Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (3 page)

There were a couple of suits and some formal shirts but mainly it was casual wear: Next, Gap, fashionable off-the peg stuff. Reasonable quality but like the leather jacket, most of it well worn. This wasn’t a man who lived extravagantly. Some of the sizes fluctuated slightly too, making.

Mariner wonder if Edward Barham had been a man battling with his weight. In any event there seemed far more clothing here than one man could reasonably wear. Marine picked up the book on the nightstand: the selected poems of Robert Frost.

‘So what was he into?’ asked Knox, appearing in the doorway.

‘Frost,’ Mariner told him.

‘Not a bad choice,’ approved Knox. ‘The wife likes Frost. I’ve told her it’s fantasy island as far as real police work goes, but she finds him entertaining.’

Mariner was struggling to connect Knox’s response to the information given, but eventually the fog cleared. ‘Not Inspector Frost,’ he said, with mild disdain. ‘Robert Frost, the American poet; a slightly different league.’

‘Oh. I didn’t know you liked poetry, sir,’ said Knox in a tone that suggested he put it on a par with cross-dressing.

‘Why would you?’ said Mariner, placidly. ‘Anyway, I don’t particularly. This was an O level set book when I was at school.’ Before putting it back Mariner turned to the page that Eddie Barham had bookmarked.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep.

One of the few poems Mariner could actually remember, mainly because it had been simple enough to understand right away, but here and now it was curiously at odds with the scene downstairs.

He replaced the book and moved on. Again up here the strange symbols were posted in places, including in the bathroom, an otherwise pretty standard affair, which gave little away until Mariner came to the medicine cabinet.

Prying open the flimsy lock he found inside, amongst the standard remedies, six white plastic syringes.

As if on cue, Stuart Ross’s voice echoed up the stairs.

‘I’ve finished the preliminaries, Tom. All right with you if we get him taken away?’

Mariner took the stairs down two at a time. ‘First impressions?’ he asked, knowing that it was completely unreasonable to expect anything concrete at this stage.

‘Only what you’ve already worked out.’ Ross was replacing instruments in his kit bag while the scene photographer flashed final shots from varying angles.

‘Death caused by a lethal injection of some kind. The body temperature would suggest that it occurred not long ago, maybe not more than about an hour. The postmortem will establish what he injected, but I’m sure we’re all thinking the same thing. Enough of the stuff would have done the business within two or three minutes. Strange that there’s no preparation debris,’ Ross observed.

‘Unless he bought it prepacked. The ultimate in convenience shopping, eh?’

It was something that had puzzled Mariner at first, but was in keeping with the general orderliness of the place and with his idea of the brunette’s role in the proceedings.

Alternatively, Knox could be right about a compulsive disorder. ‘Could it have been an accident, a miscalculation?’ he asked Ross.

‘It’s possible, of course. There’s nothing on the face of it to show that he was a habitual user, so it could have been an experiment gone horribly wrong. Apart from the fatal puncture mark there don’t seem to be any others, and the point of insertion makes it look like an amateurish job.’ He pointed to Eddie Barham’s pale and lifeless arm. ‘See where the skin is torn?’

Mariner thought back to the computer mouse. ‘He bungled it?’

‘Could be. But if it was an accident I’d say it was bloody bad luck. And you do have the note.’ Now safely protected within an evidence bag, the note would, along with the syringe, be sent to the forensic science service laboratory over at Bordesley Green. ‘Besides, if you were about to relax and enjoy yourself over a quiet fix, wouldn’t you at least take your coat off first?’

Ross was right. The scene had a definite air of urgency.

And Mariner recalled Barham’s agitation in the hotel bar, But something didn’t sit right. He kept his thoughts to himself for now. He was doubtless seeking complexity where there was none, one of his more annoying traits, as he’d frequently been told. Talking to those around Edward Barham to establish his state of mind would soon settle the matter and Knox had at last found a promising name and address.

Mariner and Knox waited around until SOCO had finished, but after that there was nothing more to do except secure the scene. On the TV the Countdown audience went wild.

‘Turn that off, will you?’ said Mariner. Knox did so, and immediately a different noise became apparent.

