by Nicci French
‘What I hoped,’ said Karlsson, ‘is that you’d be able to look at this crime scene and identify the burglar by his style. Doesn’t every burglar have his own trademark?’
Curzon pulled another face. ‘There’s no trademark to this. He broke the window, opened the door and let himself in. You can’t get more basic than that. The only trademark in this scene was the trademark of a basic idiot. They’re the worst kind, except when you catch them in the act.’ He paused. ‘But I’ve had a thought. There’s a couple of local shops, trinkets, cheap stuff mostly but not always. There’s Tandy’s up on the corner of Rubens Road and there’s Burgess and Son over on the Crescent. Let’s say that if someone goes in there and offers them some silverware, they don’t ask too many questions. Get someone to look in the window over the next few days. They might see something. You could take it from there.’
Karlsson was doubtful. ‘If you’ve killed someone, you’re not exactly going to take your swag to the local jeweller, are you?’
Curzon shrugged. ‘These clowns are addicts, not bank managers. Burgess and Son is a bit further away. That might be his idea of being clever. It’s worth a try, anyway.’
‘Thanks,’ said Karlsson.
On the way out of the house Curzon put his hand on Karlsson’s sleeve. ‘Can I get you out on the course? Show you what you’re missing out on?’
‘I’m not really a golfer. In fact, not a golfer at all.’
‘Or come and get a little fishing in. You wouldn’t believe how peaceful it is.’
‘Yes.’ Karlsson nodded. He didn’t like fishing either. ‘Yes, that would be good. Maybe when the case is over. We can celebrate.’
‘I almost feel guilty,’ said Curzon. ‘Showing you what you’re missing.’
‘Go there with Russell Lennox, if he feels up to it,’ said Karlsson to Yvette. ‘See if he recognizes anything.’
‘All right.’
‘Take young Riley with you.’
‘Fine.’ Yvette hesitated, then, as Karlsson turned to go, blurted out, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you blame me?’
‘Blame you? For what?’ He knew what, of course – ever since Frieda had been found lying on the floor of Mary Orton’s house, in that scene of carnage, Yvette had wanted his forgiveness, his reassurance that it wasn’t really her fault.
‘For not taking her concerns seriously. All that.’ Yvette gulped. Her face had turned very red.
‘This isn’t really the right time, Yvette.’
‘But …’
‘It isn’t appropriate,’ he said. His gentleness was worse than anger. She felt like a small child facing a kind, stern adult.
‘No. Sorry. Tandy’s and Burgess and Son.’
‘That’s right.’
Frieda took the phone out of its holster and considered it. Her eyes itched with tiredness, and her body felt hollow yet enormously heavy. The grave in Suffolk seemed like a dream now – a neglected patch of soil where the bones of a sad man lay. She thought of him, the father she had not been able to rescue. If she let herself go back, she could remember the way his hand had felt, holding hers, or breathe in his smell of tobacco and the cloves from his aftershave. His hopelessness. His heavy posture. And Dean Reeve had sat over him, with that smile.
The cat clattered through the cat flap and she looked down at it, the two of them staring at each other. Then, still holding the phone, she walked slowly up the stairs – stairs were still hard for her – and sat on her bed, gazing out of the window at the soft grey evening that was settling over the city, making it mysterious again. At last she lifted the phone and keyed in the numbers.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Frieda!’ There was no mistaking the warmth of his voice.
‘Hello.’
‘I’ve been thinking of you.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘In my office. Five hours behind you.’
‘What are you wearing?’
‘A grey suit. A white shirt. You?’
Frieda looked down at her clothes. ‘Jeans and a creamy-brown jumper.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Sitting on my bed.’
‘I wish I was sitting on your bed too.’
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes. I dreamed I was ice-skating. Did you?’
‘Dream I was ice-skating?’
‘Sleep well.’
‘All right.’
‘So you didn’t.’
‘Sandy?’ She wanted to tell him about her day but the words wouldn’t come. He was too far away.
‘Yes, my very darling Frieda.’
‘I hate this.’
‘This?’
‘All of it.’
‘Feeling weak, you mean?’
‘That too.’
‘Me being here?’ There was a pause. ‘What’s that noise? Is there a thunderstorm going on?’
‘What?’ Frieda looked around and then realized. She’d almost stopped hearing the sound herself. ‘There’s a new bath being put in.’
‘A new bath?’
‘It wasn’t exactly my idea. In fact, it wasn’t my idea at all. It’s a present from Josef.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘The bath hasn’t arrived yet. So far there’s just lots of banging and drilling going on. There’s dust everywhere. Including on several shirts – you left them here.’
‘I know.’
‘And some kitchen stuff, and a few books by the bed.’
‘That’s because I’m coming back.’
‘Right.’
‘Frieda, I’m coming back.’
SIX
‘Is that Detective Chief Inspector Karlsson?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Constable Fogle from Camden. I’ve a Mr Russell Lennox with me.’
