to wait long before retaking possession.’

  ‘James dealt with it? I thought he was a criminal lawyer.’

  ‘He represented Mr Harton on a drink-driving charge a couple of years ago. I suppose the family asked for him when they bought the house. Giles did the actual work, but James saw them, and recommended Academic Accommodations.’

  ‘Do you have other clients who rent their houses through this particular agency?’

  ‘A few. I can’t tell you how many exactly, but I could look it up if it’s important.’

  ‘Thank you. Does Billy Yorke have any houses leased through Academic Accommodations?’

  ‘Billy Yorke?’ asked Hillier, startled. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. He does own property, but he’s not the kind of person who’d use Academic Accommodations. Their tenants come through the university, you see, and scholars aren’t usually wealthy, although they do tend to be respectable. In other words, they’re low risk but low return.’

  Oakley nodded to the files that Brotherton had dropped on the table and forgotten to take with him. ‘The letter on top of that pile – the one on Avon and Somerset Constabulary notepaper – appears to be in my writing. Yet I’ve never sent anything to Urvine and Brotherton, so what do you think it’s doing here?’

  It took a lot to pull myself together after the incident with Wright. DI Davis was sweet, and said she’d ask Superintendent Taylor for a temporary transfer to CID, to help with the Orchard Street case. But that was the last thing I wanted – it was bad enough getting involved with the murder on an occasional basis; I didn’t think I could stand doing it all day. Also, I didn’t want everyone to think that Wright had driven me out, and for him to start telling people he’d got rid of me because I was no good. I told her thanks, but no thanks. She seemed surprised, but was understanding when I explained – the second reason, obviously, not the first.

  Wright was coolly hostile when I walked into the radio room an hour later and told Jeeves that I was ready to go out on patrol. Jeeves needed someone to see Mrs Vinson at the hospital, and I left without even looking at Wright. I could feel his eyes on me as I went, though, and I was sure he’d be talking about me as soon as I was out of earshot. It occurred to me that I should double back and catch him at it, but I didn’t have the strength to take him on again. Loathsome man!

  I tried to put him from my mind while I watched Emma Vinson struggling for breath. She was weaker and frailer than before, and I wondered how much longer she would cling to life. How could James have contemplated defending the louts who’d done this to her? And how could he have expected me to live with myself if he had forced me to play a part in seeing the bastards acquitted? They deserved everything the law could throw at them, and I hoped with all my heart that Oakley would see the whole lot sent down.

  Oakley had used Brotherton’s lengthy disappearance to look inside the files he’d left, of course. He was a policeman, after all, and curious by nature. There were several of them, all pertaining to clients of Paxton. There was one on Orchard Street detailing its purchase by the Hartons, complete with printouts of emails between Bristol and Saudi Arabia. The Hartons had only looked at the property once, and Paxton had purchased it on their behalf.

  More intriguing was the thicker, fatter file concerning Noble, and Oakley was bemused to find in it several memos from him to Clare Davis, reports of the surveillance on Noble’s sheds, and even a shift rota, giving details of officers’ availability for court.

  A cold horror gripped him. Someone had copied documents from the police file – documents that should certainly not be with Urvine and Brotherton. Was this how Paxton had learned about Butterworth’s Blunder? There was someone at New Bridewell whose first loyalty was not to his fellow officers.

  But who? Wright, who had spread the rumour about Butterworth in the first place? With a few drinks inside him, and a personable lawyer playing to the man’s vanity, who knew what the sergeant might do? But for all his faults, Oakley couldn’t see Wright passing police files to lawyers.

  He’d studied the documents carefully. They weren’t photocopies, but printouts of photos taken on a mobile phone – he could tell by the date in the lower right-hand corner. They’d been taken on the thirtieth of March at 4.10 p.m. He decided to check if Wright had been on duty then.

  Then Hillier had come in and he’d been obliged to pretend he’d only just happened to notice the memo from him lying brazenly on the top of the pile. Or had Brotherton left them there deliberately, wanting him to know that Paxton had engaged in underhand tactics – tactics that the old, respectable company certainly wouldn’t condone?

  ‘Your clerks probably sent them by mistake,’ said Hillier, although he seemed as bemused as Oakley as to how they should come to be there. ‘It’s what happens when we have a system that’s drowning in paperwork.’

  ‘A clerk “accidentally” took photographs of police memos?’ asked Oakley archly.

  ‘I suppose it is unlikely,’ conceded Hillier reluctantly.

  Oakley pulled some evidence bags from his pocket. ‘Would you mind if I took them?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Hillier suspiciously. ‘Surely you already have them?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d like these as well.’

  ‘Very well, but only if I take a photocopy first,’ said Hillier. He indicated the machine in the corner.

  Evidence bags in hand, Oakley prepared to leave, but Hillier caught his arm, glancing around in a way that could only be described as furtive.

  ‘James is a real wally, and you won’t find many here who like him. He’s too ambitious, and we hate the way he sucks up to Brotherton. He’ll get sacked when he comes back. It’s already started to go a bit wrong for him.’ He stopped and gnawed his lip. ‘He’s bent some rules.’

