Darkness Looking Back, The (4 page)

'WHAT'S THE VERDICT on the lover?' Kirkpatrick exited his office, meeting Rees as he came down the hall. Nielsen was behind the senior, fresh from going through the forensic results, such as they were so far. It had taken about three minutes.

Rees snorted at Kirkpatrick's enquiry, walking into the squad room. 'Sebastian Acott. All I can say is: nope.'

'But he didn't deny anything? He's given us some samples?'

'Oh yeah. They're dealing with him downstairs now. And there wasn't much to deny — the best friend was all too willing to dish the dirt.
She
had to spend all day in the branch with the guy. I'll tell you this straight, he's not the sort to joke around with pizza, or anything much. You could tell the humiliation of following a cop out of work was killing him. That kind of bloke would never get his hands dirty, except with the ink off his money.'

'What did he do there exactly?' Nielsen asked.

'Business banking. What else?' Rees shook his head. 'Can't have been much chop as a lover. The only thing to get
him
excited would be a point two per cent rise in the Dow.'

'So no go on Acott, you reckon?' asked Kirkpatrick, looking resigned.

'I'd be very surprised. Actually, he was trying to finger one of her other lovers. In the plural. One's gone to Australia, one's a former client and God knows who the other one is.'

Nielsen heaved a sigh. 'Should have known it was too good to be true. This is going to be one of those cases. No one with a motive. Mind you, it does look like he cleaned out her purse.'

'No prints I'm guessing?' asked Rees.

'Let's just say the purse was a lot cleaner than the floor.'

Kirkpatrick stuck his hands in his pockets with a wry smile, leaning back against a desk. 'Maybe someone had a bad credit rating. Got turned down for a mortgage and got nasty.'

'Ray here yet?' Stirling walked in, clutching a cup of coffee.

'Ray? No.'

'What do you want
him
for?' asked Rees.

Stirling frowned. 'He just gave me a buzz on my cellphone. Said to meet him in here.'

'I'm right here, Andy.' Gardner came into the room, followed by DS John Blundell, known affectionately as Little John for obvious reasons. All of them straightened imperceptibly. There was a feeling surrounding Blundell, one they all recognised. He was an invisibly marked man, someone who had recently been in the presence of death.

'Woodward wants to see you, Graeme,' he said to Kirkpatrick.

'What's happened, John?'

'Guess.'

'Someone else has been bashed to death.' Kirkpatrick voiced what was on all their minds.

'Yep.'

They were all completely silent, staring at him.

'An older woman, bashed and stabbed through the heart in her own home, apparently while making a cup of coffee.'

'Mrs Peacock in the kitchen with the kettle,' said Gardner.

'It's not funny, Ray,' said Kirkpatrick, with unwonted sharpness. 'I thought all this had finished six months ago. What are the chances of another serial killer so soon?'

'I'm not laughing,' Gardner replied, his face dark. 'I'm just looking at the pattern. First Miss Scarlett, then Mrs Peacock. Like fucking
Cluedo
. Our psycho's a damn comedian. Guess who found her?'

'Don't tell me she ordered a pizza?' Nielsen looked aghast.

'DVDs,' said Blundell morosely. 'Four of them. They were delivered by courier.'

'It might have been a coincidence,' said Gardner. 'But I don't think so. The choices were the first season of
Six Feet Under
,
Dead Again
,
The English Patient
—'

'Did we mention she was English?' said Blundell.

'— and, here's my favourite,
The Remains of the Day
.'

'Fucker,' said Rees shortly.

There was a moment of silence, till Gardner looked at Stirling. 'Thought you might want a bit of advance notice, Andy, so you could tell your friend Paxton. I was thinking he could maybe go and tip off a few more witnesses, upset the relations.'

Stirling wasn't going to let the bastard squeeze one word out
of him. He'd learnt his lesson on that one. He gave a sidelong glance at Kirkpatrick,
seeing if the senior would back him up. But Kirkpatrick was gazing a hole
through the floor.

'HELLO, AM I talking to James Paxton?'

The voice didn't sound like a thirteen-year-old girl's, so Paxton ruled out telemarketing. 'Yes, you are.'

'Hello, Mr Paxton. My name's Graeme Kirkpatrick. I'm a detective senior sergeant down at Auckland CIB. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.'

All the barriers started going up immediately. If this was a rematch of last winter's round with Gardner, Paxton wasn't playing. He kept his voice noncommittal. 'Sure.'

'I understand you've been able to crack a case for us through your unique ability. You can communicate with spirits, can't you?'

'That's right.'

'Hmmm.' The detective was fishing for something, that much was obvious. 'Would you be interested in chatting about the possibility of helping us on something else?'

'Um . . . What exactly do you mean?' Paxton wasn't quite sure he was getting this in the right context. 'Helping the police with their inquiries' had typically been as enjoyable as acupuncture with scissors.

'I notice you were keen on helping with the recent murder we had in Epsom. How about turning that into a proper commission?'

