Kate heard a van door open and she turned to see one of the forensics officers approaching. She recognised the bald head and broad shoulders of Martin Davies, one of the newer additions to the SOCO team.
‘Give us a few minutes,’ she instructed, slipping on shoe covers and stepping into the hallway of the bungalow, avoiding the jagged edge of the door frame where the lock had given way under the force of the battering ram.
Davies nodded. ‘Your call. Yell when you’re ready for us.’
Kate shuffled along the wide hallway peering through doors, looking for the kitchen. If the Houghtons had been poisoned, that was the most likely place to look for evidence – she was hoping for half-empty glasses or residue left on mugs, possibly even the DNA of the killer if he or she had eaten or drunk anything.
‘I wonder if they had a cleaner,’ Hollis mused behind her. ‘The place is spotless.’
Kate looked down at the deep green carpet shot through with a mustard-coloured Prince of Wales feather motif. She held out her arm, stopping Hollis in his tracks. ‘This carpet’s been hoovered recently,’ she said, pointing at the parallel marks of wheels just discernible in the nap of the wool. ‘Looks like nobody’s walked this way since.’
‘Maybe he came in and out of the back,’ Hollis suggested.
‘Or maybe he tidied up after himself. There might have been debris or residue left behind from his shoes. If there was it’ll turn up in the car as well, hopefully. Might give us a clue as to where he came from.’
The door at the end of the hall was closed. Kate slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves and turned the handle. The door swung open to reveal a huge kitchen with white units and black marble worktops.
‘Looks like there’s plenty of money in the haulage business,’ Hollis whispered as they stepped into the room. ‘There must be over fifty grand’s worth of kitchen here. Jesus.’
Kate turned slowly taking in the espresso machine that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a flashy hotel bar, the huge, American-style fridge and the twin Belfast sinks. A red light was flashing underneath one of the worktops.
‘Oh, shit,’ she said.
‘What?’
Kate crossed the kitchen floor and opened the dishwasher to reveal two mugs and three glasses. No plates, no pans and only a teaspoon in the cutlery basket. Why would anybody put the machine on for such a tiny load? Unless they wanted to be certain that the items were thoroughly cleaned.
‘I think whoever vacuumed the carpet also put the dishwasher on. If the Houghtons were poisoned there’ll be no trace on the crockery or the glasses.’
‘Three glasses,’ Hollis said. ‘Looks like the killer had a drink with them. Maybe O’Connor’s right about the poisoned sherry – it could have been somebody they knew.’
‘Whoever it was spent time here, cleaning and tidying. He must have been confident that the Houghtons were incapacitated. There’s a level of forensic awareness and thorough planning. We’ll be lucky to find anything significant. Very different from Julia Sullivan’s house.’
Hollis looked round the kitchen. ‘Rubber gloves on the sink,’ he said, obviously thinking aloud. ‘Maybe the killer used them – they’ll have left DNA inside. And a domestic vacuum cleaner isn’t going to pick up everything – he might not have emptied it afterwards. Worth a look.’
Kate smiled, appreciating the DC’s optimism. He might be right. Even the most careful criminals could slip up, especially if they thought they knew better than the police and scientists. Was that what they were dealing with – an arrogant personality who didn’t expect to be caught? The positioning of the car keys and the cleaning of the house strongly suggested they were being taunted.
Hollis was opening and closing cupboards. ‘Nothing unusual. The cupboard above the fridge has a selection of spirits – looks like the gin’s open but the others still have intact seals. Probably worth checking for prints.’
Kate decided to leave him to it and stepped back out into the hallway. Four doors had been left ajar. The first one she approached led into an expansive sitting room flanked by a large conservatory with a view nearly as stunning as the one from the Beacon. Amazing how money can make this part of South Yorkshire seem attractive, she thought, watching heavy lorries struggling up a steep section of the M18.
