The Murder House

by Simon Beaufort

  I glanced at my uniform trousers and saw a couple of dark spots I hadn’t noticed before. I moved under the light and looked more closely. Definitely blood. Jesus! I’d sat in front of those three superintendents from Professional Standards with Wright’s blood all over me! The mere thought of it filled me with a sort of sick excitement. I’d been lucky, but I couldn’t afford to be careless like that in the future. Supposing one of them had noticed?

  ‘Look!’ Oakley was calling. ‘This is where Randal stuck the tape on the wall, and there are sticky bits in the bathroom upstairs where Kovac taped the stuff to the floor. We’ll have to get SOCO here again. I’ll put in the request tomorrow.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘They’ll be busy with Yorke and Randal’s houses tonight. I’m glad you nailed them.’

  ‘But I’m not sure they did it,’ said Oakley. ‘Who sent the anonymous note that pointed us in their direction? It was a set up, and I’m inclined to think that whoever sent that is our culprit.’

  Damn the bloody note! ‘Maybe Randal or Michael wrote it,’ I suggested. ‘It looks like the kind of spelling and grammar that Randal would use.’

  ‘Randal’s dyslexic, and Yorke wouldn’t have been so stupid,’ said Oakley. ‘No, the real killer’s still out there, laughing at us.’

  I wasn’t laughing, I can tell you.

  ‘You weren’t entirely honest with me yesterday,’ he said suddenly. ‘About Colin.’

  I stared at him in horror. Had he brought me here so he could tell me that he knew what I’d done? That Colin’s body had been found, and the pathologist knew he’d been murdered? And because I wouldn’t have murdered Colin for the sheer hell of it, Oakley had reasoned that I’d done away with Wright and James, too?

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said stiffly. I turned away from him and walked to the sitting room, where I stood near the mantelpiece. He followed and sat on the sofa.

  ‘I mean that I saw Colin waiting for you after you finished work. I happened to look out of the window when you both drove off. You told me you hadn’t seen him the night before. Why lie?’

  My fingers tightened on a rock, and I quickly slipped it behind my back. His attention was caught by some peculiarity in the old springs in the sofa, so he didn’t notice. I took a step towards him.

  There was an atmosphere of celebration at New Bridewell that night. Taylor brought a bottle of whisky and the officers who’d been on the raid drank it from plastic cups, sitting around on the desks and generally congratulating themselves. Finding a suspect for a murder was always a relief, but it felt particularly good to have the suspected killers of a policeman under lock and key.

  Davis, Evans and Merrick sat together, slightly apart from the others. Davis told the two of them about Oakley’s reservations, but Evans was sceptical.

  ‘Then why did he insist we nick Michael and Randal tonight? If he’s not convinced they did it, we’d have been better waiting until we’ve built a stronger case. I’ll be pissed off if this pair walk because he moved too early.’

  ‘He didn’t know what Randal would admit then,’ said Merrick defensively. ‘And he still thinks that whoever wrote that anonymous note is the killer.’

  ‘The forensic report came back on the saliva from the stamp today,’ said Evans. ‘It was addressed to him so I didn’t open it. You remember what he said about keeping that particular lead under wraps, because Taylor’d told him to drop it?’

  ‘Then let’s see what it says,’ said Davis. ‘Where is it?’

  Evans rifled in the mounds of papers that covered Oakley’s desk and dug it out. He opened it and read the result with a frown.

  ‘This can’t be right.’

  ‘Why? What does it say?’ asked Merrick.

  ‘It goes on about how the DNA was degraded, and says that the result is only an indication of the licker’s identity. They ran it through the database, and came up with one possible, but it’s from the police records – the ones we keep for elimination purposes.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Merrick. ‘Wright?’

  ‘Helen Anderson.’ Evans gave a short laugh. ‘Mind you, she’s got a good reason for wanting rid of Wright!’

  ‘She was at school with Paxton,’ said Davis. ‘And she met him for drinks with friends a couple of years ago.’

  ‘You don’t think …?’ Evans’ voice trailed off.