Mariner listened hard. ‘What’s that?’

‘What? I can’t hear…’

‘Sshhh!!’ Barely discernible in the background was a faint, high-pitched keening sound. Mariner tracked it to a small, low door under the stairs, fastened on a snib-lock.

He opened it and rubbed noses with a battering ram.

Anna Barham stretched lazily in her king-sized bed.

Although the hollow remained where Jonathan’s head had been on the pillow, the other side was cooling fast and in the darkness she could just distinguish his shadowy figure as he hastily pulled on his clothes. Fully dressed, he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, his goatee lightly scratching her skin. Anna wished he’d shave it off. Goatees had gone out of fashion months ago but apparently his wife liked it so it had to stay. She feigned sleep, knowing that he preferred to think she didn’t hear him go. Moments later she heard the front door close as her digital clock clicked over to twelve thirteen am. Hmm, earlier than usual.

Niggling doubts suddenly resurfaced as Anna wondered again if her suspicions that Jonathan might be cooling towards her were more than just unfounded paranoia. The uneasiness had started soon after Melanie Pick joined the firm, her induction programme seeming to demand rather a lot of Jonathan’s time. But that was ridiculous. She and Jonathan had a great thing going.

Not that a part-time relationship with a happily married man was every woman’s dream, but at this time in her life it suited Anna’s requirements perfectly. With one disastrous, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it marriage behind her the last thing she wanted was any kind of commitment. She and Jonathan had fun together, they had fantastic sex, but Jonathan’s family kept him right where Anna wanted him: at arm’s length. He didn’t want to move in with her and permanently impinge on her space. He wouldn’t start wanting babies with her, because he already had three of his own. And children were definitely not on Anna’s wish list. Okay, the downside was the occasional lonely night she had to endure when Jonathan was unable to get away, and the odd troubling pang she felt about his other life (occurring more frequently lately than she cared to acknowledge) but all else considered, it was a small price to pay for the way she liked to be and had to be: in control.

She awoke again almost immediately after Jonathan had left, it seemed, to a lightening sky and the low humming undercurrent of the city stirring into life. Sliding into her blue silk kimono, Jonathan’s gift from his last visit to Tokyo, Anna opened the blinds and relished her view, as she’d done on every single morning of her three-year occupancy. As part of the city’s new and prestigious canal side development, the outlook from her apartment was like a picture postcard: freshly painted black and white bridges arching over the canal that snaked darkly towards the red brick and ornate iron work of Brindley Place. All this set against the backdrop of pale blocks and tinted glass of the showpiece International Convention Centre, today rendered clear and sharp by a burst of February sunshine.

Tearing herself away from the window, Anna took a long shower, choosing gel, shampoo, exfoliating cream and moisturising body lotion from rows of accumulated preparations.

Applying her make-up she noticed that her hair would need trimming in a couple of weeks, which meant ringing the studio today if she was to stand any chance of getting Nicky. She was down to the last dregs of her Chanel too, so it was as well that she’d be passing through duty free next weekend on her way back from Milan.

In all, her whole morning routine took a leisurely hour, ending, as always with a circuit of the flat as she straightened the cushions, swept up a few imaginary crumbs and replaced three CDs in their boxes, slotting them back into the neat rank. Finally, she parcelled up last night’s empty takeaway cartons to take down to the bin and wiped over the already spotless kitchen counters one last time. Walking out of the door, she took a last look around, getting a thrill as she always did from knowing that when she came back in again this evening, it would all be exactly as she had left it.

As much as anything, Anna had chosen her flat for its proximity, via a network of side streets, to the office where she worked. But all this week she’d been inconvenienced by road closures along her usual route while cables were being laid. To follow the suggested diversions would have meant lengthy detours into heavy rush-hour traffic, so she’d developed a simple strategy. Ignoring the no entry notices, she consigned herself to the ‘emergency access to frontages category for three quarters of a mile, before swinging into the corporate car park only minutes after leaving home.

