His eyes widened as Clarissa passed him a small, silver frame from the mantelpiece. Harry, tall, clean cut and obviously happy, was grinning from ear to ear. He had his arms wrapped around Annabel’s shoulders. She was short, fresh-faced and extremely pretty. Her hair, shoulder length, was dark blonde.
‘They look like the perfect couple,’ said Munro.
‘They were, in many ways,’ said Clarissa. ‘Although I must admit, it did come as bit of a surprise.’
‘What did?’
‘The wedding of course. I didn’t even get to buy a new outfit. They just turned up one day and said they were married. Whirlwind romance, I suppose.’
‘So, you hardly knew her?’ said Munro.
‘That’s an understatement, but that’s Harry for you,’ said Ed, with a sigh. ‘Mr. Impulsive. We joked about it, I said, chances are, they only got hitched cos they were stoned.’
‘And were they?’
‘Probably.’
‘Would you mind if we borrowed this?’ said Munro, passing the frame to West. ‘We’ll take care of it, naturally, have it back in no time.’
‘Of course,’ said Clarissa. ‘Feel free.’
The conversation paused, temporarily, as Munro, lost in thought, rocked gently back and forth, staring at the flagstones beneath his feet,
‘Apologies,’ he said, bluntly, ‘if I sound like I’m straying here, but what was her maiden name? His wife, Annabel?’
‘Parkes,’ said Clarissa. ‘Parkes, with an “e”.’
‘And was she local, I mean, do you know how they met?’
‘No idea, that’s another one for Harry, Inspector,’ said Clarissa. ‘Sorry, not being much help, are we? She grew up in Berkshire, I know that much. Winnersh, rings a bell.’
‘What about her parents?’ said Munro. ‘They’d have been devastated, would they not?’
‘Oh, I’m sure of it, Inspector, if she’d had any. Her father died when she was young, in her teens, I think, and her mother a few years later. You can ask Harry about it when he comes back.’
‘Aye, I will,’ said Munro, quietly. ‘Thank you, I will. Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time already…’
‘Nonsense,’ said Ed. ‘Pleasure to help.’
‘Just one last thing before we go, are you absolutely sure there’s no-one else your son might have called?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Ed, rubbing his chin. ‘Can’t think of… oh, Marcos! Dammit! How the heck could we forget about Marcos?’
‘Of course!’ said Clarissa. ‘Marcos. How foolish of us, sorry Inspector, we’ll be forgetting our own names next.’
‘Quite alright,’ said Munro, with an empathetic smile. ‘I do it myself, sometimes. Cannae remember what I had for tea last night. So, who’s this Marcos, then?’
‘Marcos Alfonso Garcia Delgado. Mark, for short. Oh, I don’t know how you’d describe him, they’ve known each other since forever.’
‘Friends?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ said Clarissa, ‘but they don’t see each other very often. And they don’t live that far apart, either. Different lifestyles, I suppose. He’s a charming boy, though, simply delightful. An artist, don’t you know? He’s been here a few times. Gave Harry a lot of support when he was going through his drinking phase.’
‘Yeah, stopped him falling over,’ said Ed. ‘Seriously, though, he wasn’t like us, we were too soft on the kid. Marcos told it like it was, tore him to shreds about the booze. Did him good.’
‘Would you have a telephone number? Or an address, perhaps.’
‘No phone number, I’m afraid,’ said Clarissa. ‘But I think we’ve an address somewhere, I’ll fetch it.’
* * *
West slumped in her seat, yawned and turned to face Munro as he reversed into the lane.
‘What do you think?’ she said.
‘I think this case is like a tub of gravy granules.’
‘What?’
‘Thickens when you add water.’
‘Very funny.’
‘And you?’
‘Well,’ said West, ‘I was thinking, the girl in that picture. His wife, Annabel. You know, if it wasn’t for the long hair, I’d say she looked like a younger version of this Sheba character.’
‘Right enough. Must be her double.’
‘Well, obviously it’s her double,’ said West. ‘Annabel’s dead.’
‘Is she?’ said Munro.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You tell me, Charlie. You’re a detective. For a start, there’s no body.’