The carpet in the hall continued in the sitting room, the same colour and pattern but here the décor had obviously been chosen to match. The two large sofas were pale green with ochre cushions and the walls were a cream colour with a racing-green dado rail part way up. Kate scanned the display cabinet that dominated one wall – it seemed that one of the Houghtons liked to collect glass animals; the shelves were dotted with fragile-looking deer and butterflies in various levels of transparency. The bottom shelf housed two replica lorries, both decorated in the maroon and gold of Houghton’s Haulage company.
There was no trace of dust in the cabinet and the glass front was so clean that it was practically invisible. Kate sighed as she took in the sofa cushions that lacked the telltale dents of recent occupants and the familiar stripes of the vacuum cleaner across the carpet. She wandered over to the mantlepiece, attention caught by an array of photo frames, hoping to find a clue about the wider family or the identity of close friends but each image showed the couple in an exotic location; Venice, a Mediterranean island, Bangkok. It was as if they lived in their own bubble and needed nothing but each other. Part of Kate thought it was sweet but the other part, the detective part, was frustrated by the lack of information in the room.
There was another photograph on the windowsill to the right of the conservatory, bigger, nearly A4 size. As Kate moved closer, she saw that it was a wedding photograph showing Peter and Eleanor Houghton dressed in formal wear, toasting each other with full glasses of champagne. Kate was surprised by the backdrop of the London Eye and the ages of Peter and Eleanor. She’d assumed that they’d been married for decades. Perhaps it wasn’t a wedding – could have been a renewal of vows or a different form of celebration.
The dust-free television dominated the back wall of the room. It was hooked up to a surround-sound system and it was almost big enough to turn the living room into a home cinema. Shelves of DVDs stood at either side and Kate smiled as she scanned the titles. There were clearly two very different film fans in the house. One side was almost exclusively Westerns while the other was romantic comedies and the odd thriller.
There wasn’t much else to see in the sitting room. A copy of the Radio Times was folded to the previous day’s listings and a Mills and Boon novel was half hidden under one of the sofas as though it had been kicked there by accident.
Disheartened, Kate went to explore the three bedrooms and was only mildly surprised to find that the Houghtons didn’t appear to share a bed – two of the rooms contained fully made-up doubles and both had a range of books and a pair of spectacles on the bedside tables. She opened drawers and wardrobe doors but there was nothing that immediately struck her as out of the ordinary.
The third bedroom was obviously used as a study with a PC set up on a dark wood desk. The shelves contained a range of British road atlases which appeared to be collectables – the most recent was dated 1948 – and more plastic replicas of Houghton’s fleet of lorries. There might be something interesting on the computer but accessing it was well beyond Kate’s skill set and she didn’t even bother switching it on. The techies would soon find out if there was anything important on the hard drive.
‘Anything interesting?’ Hollis asked from the doorway. ‘I’ve had a nose around the garage, but nothing jumped out at me. The door was closed, it’s one of those where you use a remote control which was on the kitchen counter. Looking at some of the clutter, I’m not sure the car was kept in there anyway. There’s not much room.’
‘The place is spotless,’ Kate said. ‘Separate bedrooms but I don’t suppose that’s unusual at their age.’
‘Ugh, too right. Sex should be banned for the over-fifties.’
‘Oi
!’ Kate said but she could see from his grin that he was teasing her. Her fiftieth birthday had caused her team much hilarity and was still a topic to be mined for comedy gold at every opportunity.
‘Oh, I don’t mean you and Nick,’ Hollis said with mock innocence. ‘Just the old fogies.’
‘Thin ice, Dan,’ Kate warned with a smile. This time Hollis took the hint. Kate didn’t mind being teased about her age, but she tried not to share details of her private life with her colleagues.
‘So, what now?’ he asked. ‘Let the techies do their job?’
Kate nodded. ‘There’s nothing obvious here and we’ll only be in their way so I think we should try a spot of door-knocking and see what the neighbours make of Mr and Mrs Houghton. You never know – one of the curtain-twitchers might have seen something.’
She sincerely hoped so because, if the state of the house was any indication, their killer was organised and very thorough.
