Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (2 page)

‘Sir?’ The question hung unanswered in the air as Knox took in the scene. ‘Shit. Is he dead?’ As he squatted down to verify it, Mariner watched Knox trying to make sense of things. Finally his gaze shifted back to Mariner, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, subtlety obviously not a strength. The exact reason for the transfer from Liverpool had never been made explicit, but rumour had it that it wasn’t entirely Knox’s decision. In this case the question was justified. A DI wasn’t normally the first to the scene of a bog-standard domestic disturbance.

Mariner hoped it wouldn’t complicate things. ‘I was in the area and heard the call,’ he said. ‘When I got here I recognised the car on the drive.’

‘You know him?’

‘Not exactly.’ Mariner briefly recounted what he’d witnessed earlier in the evening. If Knox wondered what a senior officer was doing hanging around the bar of the Chamberlain Hotel on his night off done up like a dog’s dinner he was, for once, astute enough not to ask.

‘It’s ironic,’ added Mariner. ‘The way this guy was behaving made me afraid for the woman’s safety. But then that was more than an hour ago.’ And, as they both knew, practically anything could have happened in the interim.

As he inhaled, Mariner caught a whiff of something, a sort of unwashed smell. He was about to open his mouth to comment when he noticed the grimy rim around the collar of Knox’s white shirt and the sheen of stubble coating his chin. Tonight’s match was a Category C: high risk and officer intensive, which meant they’d be short of bodies elsewhere in the city. It explained why Knox was solo, but even so.

‘How long have you been on duty?’ Mariner asked him.

‘Since two.’ Knox shifted uncomfortably. He hesitated but Mariner wanted more. ‘The wife has locked me out so I had to kip in the car overnight. I’ll get a shower at the end of the shift.’

‘Good idea,’ said Mariner with feeling, making an effort at shallow breathing and shaking off any speculation about why Knox might have been barred from his own home.

Taking the hint, Knox got up and moved away. ‘I’ll check over the rest of the house.’

‘It’ll be a start. John Doe here drove off with the brunette, and it was a woman who made the emergency call, so there’s a strong possibility that it’s the same one. She looked more like a call girl than a crackhead to me, but this guy was waving his money around so it’s possible that she supplied and serviced him. Let’s make sure that she isn’t still hanging about somewhere, then get Scenes of Crime out of bed.’

Whatever the circumstances might imply, this was a sudden unexplained death and in the absence of any reliable witnesses they would have to keep their minds open for now. It didn’t look like too many other crime scenes Mariner had seen, unless the reckless dispersal of potato snacks had suddenly become a felony, but until there was conclusive evidence of suicide nothing was certain, and it had to be treated accordingly.

‘You’ll need these,’ said Knox.

Throwing Mariner a small polythene packet, he went off to search the house, speaking into his lapel radio as he went. Mariner opened the packet and squeezed his hands into the tight latex gloves, grateful, as always, that he was only a policeman and not a vet.

Knox reappeared. ‘We’re on our own,’ he confirmed, tactfully keeping his distance. ‘No sign of life. And SOCO are on their way.’

‘Good.’

Taking care not to disturb the syringe, Mariner slid his hand into the inside breast pocket of the dead man’s jacket to retrieve the soft leather wallet he’d seen earlier.

It contained a hundred and thirty in notes, along with a variety of standard credit and loyalty cards, plus a larger, laminated press card, conveniently displaying a photograph of the deceased. He’d been right. This wasn’t Derek. But it seemed he’d been way off the mark about everything else. ‘Edward Barham,’ he read out loud, for Knox’s benefit. ‘And this is his place, according to the address.’

He made a swift mental calculation. ‘Age thirty-nine, and a paid-up member of the National Union of Journalists.’

‘A hack,’ said Knox. Walking the length of the room, he’d come to rest in front of a fitted cupboard, on top of which, high up and almost beyond Mariner’s line of vision, was a row of plaques and trophies. ‘Someone thought he was a good one too, if this lot’s anything to go by.’ He craned his neck to read the engraving. ‘Midlands Reporter of the Year in 1996.’

‘But modest enough about his achievements to stick them way up there, almost out of sight,’ observed Mariner. ‘Christ, and is that what I think it is?’ Staring out from the corner of the ceiling was the beady eye of a miniature, remote-controlled video camera.

