Blood And Water (32 page)

Bizarrely intrigued by the shape and form of his body, she watched his back in the chair and the hypnotic rise and fall of his breath. Unconsciously letting her own breath synchronise with his, her thoughts merged into each other to become incoherent and indecipherable.

Part Four

Chapter 28

Detective Inspector Alan Milford got the call just as he sat down to dinner. It was their anniversary and Jill, his wife, had prepared his favourite meal: beef-and-onion pie with creamy mash and overcooked mushy broccoli.

He sighed and looked apologetically at her as he reached behind him to the sideboard for the vibrating phone.

“You said you’d switch it off, really off, not just the ringer,” she objected, although she knew he wasn’t listening and in truth she really didn’t mind – his work was his passion and that wasn’t something she ever planned on getting in the way of.

Silently he listened as they gave the situation analysis. Then, pulling the napkin from his neck, he pushed back his chair.

“I’m on my way,” he said with a heavy sigh and, looking sheepishly at his her, whispered, “Sorry, love.”

Rounding the table to kiss his wife of eight years, he tried his best to appear upset but already could feel the excitement of a new case build.

“It’ll keep,” she told him, with a wave of her hand at the food. “But I’m not sure this will.” She smiled, claiming the twenty-euro bottle of Bordeaux as her consolation prize and carrying it and her glass from the table to the couch.

“This’ll be a long one, I think, so don’t wait up,” he told her with a quick peck to the top of her head as she settled in for her night alone.

She didn’t intend to.

He took the briefing over the phone as he drove, with his sergeant giving him more details.

The blue lights of the ambulance and police cars parked randomly in the driveway lit up the night. With no space for him, how inconsiderate, he pulled up on the curb outside, locked the car and turned slowly towards the house, absorbing the leafy neighbourhood, the well-heeled neighbours standing whispering in small huddles and the arriving paparazzi vying for the best spot for a story that was without doubt ‘breaking news’. Nodding curtly, he quickly passed them, picking up the pace when the ones who recognised him ran his way, hungry for whatever information they could scrounge only to be stopped by the Garda standing sentry at the gate.

Aside from the service vehicles, there were only two other cars in the driveway. A black Mercedes.
Nice
, he remarked to himself, taking his time to casually stroll around it, admiring the luxurious curves and the 151-registered white Golf beside it. The blue beams from the patrol cars bounced back at him from the glass. High-spec cars, beautiful house, political icon. Milford was curious to find out what was going on inside but before he entered the house he stood for a moment, hands on hips, and looked around him, soaking up the entire picture.

Taking his time he walked up the granite steps and through the open door into the impressive high-ceilinged hallway.

A young officer, Garda Rachel Evans, was waiting in the hall for him

“They’re in there, sir,” she informed him, nodding towards the open door opposite.

“Thanks, Evans,” he replied courteously and made his way across the hall and into the study where two tearful and stunned women sat side by side, holding hands on the burgundy chesterfield sofa.

Lamps dotted around, along with the flames from the fire that roared in the fireplace, lit up the room. It was a sober space, and despite the disarray of its recently upturned contents its temperate atmosphere was apparent.

Books, lamps, ornaments and fallen furniture littered the floor.

Now that’s a mess, he noted with increasing intrigue as he skirted around the interview that was taking place on the sofa between the ladies and one of his team. Wanting to observe the scene for himself for a while longer he chose to leave them uninterrupted and walked instead around the desk that had been wiped clear of its things which now lay in a heap on the carpet. The lamp had been smashed, papers were strewn around and in the middle of it all three drawers lay overturned and empty, one of them forced with its lock shattered and timber splintered all around. He watched his every step, careful not to tread on anything and followed the trail of destruction to the opposite corner where the cupboard built into the alcove had its doors thrown open. It too was now haphazardly devoid of most of its contents. And at the back of it, buried deep into its recess, the vintage cast-iron safe that it hid was sitting wide open with a ring of keys still in the lock. Files, loose documents and passports were reefed and cast aside, obviously worthless to whoever had perpetrated this havoc.

