The House on Downshire Hill

by Guy Fraser-Sampson

  “Late last night,” Willis said, speaking clearly, “I received the first package of papers retrieved from Wentworth House by SOCO. They were from the front hall, and of limited evidential value since various people have been trampling around there. There are a few old newspapers which I don’t think amount to very much, but also some un-opened mail. It’s mostly junk: circulars and so forth. However there is a bank statement for Conrad Taylor. It’s dated about six weeks ago, which may help fix the date of death as well, unless he was in the habit of leaving his bank statements lying around unopened of course.”

  She picked up another plastic evidence bag.

  “More interestingly, we have an envelope addressed to Rajarshi Subramanian, so it looks like we now know Raj’s full name at least. It’s dated just 10 days ago, but unopened like the bank statement. SOCO extracted the contents – they’re here in this other plastic wallet – which was an invoice for a computer printer, apparently ordered over the Internet.”

  “So that suggests that Raj hadn’t been at the house for the last 10 days, at least?” Evans proffered.

  “Which would gel with what Mr Rowbotham said about not having seen him for a while,” Desai nodded.

  “So where is he?” Collison asked. “Finding him must remain our first priority.”

  “But apparently he’s not at the house, guv,” Metcalfe said. “SOCO did a preliminary sweep of the whole place before focusing on individual rooms, and they’re certain there are no more bodies hidden under the papers. Of course he could have been concealed somewhere – under the floor or buried in the garden, for example – but they haven’t got nearly as far as that yet.”

  “And if it was a double murder,” Desai chipped in, “then why conceal one body but leave the other in plain view? It wouldn’t make sense.”

  “I tend to agree,” Collison said mildly. “Karen, have you run any checks on this – whatever his name is – that might help us find him?”

  “Yes and no, guv. Yes, I’ve run the checks. No, they don’t help us very much. There’s nobody of that name on the electoral register anywhere in the country, nor registered for council tax. Nor do the tax authorities have any record of him. There is one reference which may be significant, though. Somebody with that exact name was granted limited leave to remain by the immigration authorities nearly 3 years ago. It was while the Sri Lankan civil war was going on, and he claimed asylum in the UK on the grounds that the Tamil population was being oppressed, and that it would not be safe for him to return. He was granted limited leave to remain so that his claim for asylum could be assessed, but nothing was heard of him again. It appears that he simply slipped away and went to ground.”

  “Curious,” Collison commented. “So where has he been between absconding from the immigration authorities and pitching up on Downshire Hill? We need to try to pinpoint exactly when he started living at Wentworth House, and how he managed to do so without apparently generating any electronic paper trail at all. What did he do for money? Where did he live? Still, at least we know now who we are looking for.”

  He stood up and went to stand beside Metcalfe at the front of the room.

  “It seems to me that right now Raj – DS Willis will circulate his full name – is our prime suspect in this murder enquiry, so we need to devote all our resources to finding him, and as quickly as possible.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Evans said, raising his hand as if in class.

  “Yes, Timothy?”

  “The invoice, sir. If we contact the website which supplied the printer, they should have a record of how it was paid for. Presumably it was done with a credit card. If so, whose?”

  “Very good, Timothy. Why don’t you get onto that yourself ?”

  “I’ve scanned both the invoice and the envelope, and they’re on the system,” Willis told him.

  “We also of course now know where the deceased banked,” Metcalfe observed. “I’ve already applied for a blanket order covering any bank. Hopefully I’ll have that before close of play today, and we can ask for access to all relevant details.”

  “Good. Thank you, Bob. What else do we have?”

  “In terms of finding out more about the deceased’s history, sir, I think I’ve taken it about as far as I can with the neighbours,” Desai said. “I think we need to widen the enquiry and find other people who might have lived around there over the last 20 years or so. For example, we could speak to the people who used to own the Barnes property.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Collison replied. “It will be a long job I’m sure, but I don’t see that we have any alternative. There’s always the possibility that the key to this lies somewhere in Taylor’s past. But don’t you do it, Priya. You have line management responsibilities now. Delegate that, please, and make sure that the relevant people report back to you soon as they have anything.”

  “Will do, guv. As far as the family who live there before are concerned, I’ve drawn a bit of a blank I’m afraid. There’s simply a reference to a “Mr K. Schneider” holding the property as sole proprietor, and the only address given is that of the property itself.”

  “Well, perhaps some of these other people might be of help to us with that: some of the older residents.”

  Collison paused for thought.

  “Actually, let’s make that a priority too, Bob. I’d particularly like us to speak to whoever Helen Barnes and her husband bought their house from. Why don’t we ask for the details of her solicitors? We can follow the trail from there.”

  “Excuse me, guv.”

  “Yes, Priya?”

  “Sorry, I should have mentioned that; I checked the land registry. The people before the Barnes couple were only there for a short time themselves: about three years. The ones who sound really interesting are a couple called McKenzie, who seem to have owned the house from 1966 onwards. There’s a McKenzie before that too, so presumably they inherited it from the husband’s parents. There’s a lady with the same name and address who’s registered as having died about six years ago, so the dates match. Presumably the husband didn’t want to stay on in the house by himself.”