‘Journalist, junkie and security nut,’ announced Knox.

‘This is a prime area for burglaries, it would have been a reasonable precaution.’ But even as Mariner spoke he was conscious, studying it for the first time, that the design of this room represented security taken to its extreme.

The substantial TV and video housing were conspicuously bolted to the polished wood floor, while the state-of-the-art sound system, CDs and rows of books were all present and correct, but locked away behind elaborately reinforced glass doors inside the same floor-to-ceiling cupboards that ran the entire length of one wall. Apart from those items, the four-seater sofa was the only other stick of furniture in what was a cavern of a room. This represented minimalism taken to the extreme.

It was Mariner’s kind of place, but the overall impression was stark and empty, with none of the usual worthless clutter accumulated in most homes. No pictures, photographs, pot-plants or the army of candles that these days seemed to be practically mandatory. The only aberration was a pile of dog-eared catalogues that stood in a jumbled stack by the door, topped by two weighty hardback books.

And then there were the funny little symbols. Black and white laminated line drawings were posted here and there, on the side of the TV, the back of the door, beneath the window sill. Knox was studying one at close quarters.

‘What do you suppose they are? Something to do with the occult?’

Mariner was dubious. The images were too simple and childlike, although there was little other indication that children lived here, and they did have a kind of alien quality.

Knox had already made up his mind. ‘I bet this guy had one of those weird compulsive disorders,’ he said. It was true. Suicide and mental disturbance were often to some degree linked, but it was still a big leap to make.

‘He could have just been security conscious and tidy,’ said Mariner, Knox’s tendency towards the forgone conclusion starting to rankle. ‘And be grateful. Whatever the purpose of that camera, if what happened here has been filmed it’s going to save us a hell of a lot of trouble.’

Mariner turned his attention back to the wallet, which also contained a couple of personal business cards, and a folded page recently torn from a newspaper. Flattened out, Mariner recognised it as the column for ‘ Personal Services’, well thumbed and with several of the numbers emphatically ringed in black ink. One of them the brunette’s, he wondered?

Something stale invaded Mariner’s nostrils again. Knox was back peering over his shoulder. ‘See,’ he concluded, uncompromisingly. ‘What kind of sad git gets his sex life out of the paper?’

‘We don’t know that he did!’ Mariner rounded on him angrily, feeling his colour rise. ‘There could be any number of explanations for this. He was a journalist, remember?’

He knew he’d jumped in too soon and too defensively, conscious of the call he himself had made only the night before. Okay, so he hadn’t followed it through, but he’d made it all the same.

‘No, well, perhaps you’re right, boss.’ Knox’s face was inscrutable, but Mariner could almost hear him adding two and two to make five. It was no more than Mariner would have expected. Blessed with the Scouse gift of the gab, Knox would never find himself in that sorry position. It more than likely related to why Mrs Knox had thrown him out.

‘We shouldn’t be making any assumptions at this stage,’ Mariner said, regaining his composure. He was tempted to say more, but let it go. Instead he turned his attention back to the cutting. ‘These numbers will need to be crosschecked with the calls made on that phone.’

‘I’ll have a vowel, please, Carol,’ piped up one of the contestants on the TV.

‘Not what I’d choose as the background for my final, dramatic gesture to the world,’ Knox said, momentarily mesmerised by the screen. ‘Shall I turn it off?’ But neither of them was inclined to, not while it provided a distraction from the bleak silence of death.

‘Let’s get searching,’ Mariner said. ‘We need to turn up a relative or two.’ Yellow potato rings cracked beneath his feet as he stood up. ‘What is all this crap?’

‘Hula-Hoops,’ Knox obliged, nodding towards a wrapper beside the sofa. ‘But only one packet; not much of a party.’

A loud knock echoed down the hall. Christ, nosy neighbours, that was all they needed. Where were they a couple of hours ago? But it wasn’t the neighbours; it was Stuart Ross, the police surgeon, carelessly dressed and bleary eyed, making Mariner wonder enviously whose bed he’d just left. Why was it that when your own love life was on the skids, everyone else seemed to have it on tap? Close behind Ross, the SOCO team had arrived, too. This was fast turning into rent-a-wake.

•••

‘Stuart.’ Mariner nodded a greeting.