11
‘You want to lead, or should I do the talking?’ Barratt asked O’Connor as they pulled up outside the main depot of Houghton Haulage in Thorpe. A former food-packing factory, it had been the centre of Peter Houghton’s operations since the early eighties and little of the former structure remained. Barratt leaned forward, peering through the windscreen at the modern, single-storey office block that had been erected next to what was left of the Victorian red-brick building that once housed one of the largest conveyor belts in the country – if Wikipedia was to be believed. The narrow windows and gently sloping roof reminded him more of a chapel than a workplace. Most of the fleet of 600 trucks must have been out on the roads and motorways of Britain as only half a dozen were parked on the huge expanse of concrete which had replaced most of the Victorian construction.
‘They’re a bit fifties looking,’ he said, referring to the maroon-and-gold livery of the lorry cabs.
‘What?’ O’Connor was looking at his phone, not really listening.
‘The lorries. Like something out of a Carry On film. The colours are a bit old-fashioned. I’d have thought he’d have modernised the look at some point.’
O’Connor looked out of the window then back at the screen of his mobile. ‘It’s a brand. If you change it, it’s not as recognisable.’
‘I get that,’ Barratt said. ‘But…’
‘You lead,’ O’Connor said, opening the passenger door and slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘I might have a look around when we’re done. The manager’s called Tony Sims – Cooper just texted me the most up-to-date staff list – she’s not found any family connection to Peter Houghton.’
Barratt led the way to a door marked ‘Reception’ and they stepped into an area which looked more like the lobby of a chain hotel than the front office of a hauliers. The carpet was a deep maroon, broken up by thin gold stripes and the light-wood reception desk was stencilled with the name of the company in letters at least six inches high. The woman speaking on the phone behind the desk gave them a brief wave and then turned her back to continue the conversation for a few seconds.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said, turning back around and carefully placing the telephone receiver back in its cradle. ‘Can I help you?’
Barratt showed her his ID and introduced O’Connor who gave her a half-second smile. The woman ran a hand over her hair and Barratt could sense her wishing she had a mirror so she could check her appearance. In her mid-fifties with a blonde bob and less-than-subtle make-up she was exactly the type of woman who seemed incapable of resisting O’Connor’s charms. Women his own age seemed put off by the dark-red biker-style facial hair and generally unkempt appearance, but middle-aged women seemed to want to mother him. O’Connor must have picked up on the woman’s interest and ignored his previous instruction to Barratt.
‘We’d like to talk to whoever’s in charge,’ he said with a lopsided grin.
The woman fiddled with the open top button of her maroon blouse as she looked from O’Connor to Barratt. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘I’m afraid not. We just need some information regarding a recent incident. Background, that’s all.’ O’Connor didn’t bother to smile this time, but it didn’t seem to matter to the receptionist.
‘Well, Mr Sims is in charge of the day-to-day running of the company. I’m his PA.’
‘And can we speak to Mr Sims…?’ O’Connor left a pause, waiting for the woman to fill it with her name.
‘Maggie. Maggie Richardson. I’ll see if Mr Sims is available.’
She picked up the phone again and tapped twice. ‘Mr Sims? I have two police officers here who’d like to speak to you… I don’t know, they said something about a recent incident.’ She listened for a few seconds then fixed her grey eyes on Barratt. ‘Is it something to do with one of our drivers?’ she asked.
Barratt shook his head.
‘Apparently not. They won’t give me any more information.’ She listened again then put the phone down. ‘If you take a seat Mr Sims will be with you soon.’
Barratt led O’Connor to a row of wooden chairs arranged along one wall of the reception area but, before he could sit down, his attention was caught by a series of black-and-white images mounted on the wall behind the chairs. They showed Houghton Haulage lorries through the ages and all were scenes around Thorpe. Although he didn’t know the village as well as his boss did, Barratt recognised a pub and the quarry that had long since been filled in with debris from the steelworks in Sheffield. The site had been the scene of the first murder he’d worked with Kate and his first real success. Two of the images showed pubs that he didn’t know, and one was taken from a high point with a background of rolling fields, a view Barratt recognised despite the lack of motorway.