‘I know,’ said West, ‘in case you weren’t listening, she drowned, swept out to sea.’
‘The tide was coming in.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Look at the photo, Charlie.’
West pulled the frame from her bag and studied it carefully.
‘What?’
‘Look at her feet,’ said Munro.
West drew a breath.
‘Converse? Oh no, come on, not again, this was taken years ago!’ she said, incredulously. ‘Are you telling me she’s still wearing…’
‘You do a lot of walking, don’t you, Charlie?’ said Munro.
‘What? Yes, of course I do,’ said West.
‘Like myself. You know, I get a new pair of boots every year, every year, and still I’ve not quite found the right ones. How are yours? Comfy, I imagine.’
‘Are you kidding? I wouldn’t wear them otherwise, would I? You should get some, I’m telling you, they’re the best boots ever. God knows how many pairs I’ve been through, been wearing them for…’
Munro said nothing.
‘Okay,’ said West. ‘Okay. Point taken.’
‘There is no point,’ said Munro. ‘I’m just getting you to think, Charlie. The poor lassie’s dead.’
‘But she’s just like the girl in those pics we found on his phone, surely that’s too close to be a...?’
‘Harry’s type, that’s all. We all have a type, Charlie. Even you.’
* * *
Sergeant Cole, enjoying the use of a desk and a private office – as opposed to the general mayhem on the ground floor – was happy to relinquish the tedious task of filling out charge sheets for something a little more investigative. Farnsworth-Brown’s bank statements were conclusive evidence that, despite there being a healthy balance, the man was clearly not extravagant.
‘Tommy,’ said Munro, as he and West ambled wearily through the door.
‘Guv. Miss. I, er, borrowed your desk, miss, to go through… hope you don’t…’
‘No probs, Sergeant,’ said West. ‘Tell you what, I’ll even stick the kettle on. How’s that for role reversal?’
Munro shrugged his shoulders in response to Cole’s look of bewilderment.
‘How’d you get on, Tommy?’ he said, grinning. ‘Anything we should worry about?’
‘Wouldn’t say “worry”, guv, but I’d say something’s up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, looking at these, it’s obvious he enjoyed his routine. See, on his current account, we’ve got the Co-Op, every Saturday, regular as clockwork. Then, there’s the Chinese takeaway, once a week, every week. And every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, between two o’clock and ten past, £100, from the cash machine on the High Street. Then, suddenly, nothing. Not a single transaction, apart from a direct debit, that is.’
Munro slung his coat over the back of the chair and gently sat down.
‘And he’s no writing cheques?’ he said. ‘No using another card?’
‘Nope. He’s got a MasterCard, but that’s not been used in ages.’
‘And the last transaction was…’
‘Day before he went missing. Well, day before he was last seen, I should say. On the stairs.’
‘I see,’ said Munro, quietly, as he turned to face the window. ‘I see.’
West glanced at Cole as an unexpected stillness descended on the room. Wary of breaking the silence, she
carefully placed a mug of coffee on the desk and stared at Munro’s baleful reflection. The furrowed brow. The hollow cheeks. The intense gaze. He looked, she thought, like a ghoul. Haunted.
‘So,’ she said, softly, daring to shatter the peace, ‘are you going to share it with us?’
Munro paused before speaking, his lips barely moving.
‘This Harry fellow,’ he said, as though talking to himself. ‘He doesnae have any friends, so if he’s gone away, he’s gone alone. His folks don’t think it odd, whereas his manager at the bar claims it’s completely out of character and is, most certainly, a cause for concern. His car, like his flat and his phone, is as clean as a whistle. There’s no trace of anything, not even a hair. And then there’s this... this “Sheba”. She confounds me. And why does she look strikingly similar to the lassie in the photo from the Farnsworth-Browns?’
‘No,’ he said, rising abruptly. ‘No, no, something’s not right, here. I don’t believe a fellow like this can just, disappear. We’ve missed something. Get your coat. You too, Tommy.’
‘Guv.’
‘What?’ said West. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Clock Court. His flat.’
‘But, but it’s getting late, can’t it wait till…’
Munro glowered at West.
‘Coming,’ she said, reluctantly.