The place was a mess. Whoever did this, he assessed, had plenty of time and wasn’t afraid of being heard.

As Milford went to leave the room to explore further someone handed him a clear plastic pouch containing a handwritten piece of paper. He took it and read.

“Interesting,” he remarked and with a nod to his officer held on to it, putting it carefully inside his breast pocket.

The kitchen was clear, the housekeeper having left hours earlier he was told, but in the utility room a window had been forced and broken, the glass in smithereens covering the top of the counter and spilling on to the floor below. He ventured outside through the back door to inspect the side passage and the window frame. It was clear. No footprints, no marks, just bits of dirt and glass on the ground. The gate to the side passage wasn’t locked but secured by a latch that could be lifted from either side. Having seen enough for the time being, he made his way back inside and retraced his steps from the utility room through the kitchen and back into the hall.

“Well, let’s have a look then,” he said aloud to no one in particular and made his way to the scene of the crime.

In what Milford assumed to be the lounge, William still sat in the Queen Anne carver, slouched forward with his head, cheek side up, resting cold and stiff in a pool of his now hardened and crusting blood on the top of the polished mahogany bureau. Careful not to touch anything Milford moved expertly and with great agility around the body, bending and stretching, interrogating every visual aspect of the scene, taking in the detail and cataloguing it in his head for referencing later. Photographs, he found, rarely captured the finer intricacies of a scene better than his own eyes. These were the details that in his mind could ultimately seal the case.

Taken by surprise? he wondered, curious about the bruise to his forehead and more importantly the gash to the back of his skull, obviously the injury that did the fatal damage.

And how come in here? he asked himself, looking around the room for inspiration. “Any sign of a weapon?” he asked the official sweeping the room for evidence.

“Not yet, sir,” came the polite reply.

“Surely if it was a break-in he’d have heard the glass shatter? He’d get up to investigate, don’t you think?” he asked without expecting an answer. “But from here it looks like he was taken by surprise.” The house was big, but not so big as to muffle the sound of a breaking window. “Unless he’s deaf?” he presented himself with a not unlikely alternate explanation and checked for signs of a hearing aid. “He didn’t turn around so either he didn’t have time or he didn’t realise what was coming.”

With the exception of the victim nothing in the room was obviously disturbed. Embers burned faintly in the fireplace, the aroma of the long-since dried-out logs still marvellously fresh in the room.

Nothing like an open fire, he reckoned. Next to the fireplace, at the end of the couch that ran perpendicular to it, a book tower was piled high on the side table and beside that was a half-finished glass of water and a silver plate of bonbons.

How very chic, he thought, tempted but not daring to pop one of the sugary delights into his mouth. Instead he sat down and settled himself comfortably into the sofa’s cushions to survey for a moment the lay of what appeared to be an ordinary room with little evidence of the crime apart from the corpse in the antique chair.

Satisfied eventually that he’d seen enough, he continued his exploration of the house, careful to keep his hands to himself as he went.

The dining room next door, with very little to upset, seemed almost untouched. The main ingredient of the sparsely furnished room was a long, perfectly polished chestnut-coloured table with two large candelabras standing majestically in its middle. An impressive feature as well as a functional piece of furniture, Milford could only imagine how sumptuously lavish it was when dressed for the many political gatherings this room had undoubtedly entertained. Elegant and sophisticated, fit for royalty. Far too big for his own house. And apart from the matching chairs and a serving bureau there was no other furniture in the room.

Nice, he thought as he made his way back to the hall to beckon the Garda standing watch at the door.

“Evans, get Fitzgerald to cover the door. I want you to check all the windows – oh and check the phone too – we’ll need last dialled numbers and calls in.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, scurrying off.

“Be careful not to touch anything else,” Milford warned as she disappeared in search of Garda Fitzgerald.