Lowering the electric window of her fiery red company Mazda 2.5, she tucked her pass card into the machine before drawing to a halt in her reserved parking space Getting out of the car, she smoothed the skirt of her dove grey Donna Karan suit, grabbed her briefcase and laptop from the passenger seat and, setting the remote electronic alarm, strode towards the modern office block that was home to Priory International Management Consultants.

Flexitime ensured that Anna was early enough to have preempted most of her colleagues but not Becky, her brilliantly efficient PA, who emerged from behind her work station to pick up Anna’s stride like a well-trained relay racer.

‘Hi Anna.’ She spoke as they walked. ‘The first draft off the contract for Milan is ready on your desk for you to approve and I’ve confirmed your flights for next weekend. Mr Waterhouse has booked a table for eight thirty this evening at da Paglia.’

‘Perfect.’ Anna nodded approval. Helping Jonathan to wine and dine prospective clients was becoming an increasing feature of her job, and Robinson’s Logistics PLC, their guests tonight, were potentially amongst the biggest they were ever likely to get. Even better, Robinson’s had been Anna’s find. She’d been the first to pick up the rumours of their sliding profit margins and a timely phone call had generated just the response she’d hoped. The following day her call had been returned and, so far, the chance of a deal Was looking promising. All Anna had to do now was to make sure that she was the face of Priory Management most visible to the Robinson’s chief executive. If she could front the securing of the contract with them it would earn her a barrowload of brownie points with Jonathan. Something she felt in need of right now.

‘These are your phone messages.’ In place of a baton, Becky passed across a sheaf of papers. ‘And,’ she added casually as Anna rested her hand on the door handle, ‘there are two policemen waiting for you in there.’ So they’d got her.

Taking a deep breath, Anna pushed open the door that bore her nameplate in shiny brass. The room seemed darker than usual, the view over Birmingham’s city centre obscured by the tall man who stood with his back to the room looking out of the window.

The other man, a uniformed policeman, had been sitting in the visitor’s chair but now clambered awkwardly to his feet, weighed down by bulging occupational hardware. It was he who spoke first. ‘Anna Barham?’ he asked, waving identification in her face and not waiting for her reply. ‘I’m Police Constable Knox and this is Detective Inspector Mariner.’

The tall man turned to face her, holding out his warrant card, which this time she got the chance to see. Detective Inspector Thomas G. Mariner, she read. The mug shot adequately portrayed the pale features and the glacier-blue eyes, but not the hideously bruised and swollen nose he bore in reality. Anna had to stop herself from staring. What was the story behind that, she wondered?

Talking herself out of difficult situations was one of Anna’s specialities, but in the half-minute or so she’d had, she’d already decided to come clean. They must at least have her licence-plate number and had probably filmed her in the act of defying the diversions with closed circuit cameras, although she was staggered that such a petty traffic offence should provoke a personal house call from two police officers, one of them a detective. ‘I’m really, sorry,’ she began, apologetic but coolly professional just the same. ‘I know I shouldn’t keep ignoring the signs, but I forget and before I know it, I’m just way past…’

PC Knox just looked at her. ‘Sorry?’

Anna helped him out. ‘The diversion signs, I should follow them, I know.’

‘This isn’t about driving.’ PC Knox was suddenly floundering.

Anna glanced up at Mariner’s battered face. ‘Well, don’t remember assaulting a police officer…’ she began instantly regretting the flippancy.

‘It’s nothing you’ve done, Miss Barham,’ Knox persevered, with a touch of irritation, Anna thought.

‘You may want to sit down,’ Mariner intervened, his voice thick and adenoidal, so that Anna had to fight a bizarre urge to pinch her nose and respond in the same way. He gestured towards her chair and, more from surprise than anything else, she did as she was told.

‘Your brother, Edward, was found dead in his home, late last night,’ he said.

Wow, this guy knew how to make an impact. He may as well have punched her in the stomach, and for several seconds the room seemed to sway.

‘No!’ Anna blurted uncontrollably. ‘No, he can’t be.’ A sudden vision flashed through her mind of the occasion fourteen years ago when she’d got home late from a party to find Eddie himself waiting for her. ‘Ann-ann, I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident…’ Now they were telling her that Eddie was dead too? It was impossible.