  ‘What rules?’

  Hillier nodded to the evidence bags. ‘Well, that’s the latest unpleasant surprise: God knows how he got them. Brotherton was never happy with the Noble case. He was delighted when we won, of course, but he didn’t like the notion that James might’ve obtained the information underhandedly. Perhaps he was aware of the memos. I heard him say he was uneasy about the whole thing, though I don’t know the details.’

  He should have been, thought Oakley as Hillier escorted him to the door. Someone was just coming in. It was Giles Farnaby, dressed in a s
uit and tie rather than the jogging pants he’d worn at his home in Bath. In smarter clothes, he looked familiar, and Oakley struggled to think of where he’d seen him before. In court, perhaps?

  ‘How is your grandmother, Giles?’ asked Hillier. ‘You shouldn’t work if you need more time.’

  Recognition came in a blinding flash. Farnaby was related to Emma Vinson, and Oakley had seen him at the hospital. No wonder Farnaby hated Paxton! It was not about losing out on a promotion – Paxton was representing the man who’d hurt his grandmother.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you were related to one of Yorke’s victims?’ Oakley asked him before he could follow Hillier down the hall.

  Farnaby scowled. ‘And have you accuse me of making Paxton disappear? Yeah, right!’

  Oakley regarded him coolly. ‘And did you make him disappear?’

  Farnaby sneered. ‘No. But he’s a bastard, and if anyone can get Yorke off it’ll be him.’

  ‘By resorting to illegal practices?

  Farnaby’s laugh was harsh. ‘Of course! How else could he get such fabulous results? When you have imagination and a bit of criminal flair, you can go a long way in this business. That Noble stunt was a prime example.’

  ‘I know,’ said Oakley softly, thinking of his dead friend.

  ‘He persuaded – or perhaps blackmailed – some plod to tell him about an attempt to tamper with police evidence. Brotherton said that was unethical, as the wrongdoing had been discovered and put right. He thought James had perverted the course of justice.’

  ‘Brotherton didn’t want Paxton to use the evidence he got from his police informer?’

  ‘He suggested James win by using more conventional means. James said he intended to win, full stop. I think he was going to pull a similar stunt with Yorke.’

  ‘How?’

  Farnaby stared at a sparrow that had perched on the railings. ‘He was certain he’d get Yorke out on bail, but I’d read the file and I thought the police had a pretty solid case. I couldn’t understand why he was so confident. There was no way Yorke was getting bail.’

  ‘He didn’t,’ Oakley pointed out.

  ‘Because James wasn’t there. If he had been, I suspect Yorke would be out. Brotherton told me that Yorke was livid when James failed to appear, and he’d expected Brotherton to get him out, just like James had promised to do. James even bet fifty quid on it. He’s a mean bastard, so he must have been sure of winning.’

  Oakley thought about the note he’d received, suggesting that he explore Yorke and ‘false confessions’. He frowned. False confessions? Had Paxton aimed to create reasons for mistrials when genuine ones did not exist?

  ‘He was up to something,’ Farnaby went on bitterly. ‘I wish I’d known what. It wouldn’t have pleased Brotherton if he’d pulled another Noble quite so soon. We’re a respectable firm, and we don’t want a reputation for dragging shabby rabbits out of our hats.’

  ‘That depends. You might if it attracts more clients.’

  Farnaby stared at him. ‘Of course! He was trying to attract more powerful criminals who’d want to be represented by him and no one else! He planned to make himself indispensable, so Urvine and Brotherton would have to promote him again. Bastard!’

  Oakley studied him thoughtfully. It was obvious that Farnaby loathed Paxton with a passion, but was his hatred strong enough to lead him to harm his dodgy colleague?

  ‘Do you want the bad news or the worse news?’ asked Evans gloomily when Oakley returned. He and Merrick were drinking tea in the incident room, sorting through piles of paper. Davis was working in the corner. ‘Or the strange news?’

  ‘Strange,’ replied Oakley, sitting at a computer and beginning to trawl through his emails.

  ‘I borrowed the keys Kovac left for the cleaner and they don’t fit. That suggests he left like he said he would, but then he came back, where either he was killed or he killed someone else.’

  ‘So we’re back to where we started,’ said Oakley, frustrated. ‘We still don’t know whether it’s Kovac or someone else in the mortuary.’

  ‘Well, it’s not James Paxton.’ Merrick sounded disappointed. ‘That’s one of our pieces of bad news: the dental records came back negative.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ muttered Oakley, thinking that let Farnaby off the hook. ‘Is Grossman certain?’

  ‘Paxton’s records list a missing premolar, but our corpse has it,’ replied Merrick. ‘It took him all of ten seconds to eliminate Paxton on the basis of that. He says if the records had listed a premolar as present, but it was missing on the corpse, then that would be different, as teeth fall out. But he said a premolar gone was a premolar gone, and they don’t re-grow.’

  ‘What if the dentist made a mistake? Crossed off the wrong tooth?’

  ‘I asked that. Extremely unlikely, apparently.’