‘Russell Lennox?’ Karlsson blinked. ‘Why on earth?’
‘He’s been involved in an affray.’
‘I don’t understand. Why would he be involved in an affray? The poor man’s wife’s just been murdered.’
‘He seems to have caused some criminal damage. At a Burgess and Son.’
‘Ah.’
He broke a window, not to mention several pieces of china that the owner seems to think might be worth a good deal, and was also somewhat threatening.’
‘I’m on my way. Treat him gently, will you?’
Russell Lennox was in a small interview room, sitting with his hands plaited together on the table and staring ahead, blinking every so often as if to clear his vision. When Karlsson came in with the uniformed officer who had called him, Lennox turned his head. For a few moments it seemed that he didn’t recognize the detective.
‘I’ve come to take you home,’ said Karlsson, lowering himself into the chair opposite. ‘You know that you could be prosecuted for affray, assault, whatever?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Would that help your children?’
Lennox just stared at the table surface and didn’t reply.
‘So you went back to Burgess and Son?’
Lennox gave a faint nod. ‘I couldn’t get it out of my head. Anyway, what else am I supposed to do with my time? Ruth’s sister Louise is with the children and they don’t want to see me upset on top of everything else. So, I walked over there, just to check. I saw this fork.’
‘One fork?’ said Karlsson, doubtfully.
‘Ruth’s godmother gave them to us when we got married. I didn’t care about them or notice them, really, but this one had a bent spike. That’s how I recognized it. Judith used to get
angry if she was given it at meals. She said it stabbed her gums. I went inside and asked to see it. Then things got out of hand.’ He looked up at Karlsson. ‘I’m not a violent man.’
‘I think there might be some argument about that,’ said Karlsson.
Jeremy Burgess, the owner of Burgess and Son, was small, skinny, with the wariness of someone who had spent years never quite getting anything pinned on him. Karlsson was leaning over a glass counter crammed with medals, old necklaces, cigarette cases, dented snuff boxes, thimbles and small silver boxes, glittery clip-on earrings and oversized cuff links. He took the fork with its crooked tine and laid it on the glass.
‘Where did this come from?’ he asked.
Burgess gestured helplessly. ‘I just pay in cash for little things like that.’
‘I need to know, Mr Burgess.’
‘I’m the one who was attacked. What’s happening about that? I’m just trying to run a business.’
‘Shut up,’ said Karlsson. ‘I know about your business. If the local police aren’t bothered, that’s their affair. But this is evidence in a murder inquiry, and if you don’t co-operate, then I will make your life very difficult indeed.’
Burgess glanced uneasily at two women on the other side of the shop who were poring over a tray of rings. He leaned forward and spoke in a lower tone. ‘I’m just a businessman,’ he said.
‘Give me a name and I’ll go away. Otherwise I’ll send some officers round here to go through this piece by piece.’
‘Billy.’
‘Billy who?’
‘Billy. Young, dark-haired, thin. That’s all I know.’
Curzon’s voice kept coming and going. He explained that the reception was bad out there on the river. ‘Hunt,’ he said. ‘Billy Hunt.’
‘You know him?’
‘We all know Billy.’
‘Does he have a record?’
‘Robbery, possession, this and that.’
‘Violence?’
‘He’s a bit of wimp, our Billy,’ said Curzon, ‘but he may have gone downhill. I mean even further downhill.’
Karlsson put Riley on to it. Curzon didn’t have an address or a number for Billy Hunt but there were a couple of officers who’d been dealing with the local drug scene. They’d probably know, said Curzon. They hadn’t seen Hunt for some time but one of them remembered he’d once worked on a stall in Camden Lock. Selling implements made out of wire. Candlesticks. Little dogs for the mantelpiece. The stall was gone but a woman who’d worked on it was now at the other end of the market, near the canal, selling hot soup. She didn’t know Billy but the guy who used to run the wire stall lived in a flat in Summertown. He was out at night mostly and slept during the day. It took repeated banging at the front door (the knocker was missing and the bell didn’t seem to make a sound) before a woman appeared and, at their request, went to wake him up. He hadn’t seen Billy for a couple of weeks, but he used to drop by a café in the high street or the pub next to it when he had any money.
Nobody seemed to know him in the café, but when Riley showed his badge to the pale young woman behind the bar in the pub, she pointed him to two men sitting drinking at a table. Yes, they knew Billy Hunt. Yes, one of them had seen him today. What had they talked about? Nothing much. Just to say hello. Where was he? That other pub. Which other one? The one up Kentish Town Road, the Goth one, the one with the skulls.
Riley walked up Camden High Street and found Munster parked outside Camden Town tube station. He got into the car beside him.
‘What’s the plan?’ he said.
‘Plan?’ said Munster. ‘Find him. And then talk to him.’
‘Are we bringing him in?’
‘We’ll talk to him first.’
The car pulled up before reaching the pub. Munster gazed up at the black façade and shook his head with distaste.
‘I used to like heavy metal when I was a kid,’ said Riley. ‘I’d have loved this place.’