‘Look at this,’ he said to O’Connor. ‘It’s near where the car was found, before the television mast was put up there. Somewhere near Turton.’
O’Connor stepped closer and peered at the image.
‘Houghton’s favourite spot? Maybe that’s why he built a house up there.’
Barratt took out his phone and took a quick picture of the photograph.
‘You never know – could be significant,’ he said.
‘What could be significant?’
Both detectives turned to see a tall, dark-haired man standing next to the reception desk. His arms were folded across his chest and he was frowning at the two police officers. Obviously, he didn’t appreciate being disturbed.
‘Mr Sims?’ Barratt held out his hand, but Sims’s arms remained resolutely folded. Unfazed by the man’s reticence, Barratt introduced himself and O’Connor and asked if there was somewhere they could go to talk.
‘Come through to my office,’ Sims said, heading for the door next to the reception desk. As they passed Maggie Richardson, Barratt saw her give O’Connor an apologetic smile as though to make up for her boss’s rude behaviour. Not that O’Connor would have noticed; the DS was usually oblivious to people’s manners, especially his own.
‘What’s all this about?’ Sims asked, gesturing to two chairs opposite a huge, pale-wood desk which matched the one out in the reception area. ‘I really don’t have much time.’
Barratt sat down but O’Connor chose to stand by the door in a pose that echoed Sims’s earlier posture, arms folded as he leant against the wall. Sims undid the buttons of his suit jacket and sat opposite Barratt, his eyes expectant. Barratt studied the man, noting the deeply tanned, clean-shaven skin, dark-blue eyes and a nose that somebody more charitable might have described as Roman but Barratt thought just a bit too big for the man’s face. In his early to mid-forties, Sims was a picture of good health, with a physique which suggested he exercised regularly to compensate for his sedentary job.
‘How well do you know Peter Houghton?’
Sims smiled. ‘I’ve known Peter since I was a boy. I used to come here and watch the lorries being cleaned and maintained. Started work here when I was sixteen, cleaning the cabs. Peter put me through an apprenticeship to beco
me a mechanic and I worked my way up through the company.’
‘So, he’s been a mentor to you?’
‘I suppose so. We’re more like family now though. He trusts me to run the company and I trust him to make sure I get paid.’ Sims sat back in his chair as though he’d said everything he could on the subject.
‘What about the company finances?’ O’Connor asked from his position next to the door. Barratt bristled – the DS had pulled rank and decided to ask questions of his own rather than leaving it to Barratt as agreed. The question seemed to unsettle Sims, or perhaps it was the fact that it came from O’Connor and his tone wasn’t exactly polite.
‘Finances?’
‘Money. Incoming and outgoing. What sort of state is the company in?’
Sims sat back again and clasped his hands together on top of his desk. ‘The company is in a good position. There isn’t much competition in the local area, so we get a lot of new business. We also have our long-standing clients some of whom have been loyal through thick and thin for nearly seventy years.’ His response sounded rehearsed and more than a little pompous as though he were giving a presentation to the board of directors.
‘Why you?’ O’Connor asked, changing tack.
‘Why me what?’
‘Well, I assume the company has been in the family for a couple of generations – hence the name and the livery – so why did Houghton choose you to manage it when he retired, if he has retired? Are you a relative?’
‘No. I’ve already explained, I’ve been with the company all my working life and Peter appreciates loyalty. Can you tell me what this is about?’ The man was clearly growing agitated. Looking from O’Connor to Barratt, seeking answers.
Barratt looked at O’Connor who gave him the briefest of nods. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Peter Houghton is dead,’ he said.
‘Dead? I only saw him yesterday and he was in the best of health…’ Sims stopped speaking as he obviously realised the implication of two detectives telling him that his boss was deceased. ‘How did he die? You wouldn’t be here if it was a heart attack or something like that.’
Shattered: a gripping crime thriller Page 6
