Die Twice

by Simon Kernick

  I couldn’t help feeling vaguely concerned about what I was hearing. I took a sip from my tea and put the cup down. ‘I’d like to try her flat again, if I may,’ I said, standing up. Berrin, who was munching on one of the custard creams, followed suit with only limited enthusiasm. It looked like he’d been enjoying his sit-down. ‘Can you show me which one it is, Mr Lacker?’

  ‘Of course,’ he answered, and led us back out into the hallway. He pointed to a door at the far end. ‘That’s it.’

  I stepped past him with Berrin following and knocked hard on the door. Nothing. I waited a few moments, then tried again. If she was in there, she would definitely be able to hear me. I put my ear against the door and listened to the silence. I tried the handle but it was locked. Then I had an idea. A highly irregular one, but on a day like this I wasn’t going to be fussy. ‘Have you got a key to Miss Tanner’s flat, Mr Lacker?’

  ‘I have,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure I should be—’

  ‘I have reason to believe that something might have happened to her,’ I told him, ‘and I need to see if this is the case or not. To do that, I need access to her flat. You can come in with us if you want to satisfy yourself that we’re not doing anything in there that we shouldn’t be.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I’d better go and get it.’

  He turned and went back inside and Berrin looked at me quizzically. ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ Which of course were famous last words if ever I’d heard them.

  A few seconds later, Mr Lacker emerged with the key in his hand and a worried-looking Mrs Lacker in tow. ‘I do hope everything’s all right,’ she said to me. ‘She always seemed such a nice young lady.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I said, taking hold of the key, ‘but I think it’s best to stay on the safe side.’ With everyone crowded behind me, I turned the key in the lock and slowly pushed open the door.

  The layout was different to the Lackers’ place and the door opened directly into a spacious lounge with an open-plan, newish-looking kitchen to the right. A wide-screen plasma TV hung from the wall in front of two expensive-looking leather sofas, and the whole effect was very minimalist but also very tasteful. It also looked very unlived in. There were no dirty cups or dishes and the large glass ashtray on the coffee table in the centre of the room was clean and empty. And no evidence at all of a row.

  ‘Well, she’s not short of a few bob,’ said Berrin, looking round admiringly at the furnishings, particularly the TV.

  ‘She never said what she did for a living,’ said Mrs Lacker, who had come in behind us. Her husband, meanwhile, hung back in the doorway. ‘It’s very nice, isn’t it Peter?’

  Peter nodded. ‘I expect that kitchen cost a pretty penny,’ he said. ‘Those are granite worktops in there. They cost a fortune.’

  Berrin looked across at me, presumably for guidance as to what to do next, now that we were in the place. The problem was, I wasn’t sure. I’d hoped there might be some clues to her whereabouts lying about – not that I was quite sure what – but there was nothing. It looked like the apartment had been cleaned from top to bottom – a slightly worrying sign in itself.

  To our left, a short hallway ran down to the rest of the apartment. ‘Let’s take a look down here,’ I said. Berrin looked at me like he wanted to say something but was unable to do so because of the presence of the Lackers. I knew what it would be as well. Something along the lines of ‘What the hell are we doing here and what would a defence lawyer have to say about it?’ A good point, but I’d worry about that one later.

  ‘I’ve never been in here before,’ said Mrs Lacker, wandering into the kitchen area and looking up at the metallic pots and pans hanging there. ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘Don’t touch anything, please,’ I told her. ‘Either of you.’

  We started off down the hallway. Mr Lacker meanwhile remained standing in the door, looking around with just a hint of suspicion, as if he too was trying to work out what Jean Tanner did for a living and how she’d managed to accumulate such pricey belongings. It looked like he was jumping to correct conclusions, and was perhaps realizing that he wasn’t as sexually liberal as he’d previously thought.

  There was a bathroom on our left with the door slightly ajar. I pushed it open with the key while Berrin stepped past. I noticed that two toothbrushes were out on the sink and the lid was off the toothpaste – not that any of that was much use. The shower, however, had been used quite recently, certainly that morning. The curtain was damp and there were still drops of water in the bath tub.