  ‘Where is she now?’ asked Davis. ‘I last saw her up at Randal’s place.’

  ‘She went to Orchard Street with Neel,’ said Evans. ‘He was going to look at something to do with a leaking bath. Get him on his mobile.’ Merrick was already dialling.

  ‘I’ll tell Taylor,’ said Davis. ‘It’s probably nothing, but …’

  ‘His phone’s off,’ said Merrick, snatching up his car keys and making for the door.

  Oakley hadn’t meant anything particularly significant when he’d told Anderson that she’d been caught out in an untruth. If he’d believed she was concealing anything remotely connected to a crime he’d have tackled her about it with witnesses, as was proper. He was just curious, and wanted to know why Colin Fairhurst hadn’t shown up to give his statement as planned.

  There was also the cinema ticket. Oakley had seen that particular film, and knew it was one of the more clever Bonds, not a lot of mindless chasing and fighting as she’d claimed. It told him she hadn’t watched it, so she’d lied about that, too. He still felt pangs of guilt when he recalled the unpleasant scene in the briefing room with Wright. It had been his fault, and he felt a degree of responsibility towards her. If she was having relationship problems, then he wanted her to know he’d be a sympathetic listener.

  Therefore, he was surprised when she came to loom over him in what could only be described as a threatening manner. He stayed sitting, hoping that a non-confrontational pose would reassure her that he hadn’t meant any harm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘Colin seemed like a nice chap, and I hope you’re not having difficulties.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded angrily. ‘We were perfectly happy.’

  ‘Were happy?’ he asked. So they had broken up, and it was a faltering relationship that made Anderson so moody and … well, strange, to be honest.

  ‘We are happy,’ she corrected furiously.

  ‘Then why the anger?’ he asked, then wished he hadn’t. His kindly concern was turning into an inquisition, which he hadn’t intended at all.

  He glanced up at her, and suddenly everything became crystal clear when a heavy stone appeared in her hand. It flashed down towards him. He twisted quickly, but it still grazed the side of his head and brought stars dancing in front of his eyes. The sound it made was sickening, as though his skull had broken open. He felt blood gush down his cheek.

  ‘No, wait.’ He managed to raise one arm, so the next blow was deflected. He sensed her moving around for a better angle, and tried to stand, but his legs were like jelly. Then the pain hit him. He hadn’t felt anything when she’d first struck, but now all his nerves screamed in agony and he began to black out. He fought against it, knowing that if he did, he’d never wake.

  ‘Have you killed Colin?’ As he couldn’t stand, he rolled off the sofa so that his head was under the coffee table. She’d have to move it if she wanted to hit him again, which might buy him vital seconds. ‘To stop him telling us something about you and Paxton? And you’d have had time to kill Wright, too, if he’d left the door open and you were quick.’

  ‘Three minutes,’ he thought he heard her say.

  ‘Was Paxton blackmailing you?’

  ‘Shut up!’ she hissed, and he didn’t recognize her face, twisted as it was with malice.

  ‘You gave him the stuff from the Noble file.’ How long could he keep her talking? And what was the point? Help wasn’t on the way. He persisted anyway. ‘The file was missing the morning of the trial, and you said you’d been reading it, but you’d actually taken it to show him. The STUD statement we found tonight would have been no go
od unless we took it to court. You were going to put it in the file.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she growled. ‘I wasn’t going to do that.’

  ‘You saw Paxton’s body at the mortuary.’ He was finding it hard to concentrate and darkness tore at the edges of his vision. ‘You said, “it doesn’t look like him”. Grossman thought you meant it didn’t look human, but you meant that he had decomposed and didn’t look like Paxton.’

  ‘It didn’t,’ she said dully.

  ‘The woman in the scarf.’ He saw her bend to lift the coffee table. ‘That was you. You said you’d fasten it in the front, but that was to mislead me because you’d actually tied it at the back.’

  Oakley was fading fast, and speaking was a massive effort. His eyes closed, and he couldn’t open them again. He heard the coffee table being pulled out of the way.