* * *
West and Cole kept their distance as Munro, hands clasped firmly behind his back, trudged around the flat at a painstakingly slow pace, bending and stretching, scrutinising every book, every cupboard, every shelf, even the parquet flooring, for any signs of tampering, anything that may have been moved, intentionally or otherwise.
‘So,’ said West, with a huff, as she fiddled with her phone. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’
‘I’ll tell you when we find it,’ said Munro. ‘And you can put that away.’
‘But forensics have already been, they…’
‘Forensics gave this place the once over, lassie, dabs and prints, that’s all. They weren’t looking for anything particular, anything specific. We are.’
‘Like what, then?’
‘As I said, I’ll let you know.’
Munro reached the tiny, open plan kitchen and squinted as he scrupulously studied the wall which separated it from the living area. He tapped it with his knuckle, from top to bottom, from left to right. Hollow. He dropped to his knees and inspected the plinths beneath the units. There was a fine line of dirt between them and the floor. They had not been moved.
‘We could be here for ages,’ sighed West, as they reached the bathroom. ‘Do you really need all three of us to…’
‘What do you think, Tommy?’ said Munro, interrupting her. ‘Of the bathroom?’
‘Bit small, if you ask me, guv, considering the size of the place. I wouldn’t be happy.’
‘That’s planners for you. No sense of proportion for the practicalities of life.’
‘Fair size tub, though,’ said Cole, ‘I’ll give ‘em that. Jacuzzi too.’
‘Aye. I’m sure Giuseppe would be proud.’
‘Come again?’
‘Giuseppe Jacuzzi. He invented it.’
‘Really?’ said Cole, impressed. ‘Well, well, well, who’d have thought. I like the bath panel. Tongue and groove. Nice that. Can’t beat real wood.’
Munro slowly shook his head.
‘Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,’ he said. ‘I’m disappointed with you. It’s MDF, can you not see that? Flashlight please.’
Munro fell gently to his knees and directed the beam around the edges of the panel, humming as he did so.
‘I see,’ he said, shining the torch at one corner. ‘Ah-ha. Okay. Look here, the pair of you, tell me, Charlie, what do you see?’
West stood beside Munro, leaned forward and did her best to look interested.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s a bath panel. Wooden. White. And shiny, I mean glossy. Gloss paint.’
Munro sighed.
‘Are you familiar with the saying ‘don’t give up the day job?’ he said, softly.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, pay no heed, look at the screws, dammit! Can you not see that? The whole panel is in pristine condition apart from the screws, can you not see where the paint’s come off? Someone’s had this away. Tommy, have you a screwdriver? Pozi?’
Sergeant Cole unfurled a small driver from his Swiss Army knife, handed it over and waited silently as Munro methodically loosened all four screws and yanked the panel free.
‘What the fuck?’ said Cole, exasperated.
‘Harry Farnsworth-Brown, I presume,’ said Munro. ‘Gloves please, Tommy. Charlie, you know the procedure, forensics and pathology, now, and I want uniform on the door, downstairs too.’
‘Sir.’
Munro snapped on the latex gloves, crouched down on all fours and, one by one, dragged fourteen polythene sacks from beneath the tub.
‘Nice of them to bag the evidence,’ he said.
Sergeant Cole looked on, fascinated by the sight of the dismembered body parts, each individually sealed in airtight bags, feet, lower legs, thighs, upper arms, forearms, hands and head.
‘It’s like those barbecue portions you buy in the freezer place,’ he said, dryly.
Munro gazed curiously at a bag containing something resembling a pig’s leg, minus the trotter, and prodded the anaemic flesh with his index finger.
‘It’ll be a Halal barbecue, Tommy,’ he said.
‘What? How’d you mean?’ said Tommy.
‘There’s no juice. No blood.’
‘No fingers.’
Tommy passed him a bag containing two hands. Two hands, two thumbs. No fingers.
‘What do you think, guv? Triads? Yakuza? Get caught with his hands in the till?’
Munro smiled.
‘No, no. I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘But he’ll not be playing the piano again, that’s for sure. Charlie! Where are they?’