  I stepped back out of the bathroom and saw Berrin, who’d put on gloves, opening the door to one of the bedrooms. At the same time he removed another of the Lackers’ custard creams from his pocket and began munching it surreptitiously.

  I followed him into the bedroom, conscious that Mrs Lacker was coming up behind me, doubtless for more of a nose about. I was just turning round to tell her to stay back when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Berrin stop in front of an imposing dressing-room cupboard at the end of the double bed, and pull a face. He started to say something but his mouth was full of custard cream and it came out like gibberish. And then, the next second, he was opening the door.

  There was an immediate crash as the naked corpse came tumbling stiffly out, arms at its sides, like something out of The Mummy Returns. It smacked straight into Berrin, who let out a high-pitched howl, spitting crumbs everywhere, and fell back on the bed with it on top of him. I yelled too, and jumped back as he instinctively shoved it away from him, unfortunately in my direction. It bounced loudly against the corner of the cupboard, then came crashing down by my feet, face upwards, and right in the doorway. Mrs Lacker saw it immediately, let out the biggest scream of the lot, then put her hand on her face and fainted dramatically, hitting her head on the bathroom door as she fell backwards.

  ‘What’s going on?’ yelled Mr Lacker, running over to his wife.

  ‘Stay back!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t touch anything! This is a murder scene!’

  Then I looked across at Berrin, whose hair was now standing on end. His face was as white as a ghost’s and he was staring off into space. ‘Oh my God,’ he kept saying, over and over again.

  I looked down at the blank dead eyes gazing up at me, then at the familiar tattoos on the upper and lower arms. A Chinese dragon on the left, a military emblem on the right. ‘Shit,’ I said as I stared down at the corpse of Craig McBride and wondered why on earth he should be lying dead in the apartment of a woman he was not even meant to know.

  * * *

  I called Capper from the Lackers’ apartment, where Mr Lacker was mopping Mrs Lacker’s brow with a damp cloth, while Berrin sat bolt upright in his original chair, sipping the tea Mrs Lacker had poured him five minutes and one cuddle from a corpse ago. He didn’t look too good, which was hardly surprising.

  Capper answered on about the tenth ring and I told him what had happened. ‘What the hell was McBride doing in her flat?’ he demanded, as if it was somehow my fault.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And there’s no sign of her anywhere?’

  ‘Nothing that I can see.’

  ‘Have you touched anything in there?’

  ‘No, we’ve secured the scene, but you’re the first person I’ve called.’

  ‘Any indication how he died?’

  ‘Well, there was no blood but I didn’t really look too closely. Put it this way, he was all right this time yesterday so, whatever it is, I wouldn’t think it’s natural causes.’

  ‘All right, wait where you are and make sure no-one contaminates the scene. What’s the address?’

  I gave it to him, said my goodbyes, and put down the phone. I looked over at the Lackers. Mrs Lacker appeared to be coming back to earth. ‘It was horrible,’ she said as her husband continued to dab her brow. ‘Something like that in a respectable neighbourhood like this.’

  ‘I know this is a difficult questio
n, but did you happen to recognize the deceased? Is he someone you’ve seen here before?’

  Mrs Lacker gasped melodramatically as if I’d just asked for her bust measurements. ‘I don’t know, I didn’t see. All I remember was him falling into the doorway and then … And then, that’s it.’ She finished the sentence with another gasp and her head fell back on the seat.

  ‘Mr Lacker,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t see either. I was too busy looking after Margaret.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I was going to ask. I know it’s not going to be easy but I’d appreciate it if you could come in with me, view the deceased, and let me know whether you’ve ever seen him here before. It could prove very helpful.’

  ‘What do you think’s happened to Jean?’ asked Mrs Lacker worriedly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, thinking that I wouldn’t mind an answer to that question as well. ‘Mr Lacker?’ He nodded and stood up. ‘Dave, you stay here and look after Mrs Lacker. OK?’