‘When you were a kid?’ said Munster. ‘Right. Do we know what he looks like?’
Two young women, dressed from head to foot in black leather, both with shaved heads and multiple piercings, were seated at a table outside.
‘Well, they’re not Billy Hunt,’ said Riley, cheerfully. ‘Unless Billy’s a girl’s name.’
At the other table a man was sitting alone, with a half-drunk pint of beer and a cigarette. He was thin and pale, with tufted dark hair, wearing black jeans and a rumpled grey jacket.
‘That might be him,’ said Munster.
They got out of the car and approached him. He didn’t notice them until they were a few feet away.
‘We’re looking for a William Hunt,’ said Munster.
‘Only my mum calls me William,’ the man replied. ‘And then only when she’s angry with me.’
The two detectives sat at the table.
‘Billy, then,’ Munster said. ‘We’ve been talking to a man named Jeremy Burgess. He runs a jewellery store just up the road from here.’
Hunt stubbed his cigarette out on the table, took another from a packet and lit it with almost feverish concentration. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘William,’ said Munster. ‘Now I’m getting angry with you.’ He took a printout from his pocket and spread it on the table. ‘He told us that you came in with this and he bought it from you.’
Hunt turned the paper around and looked at it. Munster saw that even his hands, even his long fingers, were thin and pale. The nails were bitten short but even so they were dirty and stained. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ said Munster. ‘Is all this Georgian silver becoming a bit of blur?’
‘Are you going to buy me a drink?’
‘No, I’m not going to buy you a drink. What do you think this is?’
‘If you’re looking for information, there should be something in it for me.’
Munster turned to Riley, then back to Hunt. Riley was smiling. Munster wasn’t. ‘You’re not a potential informant. You’re a suspect. If you don’t answer questions, we can take you straight into custody.’
Hunt ruffled his hair so that it stood up even more than before. ‘Every time there’s some bit of property goes missing,’ he said, in a whine, ‘people like you come and hassle me about it. Have you ever heard the expression about giving a dog a bad name?’
Munster looked at him in disbelief. ‘Is this the dog that keeps being put in prison for hitting people and selling things that other people have stolen? And while we’re on the subject, these bits of property don’t just go missing on their own. People like you nick them. Don’t mess us around, Billy. We’ve heard about you. You’ve got a drug habit and you steal to pay for it.’
Hunt took a gulp of beer, followed by a deep drag on his cigarette. He looked at Riley, who was grinning. ‘I don’t know what’s so funny,’ he said. ‘I only got started when I was inside. There’s more gak inside than there is on the streets. And that wanker, Burgess. Everyone comes round and bothers me and there’s Burgess with his fucking shop. Why does everyone let him carry on?’
‘Billy,’ said Munster. ‘Shut up. Where did you get the silver?’
Hunt paused. ‘There was a guy. He had some bits and pieces, bits of silver. He was desperate for cash, so I gave him some and passed it on to Burgess. End of story.’
‘Did you ask him where he got it?’
‘No, I didn’t. I’m not the Antiques fucking Roadshow.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know. Dave, I think.’
‘Dave,’ said Munster. ‘Dave what?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t really know him.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘South of the river, I think. But I’m not sure.’
‘Dave. South London,’ said Munster. ‘Possibly. Do you know how to get in touch with him?’
‘It doesn’t really work like that. You run into people. See them around. You know how it is.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Munster. ‘And while we’re at it, could you tell me where you were on Wednesday?’
‘When? The one just gone?’
‘Yes. The sixth.’
‘I was out of London. I was down in Brighton. Had a few days away.’
‘Is there anyone who can confirm that?’
‘I was down with a friend.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘His name?’ said Hunt. Quite slowly, he stubbed his cigarette out and lit another. ‘Ian.’
‘Second name?’
‘He was always just Ian.’
‘But you can tell us his address?’
Hunt looked doubtful. ‘I’ve got it written down somewhere. Or I did have. It was at a friend of Ian’s. Ian won’t be there. He moves around a lot.’
‘Arranging work for people,’ said Munster.
‘For his friends.’
‘I can’t believe I’m actually bothering to say this out loud,’ said Munster, ‘but have you got Ian’s phone number?’
‘It was on my phone. I’m not completely sure where my phone is.’
‘You realize what we’re asking?’ said Munster. ‘You’ve been here before. We want you to point us in the direction of someone who will say to us: “Yes, Billy Hunt was with me in Brighton on Wednesday.” Is there such a person?’
‘This isn’t right,’ said Hunt. ‘This is a matter of … What this is about is … is … that I’m not like you. Or you,’ he added, looking at Riley, who seemed bemused. ‘You’ve got your nice homes and all your insurance and your water bills with your names on them.’
‘My water bill?’ said Munster.
‘And you’ve got all your nice friends and you go out to dinner with them. You all look out for each other and – and you can just prove where you were all the time and you’ve got a job and a pension and paid holidays.’