The house and its contents flaunted the wealth of the family, with an impressive array of silverware, elegant crystal, valuable antiques, state-of-the-art electronics, not to mention the impressive paintings on the walls. There were prime pickings in almost every room. If he needed evidence to prove that this wasn’t a regular burglary, botched or otherwise, the fact that nothing obvious had been taken from the house appeared to be it.

He headed up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, to see what else he could discover. He noted with interest William and Barbara’s separate rooms in which, again, there didn’t appear to be any sign of disturbance. He spent most time in Barbara’s room. Feeling like an intruder himself, he placed his hand between the sheets of her bed. Feeling significant heat there he knew she wasn’t long out of it. On the bedside table a half-empty bottle of scotch whiskey beside the small brown pharmacy-issue canister provided an explanation, perhaps, as to how and why Barbara apparently heard nothing from downstairs. Beside her bed, tucked in neatly between the bedside table and the bed itself was her handbag. Pulling it out he took a quick peek, careful not to disturb the contents, wondering what it was that made him think all was not well in the day-to-day goings-on in this fine house.

Satisfied that he had seen all that was necessary, Milford made his way back downstairs and into the study. The women still sat side by side on the couch by the fire. He nodded to his colleague who took the cue to let him take over and stood to discreetly whisper in his ear: “She hasn’t said a word.”

Milford smiled sympathetically in acknowledgement and sat down in his place. Although he’d never met her, he recognised Barbara Bertram from the pictures he’d seen of her over the years. As he recalled she always looked very dour and always stood behind her husband, as if she were hiding. This evening she sat stony-white, looking straight ahead unblinking, and, he reckoned based on what he’d seen upstairs, very hung over. The other woman – the daughter, he assumed – held her arm tight around her mother’s shoulders, gently stroking while she rocked, needlessly hushing her like a baby. Settling himself down, feeling the warmth of the fire beside him he leaned forward to introduce himself.

“Mrs. Bertram,” he said quietly, “I am Detective Inspector Milford. Alan Milford.” He paused for a response but she didn’t move or bat an eye.

Looking towards the daughter who acknowledged her mother’s silence with a helpless lift of her eyebrows, he tried again.

“Barbara, I know you’re in some shock right now, but if you could tell me what happened …” He let the sentence hang, hoping to see even a glimmer of a response in her unblinking eyes. Nothing. She was obviously and understandably in a state of shock. He turned instead to the daughter. “And you are?”

“Sorry,” she replied, a little flustered, and paused before answering, as if waking from a trance. “I’m her daughter, Enya, the youngest,” she said nervously.

“Enya. Beautiful name,” Milford said with a smile, hoping to put her at ease. “So, can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, glancing again at her mother who remained statue-still with her hands clasped tight in her lap. “I came back – we were here earlier, you see, and I rang the bell, but there was no answer so I used the key.”

“What key?” he asked.

“There’s a key rock outside.”

Milford listened attentively without taking notes, giving her all of his attention.

“And I came in and . . .” Her voice shook and body shivered despite the heat in the room.

“Go on,” he encouraged gently.

“I found him, in there . . .”

“And your mum?” Milford pressed.

“She was upstairs.” Ciara paused to look again at her mother and, lowering her lids as if to hide her embarrassment, added, “Asleep.”

“Has she said anything about what happened? Did she hear anything?”

“No. She won’t speak to me.”

“Did she give you any indication when she woke about what might have happened?” he asked.

“No. She hasn’t said a word.”

“Can you remember what time that was?”

“I got here about eight fifteen.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding pensively. “And after you found your father, what did you do then?”

“Well,” she replied slowly, “I called out for Mum and when she didn’t reply I ran up the stairs to see if she was alright.”

“You went straight upstairs? You didn’t go to the kitchen?”

“Well, no. I knew where she’d be, see.” She threw a quick glance at her mother, as if feeling the awkwardness of speaking about her like she wasn’t there.

Milford didn’t take his eyes off her, watching her closely, taking in how she moved and held herself, her gestures and expressions, where she looked and the words she used and didn’t interrupt her.