  Berrin nodded, beginning to look slightly healthier now. ‘Sure.’

  I led Mr Lacker back into Jean’s apartment, again reminding him not to touch anything, and walked back through the darkened hallway to where the body lay. Mr Lacker paused a few feet behind me, and put his hand against the wall to steady himself. ‘It’s so stifling in here, isn’t it?’ he said, sounding breathless. ‘I don’t know how you can do this sort of thing every day, I really don’t. I’ve got nothing but admiration for you.’

  ‘It’s not an everyday occurrence, thank goodness,’ I told him, thinking that it was a rare day anyone said they were full of admiration for me. ‘If it was, I don’t think I’d be able to handle it.’ And I wasn’t sure if I would have been. The longer you’re in the job, the more you become hardened to the horrors around you, but the sight of Craig McBride’s stiff, lifeless body, sucked dry of personality, of everything, depressed me in a way I find difficult to describe. Particularly as the previous day I’d been holding a conversation with him. It might not have been a very pleasant one, but that was hardly the point. He’d been alive, now he was gone. Permanently.

  I stepped out of the way so Mr Lacker could see Craig’s face. He looked quickly, then looked away, still standing a few feet back. ‘Take your time,’ I told him. ‘There’s no hurry.’

  He stayed where he was for a couple of seconds, then steeled himself, took a couple of steps forward, and looked again. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him before,’ he said, turning away. ‘On two or three occasions.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ I said, leading him back towards the front door.

  At that moment, there was a commotion from outside, the front door opened, and a giant of a man about ten years my senior, dressed in an ill-fitting black suit, stepped inside. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he barked. ‘This is a crime scene. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m DS John Gallan,’ I said, stopping in front of him. ‘And this is Peter Lacker, the neighbour.’

  ‘Well, I’m DI Burley and I’m taking over from here. And you two are contaminating a crime scene. Have you touched anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, get out then. SOCO are going to be here in a few minutes and we’ve got to seal everything off.’

  He motioned bluntly towards the door with his head, and we stepped past him into the hall where several uniformed officers were standing. Burley followed us out. After I’d led Mr Lacker back into his own flat, he put a large, hairy hand on my shoulder and half-pushed me over to the top of the stairs. I was going to tell him that as far as I was aware we were on the same side, so he could ease up if he liked on the tough-guy routine, but I never got the chance. He was talking before my lips even parted.

  ‘What were you doing back in there with the neighbour? Seeing if you could fuck up the crime scene as much as possible? Have you forgotten what the procedures are, or did you just never bother to learn them?’

  ‘Did you get out of bed the wrong side or are you always this charming?’

  I thought he was going to pick me up then and chuck me down the stairs. I’m not a small bloke – I’m close to six feet tall – but there was no questioning the fact that he could have managed it. His sharp little eyes, by far the daintiest features on his long, heavy-jawed face, blazed angrily. ‘That’s another thing you obviously haven’t learnt then, that a DI’s a superior officer to a DS and therefore a DS should speak to a DI with a measure of fucking respect, and address him as sir. And apologize when he fucking forgets that.’ His words were spoken in a loud hiss through teeth that looked like they usually spent their time gritted, and whether I liked it or not (and I didn’t, I can assure you), what he was saying was correct. I took solace in the fact that a man as rude, angry and clearly stressed as DI Burley was not going to live to a ripe old age, surrounded by loving relatives hanging on to his every word of wisdom.

  ‘I was just doing my job, sir,’ I told him, emphasizing the sir. I held his gaze, knowing that the only way a person gets intimidated is if he lets himself. I’d done way too many miles for that to happen.

  ‘Well, you’re not doing very fucking well. So, I understand you know who the corpse is, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right. His name’s Craig McBride. We spoke to him yesterday in connection with a murder.’

  ‘But he doesn’t live here?’