‘On the way, sir,’ said West, as she hurried back. ‘Couple of minutes.’
‘Right. I want this place swept from top to bottom, every crack, every crevice. Leave no stone unturned, understand? And I want a positive I.D. on our friend here as soon as possible. We’ve got his head so it shouldn’t be that…’
West froze at the sight of Farnsworth-Brown’s serene-looking face behind the plastic, his flame-red hair trapped in the seal, looking, to all intents and purposes, as though he’d suffocated. Her mouth filled with the bitter taste of bile, her stomach convulsed, and then she vomited into the wash basin.
‘Dear, dear, dear,’ said Munro. ‘As if we haven’t enough to clean up, as it is.’
West wiped her mouth with a handful of toilet tissue.
‘You’ve got your I.D., sir.’ she said, breathing heavily. ‘That’s him, alright. That’s Harry Farnsworth-Brown. I recognise the head. Face. I mean face. Shit.’
* * *
Most of the diners were sipping cappuccinos, toying with their tiramisu, or indulging in liqueurs when Munro breezed in, walked straight to the rear of the restaurant and slumped, exhausted, in his usual booth. Piccolo was its usual, busy self. Alberto presented him with a small glass of Barolo.
‘Is-a good to see you, James!’ he said, beaming. ‘And-a for you, tonight, especially, I have-a linguini with-a the seafood. Is-a beautiful!’
‘No, thank you.’
‘How about-a some chicken cacciatore? Very tasty, with-a garlic and-a rosemary.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘You wanna the steak, as usual?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Burnt to a cinder, with-a roasted potatoes and-a the green beans?’
‘Yes, please, Alberto.’
‘No sauce?’
Munro shook his head, smiled politely, and tucked a napkin into his collar.
‘Your-a mouth,’ said Alberto, ‘it must-a be so bored! One-a steak, coming up.’
A ravenous Munro coated his spuds with a generous sprinkling of salt and ch
omped on his charcoaled sirloin like a starving, stray cur, pausing only for the occasional sip of wine. ‘Pardon’, he muttered, as his cheeks puffed with a gratifying, silent belch. He pushed the empty plate to one side and contemplated a second glass of wine when a vivid image of Farnsworth-Brown, sprawled across the bed, flew into his mind. He grabbed his phone.
‘Tommy? I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he said. ‘Are you nearby?’
‘Just having a pint, guv, Nightingale. What’s up?’
‘I’m not sure. Listen, will you meet me at the office, and I apologise now if I’m wasting your time.’
‘No problem. Half an hour?’
‘Thanks, Tommy, oh, and do you have that stick, with the photos on it?’
‘It’s in the safe.’
* * *
The office, save for the glow of the streetlights, was shrouded in darkness as they huddled over the laptop.
‘Now, it’s the ones of him on the bed, I want to see, Tommy,’ said Munro. ‘I want to see… there! That one, look, do you see that, by his leg?’
Cole squinted at the screen.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Looks like a set of keys. I’ll blow it up. Bit pixelated, but…’
‘A Yale and a mortice…’
‘Must’ve dropped them before he flaked out,’ said Cole.
‘No, no,’ said Munro, standing up. ‘Look, the fellow’s come through the door, left his coat behind, then climbed the stairs to fall into his pit. He wouldnae carry his keys with him.’
‘Fair point. So, what you’re saying is…’
‘Aye, those keys belong to whoever took the photo. And I’d wager that whoever took the photos, also bagged him into bite-sized portions.’
Cole leaned towards the screen as though it would improve the quality of the image.
‘Funny fob,’ he said. ‘Looks like an earring.’
Munro stepped back and squinted at the blue and white disc on the screen.
‘It’s a Mati,’ he said.
‘A whati?’
‘A Mati. It’s a talisman, popular in Greece. Folk carry them, or hang them around the house, it’s a kind of, good luck charm, wards off the curse the evil eye.’
‘Could’ve used one of those when I got divorced,’ said Cole. ‘So, we looking for Zorba the Greek, then?’
Munro smiled.
‘No, someone superstitious, perhaps. Someone looking over their shoulder.’
SHE: A gripping serial killer detective thriller (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 1) Page 7