  “Good work, Priya. Can we find him?”

  “I’m trying, guv. No luck so far. His full name is Colin Arthur McKenzie, and I can’t find anyone of that name and age registered as having died, so the good news is he must still be alive and out there somewhere.”

  “We need to find and interview everyone,” Collison said. “This McKenzie bloke sounds really interesting. He and his wife must have lived alongside the Schneider family. He must also remember Taylor buying the house. He may even be able to tell us about when Raj arrived, and exactly what sort of arrangement he had with Taylor.”

  He looked around the room and noted with approval that most people seemed to be jotting things down.

  “Well, we’re making progress. We don’t have much firm information yet, but we know what questions to ask and we’ve mapped out some lines of enquiry. Now that we know Raj’s full name we can put out a nationwide alert for him. No photo though, Karen?”

  “Not yet, sir, no. We’ll have to wait and see what SOCO come up with.”

  “Very well. Any other thoughts, anyone?”

  Desai half raised her hand and then, just as hesitantly, lowered it again.

  “Yes, Priya?”

  “I’m not sure, guv …”

  “Come on, out with it.”

  “Well, this may be nothing, but … well, alright: if Taylor and Raj were living together then we’re assuming that Taylor was gay, right? Well, as we all know there’s a very active gay scene in Hampstead. There are gay pubs, and areas of the Heath where … well, where gay guys meet. Why don’t we see if we can tap into that circle? Somebody may just remember him.”

  “Taylor was a recluse, remember,” Metcalfe said doubtfully.

  “Yeah, well he might not always have been.”

  “You mean he might have … dipped his toe in the water so to speak. Even if it was a little while ago.”<
br />
  “Yes, guv, exactly.”

  “It sounds like a great idea, Priya, and let’s face it we don’t have many other avenues of enquiry, do we? Let’s at least investigate it and rule it out. How would you suggest going about it?”

  “I think there’s an LGBT liaison officer right here in the nick, guv. It shouldn’t take too long to put the word out.”

  Some of the team cast surreptitious glances at their friends. Collison noticed it. Tread carefully, he thought. He was only too aware that there was still a lot of homophobia in the Met.

  “Great idea, Priya, like I said. Let’s leave that with you, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 9

  The forensic pathologist called Metcalfe later that day.

  “Bob? It’s Brian Williams. I’ve completed the post-mortem. I’m sending the report over to you to put on the system, but I thought you’d appreciate a quick update on the phone.”

  “Yes, thank you, Doctor. Was it as you suspected?”

  “Yes, pretty much. Looks like a single blow to the head administered with some force with a blunt object. There’s a pretty massive depressed fracture of the skull, but no sign of any skin puncture such as a blade or sharp edge might make. I’d be interested to hear what SOCO might find at the scene, but we could be looking at a ball hammer or something like that.”

  “So something quite clinical then, rather than a frenzied attack?”

  “Yes, certainly not a frenzied attack. As to ‘clinical’ that rather depends whether it was premeditated or not, doesn’t it? Your department, not mine.”

  “You say the blow was administered with considerable force. Does that rule out a woman, for example?”

  “Not necessarily, if she was sufficiently fit and she had room enough to work up a sufficient swing of the arm. But I’d favour a man as our murderer.”

  “Did you find anything else?”

  “Nothing significant, I’m afraid. No signs of a struggle. Nothing under the fingernails except normal dirt: household dust, that sort of thing. No sign of him having tried to protect himself either, which I suppose suggests that the attack was from behind and unexpected. I’ve had nothing back from toxicology yet, and I’ll let you know when I do. As far as the stomach contents are concerned it looks as though he had eaten fairly recently before death. We found traces of bread or toast as well as coffee – instant, apparently.”

  “Toast and coffee would suggest breakfast, I suppose.”

  “They would certainly be consistent with it, yes,” Williams replied cautiously.

  “What about time of death, Doctor. Can we be any more specific about that now?”

  “It’s a difficult one. Usually we can use things like the life-cycle of the blowfly, but the room was closed and there’s no sign of any insect or larvae activity. From the general deterioration of the body I’d go for somewhere in the range between 6 to 8 weeks. Sorry, but I can’t be any more certain than that.”

  “Doctor,” Metcalfe said hesitantly, “there’s something else I’d like to ask you; something somebody here has brought up actually. Was there any sign of sexual activity, particularly homosexual sex?”

  “Nothing I could see; I checked of course. But unless it was some combination of recent, forceful, or frequent then it wouldn’t necessarily show up.”

  “I see, OK. Well, thank you very much for getting this done so quickly, Doctor. I know Mr Collison will be very grateful.”

  As he rang off, he saw a new email slide into his inbox entitled ‘Post Mortem Report: C.Taylor’. He looked around the room quickly to check that he was not needed and headed upstairs to see the Superintendent.

  “Thank you, Bob,” Collison said when he had finished passing on the pathologist’s news. “I’m not sure it takes us very much further though, does it?”

  “Well, not a frenzied attack anyway, guv, so perhaps that makes it less likely that it was a lovers’ tiff.”