  ‘No, the apartment belongs to a Jean Tanner. We came here to see her, but she wasn’t here. He was.’

  ‘What were you interested in her for?’

  I explained what we knew in short, sullen sentences, giving him more of an overview of the Matthews case than the bastard deserved. As I was finishing, Berrin came over to join us. Burley turned round and saw him. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ he said. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Not used to stiffs, then?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Berrin belligerently.

  ‘Well, I want you both to know that we’re taking over this case now. This is our patch and we’re investigating it. Thanks very much for alerting us to yet another fucking suspicious death in the division, but we won’t be needing any more help from you. So, if you’ll excuse us…’

  ‘Hold on,’ I said, ignoring the murderous glare he shot me. ‘We need to speak to Miss Tanner regarding the Shaun Matthews murder case. It’s important. Sir.’

  ‘When we locate her, Sergeant, you’ll be given the necessary access to question her about your own case, if you follow the procedures. Now, we’re very fucking busy so I’d like it if you could be on your way before you mess anything else up. I’ll inform your superiors when and if we have her in custody.’

  ‘I’d also like access to the results of the post-mortem on McBride.’

  ‘You’ll get the information when we have it,’ he said. ‘Now, goodbye.’ He turned and stalked back towards the open door of Jean’s apartment, leaving the two of us standing there like lemons.

  Sometimes you genuinely wonder why you bother. When even your own people don’t seem to want to help you, then you really are kicking a lead door. I’ve met plenty of coppers like Burley – far too many, if the truth be told – and, like him, they’re generally the older guys with too many years on the Force who’ve never quite done as well as they think their talents deserve, and who hold a grudge because of it. They’re also the ones who are most prone to corruption. I wondered briefly whether there was more to Burley’s eagerness to get us off the premises than he was letting on. It also seemed strange that he’d got here so fast. As if he’d been waiting just round the corner.

  ‘Where to now?’ asked Berrin with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  I sighed, forcing down the frustration. When one avenue fails, try another one. ‘Let’s go and see Neil Vamen,’ I told him.

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Sarge?’ said Berrin. He still looked sick. Sick and nervous.

  It was twelve-thirty and we were walking towards the Seven Bells, a pub in Barnsbury which, according to the profil
e we had on him, was supposedly the Sunday lunchtime haunt of Neil Vamen. The place, no doubt, where he felt most at home among ‘his people’. Barnsbury, the traditionally working-class, now partly gentrified district of south Islington that encompasses the area between the Caledonian and Liverpool Roads north of Pentonville, was in many way the spiritual home of the Holtz organization, since it was there that all the senior members had grown up and plotted their first scams together. Most had long since moved out to larger, more ostentatious properties in the suburbs, including Vamen, but he apparently still retained a special affection for the area, not least because his mother still lived there, and he visited regularly.

  It probably wasn’t a good idea to go and see him. After all, I didn’t expect him suddenly to blurt out everything he knew about the death of Shaun Matthews and Craig McBride, as well as the whereabouts of his alleged girlfriend, Jean Tanner. As Berrin had pointed out more than once this morning, he might have known nothing about any of it, but I wasn’t so sure. Jean had been linked to him by a man who was now dead. She’d been seeing another man who was also now dead. At least one of those deaths, and almost certainly both, were not from natural causes, and now Jean was missing. I didn’t have any particular theory of what Vamen’s involvement might be, it was still too early for that, but at least by turning up out of the blue we might be able to rattle him. Particularly if he thought we knew more than we actually did.

  ‘I don’t honestly know if it’s a good idea or not but I don’t see any alternative. I mean, who else is there left to talk to? We’ve got a murder inquiry where everyone we want to interview is either missing or dead. Have you thought about that? Fowler’s nowhere to be seen, McBride talks, then twenty-four hours later he’s dead, and now Jean Tanner’s disappeared into thin air. At least Vamen’s still capable of opening his mouth.’

  ‘I’m not criticizing, Sarge, but don’t you think we ought to have checked it out with Capper first?’