  I’d just moved the table, to see if I needed to belt Oakley again when I became aware of a movement in the doorway. Two men stood there: Mr Smith from next door and a handsome, green-eyed man whom I recognized from photos as Dr Kovac.

  ‘I have come to help the police,’ he said in accented, but good English. He and Smith were looking at Oakley, probably wondering why I was standing over him with a rock. ‘I have been away with my family, and I had no idea I was needed to help solve a murder.’

  I was fairly sure Oakley was dead. His speech had been strangely slurred at the end, and his movements slow and uncoordinated. It was a shame, because he’d been a decent man. But he’d brought his fate on himself by prying into my business. He’d left me no choice.

  ‘This is the man who murdered James Paxton and Barry Wright,’ I announced, drawing myself up to my full height, and knowing my uniform would ensure they believed me. ‘I’ve disarmed him and now I’m going for reinforcements. I won’t be long, and if he moves, hit him with this.’ I handed Kovac the rock.

  ‘Why not use your radio?’ asked Kovac. ‘Or your mobile?’

  ‘Poor reception,’ I replied briskly.

  ‘That’s the officer who came the day I reported the smell,’ said Smith. ‘He looks sort of foreign.’

  ‘He’s an impostor.’ I headed for the door. ‘Very dangerous. I won’t be long, but remember – if he moves, hit him hard.’

  I left the house and ran for Oakley’s car, but the keys were in his pocket, and I could hardly go back for them. In the distance I heard the wail of a siren. Had they finally worked it out and were coming to get me? Or was the rest of my shift just going to break up some brawl? It wasn’t far to my house, so I ran there as fast as I could. I tore off my uniform and donned jeans and a T-shirt. Then I grabbed the suitcase I’d packed. Money and passport were already in it.

  There was blood on my hand, but I didn’t wash it off. There wasn’t time. I snatched up my car keys and drove quickly to Colin’s house. Only Oakley knew he was dead, and he wasn’t going to be telling anyone. I smashed a window to get into Colin’s house, and I knew where he kept his keys, credit card and spare money. I took them all and drove to the airport, where I bought a ticket on the first plane out with Colin’s credit card. It was to Alicante, and I’d plan my next move when I landed. I sat back in my seat, and thought with pleasure that the next sunrise I’d see would be a Spanish one.

  Epilogue

  A year later

  I decided to stay in Spain in the end. I’d taken Spanish at school – in the same class as James, actually – and I enjoyed the challenge of immersing myself in another culture. At first, I worked in bars and restaurants – the kind of jobs where you’re paid cash and no one asks too many questions. I liked it. It’s a nice country, and it made a change to live somewhere warm.

  I read the Bristol papers online, and learned that I was wanted for murder. The local press screamed that I’d killed a brave police sergeant called Barry Wright, a brilliant lawyer named James Paxton, and a talented computer programmer called Colin Fairhurst – Colin’s body was recovered a couple of weeks after he’d fallen over the cliff. But I was oddly pleased that only three pictures appeared, because it meant that Oakley was still alive. Now I was safe, and nothing he could do or say could make any difference, I could afford to be magnanimous.

  I know you can’t believe everything you read on the internet, but I didn’t have any other sources, so I had to make do. I gathered from local Bristol message boards that Marko Kovac had been completely exonerated, and was quoted as saying that he’d learned not to be careless with keys – having accidentally left those from the physics lab at the Orchard Street house – or bathtubs again. Another report said that he’d offered to pay for the stain on the kitchen ceiling to be repaired – and that was after he’d forked out for an expensive plane ticket to rush back and help the police the moment he learned he was needed. Urvine and Brotherton had made no comment.

  Kovac talked about his nanotechnology research, too, which might have commercial applications, but those were so far in the future that the notion of anyone harming him over it now was inconceivable. Internet gossip also reported that he’d seen a psychiatrist about the atrocities he’d witnessed in the Balkans. So DI Davis had been right in that sense: Kovac had been disturbed by his experiences, but they hadn’t driven him to kill.