‘Tom. What have we got?’

‘Edward Barham. Pretty much as we found him, except that I’ve relieved him of his wallet.’

Ross’s gaze took in the suicide note. ‘No more what?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Monkeys, bouncing on the bed?’ suggested Knox. He caught Mariner’s glare. ‘Next of kin, sir. I’ll get on to it.’ And left the room before Mariner could interject.

Mariner had nothing to gain by hovering over Ross either; so, leaving the surgeon pulling on overalls, he followed Knox up the stairs.

‘Where the hell did you learn something like that?’ he asked.

‘My granddaughter.’

It was said so quietly, Mariner thought he must have misheard. He hoped that the thud of his jaw hitting the ground wasn’t audible. ‘Granddaughter?’

‘That’s right.’ Knox turned to face him, his eyes challenging Mariner to make something of it.

‘I never had you down as a granddad,’ Mariner said, truthfully.

‘Neither did I,’ Knox replied evenly. ‘But some things are out of our hands, aren’t they? Sir.’ And with a minimal lift of his eyebrows he turned and continued up to the*

landing. Subject closed.

Of the four first-floor rooms the most promising appeared to be a small back bedroom that had been converted into a working office complete with computer printer, scanner and fax machine. In stark contrast to the lower floor, this room was by far the untidiest and there fore the one that mattered. Papers were scattered haphazardly over every horizontal surface and drawers were pulled open to varying degrees, spilling out diverse contents.

‘Almost as if he was looking for something, too,’ remarked Mariner.

‘An antivirus program if he had any sense. Look at that!’ Mariner tracked Knox’s gaze to the computer screen.

The machine was already booted-up and as Knox nudged the mouse the screensaver cleared to reveal a scene of technological devastation. Rows of data merged and tumbled from the screen, dancing and swirling before their eyes before mutating into giant insects that scuttled off the screen, cackling nastily.

Although functionally competent, Mariner’s interest in computers pretty well ended there. This was the first time he’d witnessed a virus in action but even he understood the implications. ‘Can you stop it?’ he asked.

From the expression on his face, Mariner guessed that Knox had only done the basic training too. ‘I might be able to save anything that isn’t corrupted,’ he said.

‘Get on with it then,’ said Mariner. ‘It might be important.’

Like holding the key to why Edward Barham, bachelor, journalist, had just killed himself.

Knox sat down on the swivel chair and the first thing he did was to clear a space to the left of the keyboard and move the mouse and mouse-mat over to it. He noticed Mariner watching him. ‘I’m left handed,’ he said, defensively.

‘I find it more comfortable this way.’

‘Right,’ said Mariner dubiously, wondering just how far Knox’s ICT skills extended. Meanwhile, he rifled through the remainder of the desk, looking for any personal papers that might help them to build a picture of Edward Barham’s life in the days leading up to its close. The journalist, it appeared, was nothing if not methodical, and it wasn’t long before Mariner found virtually everything he needed contained in a single suspension file squeezed between dozens of others in the bottom drawer and labelled ‘Finance: Current’. In it were bank statements, credit card bills and invoices, some going back as far as a year.

Making further inroads into Knox’s supply of evidence bags, Mariner tipped in the entire contents. They could sort it out back at the nick. None of the other files of correspondence, newspaper cuttings and assorted instruction manuals looked as immediately relevant. They could be checked at a later date if necessary.

Closing the drawer, Mariner straightened, and as he did so, noticed a Filofax that had fallen on the floor, down the side of the filing cabinet. He picked it up and tossed it to Knox.

‘While you’re at it, here’s your chance to multitask,’ Mariner added. ‘Have a flick through that for any likely names and addresses.’ And leaving Knox to his endeavours, he went to look over the rest of the house, glad to escape the stuffy office to some sweeter smelling air.

Unsurprisingly, the remaining four rooms lacked the hi tech input and were furnished more in keeping with the age and style of the house. Old-fashioned, Mariner would have called them, though the lingering smell of paint hinted at recent decoration. Only one, the master bedroom, was obviously inhabited, although a single bed in the spare room was also made up. Mariner opened drawers and cupboards. No trace of any female apparel ruling out the brunette as wife or live-in partner but several wardrobes, including those in the spare room, were full of men’s clothes and shoes.