  ‘I’d have liked the corpse to have been Paxton,’ sighed Evans. ‘I phoned his mum and told her the sad news.’ Oakley looked at him sharply, and he raised his hands in the air. ‘Nicely. I was very sympathetic and kind.’

  ‘Can we trust Grossman?’ asked Oakley. ‘He did the P.M. on Mark, but keeps forgetting – he’s mentioned him twice to me as if he thinks he’s still alive.’

  ‘Is that so surprising?’ asked Evans. ‘Think about how many corpses he sees in a year. He can’t remember them all.’

  ‘No, but Mark should have been different,’ insisted Oakley. ‘He should remember him. And I want a second opinion about the dental charts. Just to be sure.’

  ‘You won’t get one, Neel,’ said Davis, looking up from her work. ‘Taylor’s already grumbling about you sending that anonymous note to FSS. He says it’s a waste of resources. He’s not going to authorise another pathologist just because Grossman has got a bit forgetful. Especially as its just to placate the dreaded Maureen Paxton.’

  ‘What’s the other bad news?’ asked Oakley, suspecting she was right.

  ‘Wright’s put in a complaint against you,’ said Evans. ‘He says you undermined him by poaching his officers.’

  Oakley started to laugh. ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘I wouldn’t joke about Wright,’ said Evans in disgust. ‘He’s complained about you, too, ma’am, and he’s put Anderson on report.’

  Davis’ face was dark with anger. ‘The bastard has outman-oeuvred me! I haven’t had time to submit my own report yet, and he’s effectively made sure that I can’t, because now it’ll look like sour grapes.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this rubbish,’ muttered Oakley. ‘Doesn’t the man have a job to do?’ He sat up straight and helped himself to a mouthful of Evans’ tea. ‘Right. Let’s review where we’ve got today. A lot has come in, and we need to think through it.’

  ‘Well, the body’s still unidentified,’ said Evans. ‘And we’ve had no luck tracing Kovac in Albania.’

  ‘It’s odd,’ said Oakley. ‘After being so certain it wasn’t, I was actually beginning to think it might be Paxton. He deals with the Orchard Street house while the owners are away, he goes missing at the right time, and that anonymous note said we should look at Yorke for the murder – Yorke is Paxton’s client.’

  ‘But Yorke was in prison when the murder took place,’ Evans pointed out.

  ‘He’s got friends and family,’ said Oakley. He told them what he’d learned at Urvine and Brotherton, and about Farnaby’s suspicions. ‘The leaked documents were nothing – just the usual junk that gets shoved into any file. But Paxton somehow got them – and it seems reasonable to conclude that whoever gave them to him also told him about Mark.’

  ‘So,’ concluded Davis, ‘we’ve got the anonymous note accusing Yorke of murder and “false confessions”, and we’ve got Paxton operating in an underhand manner. We’ve also got Paxton associated with the house where the murder took place.’

  ‘So Paxton killed Kovac?’ mused Evans. ‘Then buggered off.’

  ‘No,’ said Davis. ‘I’m sure Kovac is our killer. First, he left duff
keys behind so he could return later. Second, he cleaned the house with bleach, according to FSS. Men aren’t naturally hygienic, so he must’ve had a reason for such diligence.’

  ‘To save his deposit,’ said Oakley practically. ‘If he’d left the place like a pig sty, he’d lose it – and it represents a lot of nice clothes for his family. And anyway, what’s this about men being unhygienic? I’ll have you know that my house is spotless.’

  ‘So’s mine,’ added Merrick sourly.

  ‘All right.’ Davis raised her hands in the air. ‘I concede the point about the clean house. But there’s still the keys to think about. Also, I’ve been learning more about nanotechnology, and I think it might make Kovac rich one day. Patenting some process might see him and his family in clover for the rest of their lives. Perhaps he killed to protect his research. Plus there’s the fact that he may have psychological problems over what he went through in Macedonia.’

  ‘Then who did he kill?’ asked Oakley. ‘If Kovac is our murderer, who’s the body?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said impatiently. ‘But Kovac is a more plausible culprit than Paxton.’

  ‘True – if Paxton was the killer, he wouldn’t have disappeared,’ said Merrick. ‘He’d be here, brazening it out. I looked to see if we had his fingerprints on record, but of course we don’t. The body’s fingerprints are in the kitchen and the sitting room …’

  ‘But not upstairs,’ mused Oakley thoughtfully. ‘Isn’t that odd? Kovac was there for three weeks, so he’d have gone into the bedrooms.’

  ‘But the house was scrubbed down,’ said Evans. ‘And we know our body and its killer came in after the cleaner had been, or she’d have seen it. But all this doesn’t rule Kovac out – especially if he used his keys to come back later.’

  ‘I gave his photo to the press today,’ said Davis. ‘That should flush him out if he’s hiding somewhere.’

  ‘What’s happening with the black plastic enquiry?’ asked Oakley. ‘And the duct tape?’

  ‘What a waste of time!’ said Merrick despondently. ‘There are partials all over both, but Solihull is too busy to work on them. All they’ll say for now is that the tape had collected some fine white dust. Lots of it.’