  “Not in the heat of the moment, certainly; I’d have to concede that. But it could have been some serious argument or disagreement that festered and grew into a cold-blooded, premeditated attack quite literally when the victim’s back was turned.”

  “So you still fancy Raj for it?”

  “I think we have to, don’t we? At least until he’s found.”

  “Well, I think we may have made a little progress there, guv. Karen’s just had some more papers in from SOCO and there are a few photos among them, including one we think must be Taylor and Raj together. We’re having them blown up, but it’s unclear how useful they will be. They’re old film and paper photos, not digital.”

  “It’s something anyway, Bob. At least we’ve got something now we can circulate with the national alert for Raj, and something the liaison officer can use with the local gay community.”

  “Are you really taking that seriously, guv?”

  Collison shrugged.

  “It’s a line of enquiry, isn’t it? Hopefully we can eliminate it as quickly as possible and crack on with finding our suspect.”

  “There was something else interesting in the package of papers we got today. There was another envelope – empty and opened this time – but addressed to a ‘G.Rajarshi’. Do you think Raj might have been using multiple identities?”

  “God knows. But if he was, why do it using one of his own names?”

  “Perhaps so that if mail came when he wasn’t at the house, Taylor would recognise it as being for him, and therefore not throw it away.”

  Collison chuckled.

  “You’re clutching at straws now, Bob. Let’s just find him, shall we? Then we can ask him ourselves.”

  “Talking of finding him, that mention of liaison officers has given me an idea.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I’m just wondering if the Tamil community in London might be one of these tightknit groups where everybody knows everybody else. Perhaps I’m just clutching at straws again, but I wonder if there might be anybody we can talk to – a Tamil, I mean.”

  “Not a bad idea, Bob. I’ll speak to the Yard. If they know anyone, I’ll let you know.”

  “Right you are, guv. I’ll press to get those photos back as soon as possible. We’re really flying blind without them.”

  “Any luck on those neighbours, by the way?”

  “We found the most recent ones, guv, and I’ll send someone to interview them. The McKenzie bloke may take a little longer, but we’re following the paper trail from the respective lawyers’ offices so it should hopefully only be a matter of a day or two.”

  That evening found Metcalfe at home with Willis and Peter Collins.

  “I was hoping Lisa would be back by now,” Collins commented, gazing absently around the room as though she might be hiding behind a sofa.

  “Her mother rang,” Metcalfe replied. “They want to run a few more tests. They’re still worried about these headaches she’s getting.”

  Willis and Collins exchanged a quick glance and then looked guiltily at Metcalfe to see if he had noticed.

  “I must say,” Willis said, changing the subject as smoothly as possible, “I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say about this new case, Peter.”

  “There’s really not much I can say at the moment. So far as I can see we know pretty much nothing about either the victim or the suspect – or whatever the relationship might have been between them, come to that.”

  “Very true.”

  “Do we know anything at all about his past? The deceased, I mean.”

  “No, and that’s one of our real priorities. We know that he bought the house 20 odd years ago from a family called Schneider because it was previously registered in the name of K. Schneider and somebody has a dim recollection of a couple with two children. We are looking for them, of course, but no luck so far. After all, a lot can happen in 20 years.”

  Peter looked at her intently.

  “Did you say Schneider?”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  He smiled that slightl
y superior smile which she often found briefly but intensely irritating.

  “Then wherever you’re looking, it may be in the wrong place.”

  “What on earth do you mean, Peter?”

  “Try the German dictionary. Schneider is the German word for Taylor. Isn’t it possible that K. Schneider, say Konrad Schneider, and Conrad Taylor are one and the same person?”

  Metcalfe and Willis stared at him in amazement.

  “Good God,” Metcalfe said simply.

  “But why?” Willis asked, struggling to think clearly. “Why would anyone do that? And if you’re right, what happened to the family?”

  “All good questions to which you need to find the answers, Harriet,” Collins burbled in his Lord Peter Wimsey voice. “As to why, I don’t know, but it’s not uncommon in London you know. A lot of immigrants of German extraction anglicised their names around the time of the First World War. The first Sea Lord, for example, had a German name. He was Prince of Battenberg, and the king insisted that he change it to Mountbatten.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Peter, the First World War ended a hundred years ago.”

  “Just an example, Bob. It’s happened right the way through the last hundred years, for all sorts of different reasons. A lot of the Jewish emigrés who came over in the 30s changed their names, perhaps because they felt they would make them stand out, or perhaps because they were worried English people wouldn’t be able to pronounce them. Who knows? But it happened a lot. Just take a look in the phone book – oh, I keep forgetting, there isn’t a phone book any more is there? – but you know what I mean. See how many people in London are named Gold, for example. They might have been Goldberg, Goldschaft, Goldstein, or any one of a dozen other names.”

  “I see that,” Metcalfe replied thoughtfully. “But there wouldn’t have been any reason like that 20 years ago, would there? Or am I overlooking something?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “So that would suggest – suggest very strongly – that whatever the reason for Taylor having changed his name, it’s a personal one? Something to do with his private life perhaps?” Willis reasoned.