  A few months later, I read that Billy Yorke had been sent down for the murder of Emma Vinson, while Randal had turned informer and given evidence against the rest of the gang. Michael was acquitted, however, because there was no evidence, other than Randal’s testimony, that he’d ever been at the scene of any crime.

  Meanwhile, it emerged that Pullen, the corrupt architect, was strongly implicated in his son’s wrongdoings: he’d been feeding James information that would help set wealthy criminals free. It was discovered that he’d developed quite an operation from his prison cell, which he and James had used to make lots of money. Yorke, however, had been a friend. No money had passed hands to get him off the Westbury Burglaries. James had aimed to do that for love.

  Mrs Paxton was photographed with her head down, catapulted a second time into the limelight for marrying a famous criminal. I felt sorry for her. She’d worked hard to earn respectability after her husband’s downfall and it had all turned to ashes again. I kept an eye on the obituary sections for a while, half expecting to see her name there.

  I learned the search for me was widened to foreign countries when Colin’s car was found at the airport. Somehow, Colin’s answer machine messages were leaked to the media and played over the airways. It made me sound callous – phoning the boyfriend I’d killed to ‘cover my tracks’. I can’t imagine who was responsible. Not Wright, obviously, as he was dead. It just goes to show that there will always be an element of spite in the police force, and the fact that someone had taken up where Wright had left off made me sick.

  A little later, I read that Dr Grossman was retiring – earlier than anticipated, so I suppose the cock up over James’ dental records had taken its toll. Oakley would be glad, I was sure.

  And finally, I read that Wayne King had been caught using James’ mobile. He was arrested and charged with theft, along with a good many other offences. The CID wrote off dozens of unsolved cases and Wayne went to prison. I was sure he’d learn a lot from older, more accomplished villains, and would return to the streets of Bristol a far better crook.

  I cut and dyed my hair, and applied plenty of tanning lotion until my skin really was brown and local-looking. I lost weight, too, and felt good. The newspapers screamed for answers, as they always do when they only have half the facts, but in the end it died down and I was forgotten. I began to relax.

  I met a man who was able to give me a new identity, and my name is now Rina Carlo. Unfortunately he asked too many questions, then showed me a newspaper clipping with my picture on it, so I was obliged to resort to the rocks again. The Spanish police aren’t as assiduous as their British counterparts, so his death was put down to a fight between thieves and quietly written off. I got a job in a translation agency and started dating a nice industrial che
mist called Alfredo. I now live in a lovely bungalow overlooking the sea. Life is better than it ever was in Bristol. Crime does pay.

  Billy Yorke didn’t have to endure life in prison for long. A few months after he was sentenced he was found dead in his cell, having suffered a heart attack in the middle of the night.

  Michael supposed he should feel angry with the police officers who’d put Billy inside. But he didn’t. They were just doing their job, and Neel Oakley had his own problems anyway. He was facing a slow recovery, and questions were raised as to whether he would ever be fit enough to return to work. Still, his nurse had stayed with him, and Michael had heard they were getting married. Michael wished them well. It wasn’t the inspector who was the object of his slowly festering hatred – it was the brown-skinned woman who lay sunning herself by the swimming pool.

  It had taken Michael months to trawl the kind of places Brits went when they didn’t want to stand out. Clare Davis and Graham Evans had done the same, but they were under pressure of time and limited money, and didn’t stand a chance. Michael didn’t care that his painstaking search had gobbled up every penny of the proceeds from the Westbury Burglaries, or that he had barely rested since his quest had started. He only cared that he’d found his quarry at last.

  The woman who now called herself Rina Carlo liked a sweet, milky cocktail containing rum and coconut juice. She always had one when the Spanish began their siesta, sometimes at the beach and sometimes by the pool. That day, she was by the pool. She was drowsing, made sleepy by sun and alcohol, and she didn’t hear Michael when he slipped up to her table and emptied a packet of white powder into her drink. He stirred it with his finger and walked away.