Paxton couldn't have been more amazed if Donald Trump had phoned up to offer him a job.

'Are you serious about this?'

'Do you think you'd be able to help us?'

'Er — that depends on what you're asking me to do. I'm not sure I quite understand.'

'How about you pay us a visit? Are you working today?'

'Yeah, in about an hour and a half.'

'Do you think you can make it? We're not too far from where you work, are we?'

'Not really. Okay, I'll see you as soon as I can.'

'Great. Thanks, Mr Paxton. See you soon.'

Paxton hung up, his head spinning as he went to change for work early. This was the last phone call he would have expected. From Gardner's attitude, and even Stirling's, he'd always assumed the police were sceptical about anything paranormal. Stirling was polite about it, unlike Gardner, but he never asked any questions about Paxton's abilities, and let the subject drop whenever it was raised. It seemed to be one of those regrettable delusions overlooked for the sake of friendship, like a tone-deaf mate's conviction he can carry a tune without dropping it like a china football. Yeah, yeah, mate, that's great . . . Yeah, a little bit like Neil Diamond . . .

Who was this Graeme Kirkpatrick? Paxton wished he could have called Stirling for a quick appraisal, but there wasn't time.

He was thankful no one was around to give him a second glance as he fronted up at CIB in a black shirt with a Gordon's gin logo. The reception area was a bit shabby — the place resembled an old prefab with blue carpeting and a vending machine. A plaque to fallen officers on one wall only added to the sad atmosphere. The guy manning the desk looked a picture of boredom in his Perspex enclosure. It wasn't where he wanted to spend his summer's day. However, he got on the phone to Kirkpatrick smartly enough. Obviously he'd been briefed.

A rather rumpled-looking man with a belly strode through the door from the offices inside a minute. 'Hi, Mr Paxton.' He came forward and shook hands, smiling. 'I'm really grateful to you for coming in. I promise I won't keep you long. Here, come through to my office and we'll sit down.'

He walked off again as fast as he'd come in, leaving Paxton at full stretch to catch up. Past a few basic office doors, the closeness of which suggested you'd have to shift your coffee cup every time you wanted to turn a page, then Kirkpatrick pushed open another to his right.

'Here he is. In here, Mr Paxton.'

It was a ridiculously small space for four people, and the empty chair in front of the desk was right next to DS Gardner's. The detective sergeant gave him a cheery smile that was just asking to be wiped off with a knuckle-duster.

'Hello, Mr Paxton. This is becoming quite a habit for you, isn't it?'

'How's that?' Paxton asked cautiously.

'Being a person of interest in murder inquiries.'

Paxton was saved from growling a reply by the other occupant of the room, a petite woman with golden-brown hair.

'I've been dying to meet you. This is quite exciting, actually.' She stood up, her hand already out, a smile of welcome on her face. 'I'm Detective Sergeant Vicky Nielsen. I was in charge of one of those cases you cracked for us — the security guard from the university. You saved us all a massive headache.'

'Pity he couldn't have found us the actual evidence to convict the man.' Gardner's smile was gone now, but he slouched back lazily in his chair, apparently not a threat. These weren't young, low-ranking DCs listening now — he'd have to tread more carefully.

'If it hadn't been for Mr Paxton, at least one more woman would have died. That makes him
my
hero,' said Nielsen, and sat down.

Paxton wasn't sure which made him like her more — Gardner's subsequent lapse into silence, or the friendly smile she gave Paxton, with a slight touch of defiance. Paxton wondered whether
anyone
sat next to Gardner at the pub.

'I've brought Detective Sergeants Gardner and Nielsen along to brief you on their respective cases,' said Kirkpatrick, settling himself in his own chair. He started wheeling it round the desk with his feet until he was more or less beside them, not that there was really the room. As he moved, Paxton was struck anew by his somewhat dishevelled appearance. Compared with Stirling, who was always well turned out, and the neat-looking Nielsen, and even Gardner, who looked like a disreputable banker, Kirkpatrick was a breath of fresh air. Unfortunately his new position prevented Paxton from checking out the messy drifts of paper on the desk, mostly bearing the police insignia.

'Now, you can agree to help us or refuse as you see ft, but before we go any further, I'll have to remind you that this is all confidential, and if you're going to stay in this room you'll have to swear that none of the details will get passed on to any third party outside this investigation.' Here he grinned. 'And as we're policemen, you'd have to be pretty stupid to break that agreement with us. Are you clear on that?'

'Yes.'

'All right then. Do you want to start, Ray?'

All of Gardner's previous good humour had vanished entirely. What he wanted to start with wasn't a plea for Paxton's help. The demon in Paxton's head told him Kirkpatrick knew that full well, and was enjoying it, though the man's demeanour was perfectly professional. Gardner got on with the facts without any preamble, his voice an offhand grumble.

'This morning the body of a woman was found in Grey Lynn. Semi-elderly, about sixty-three years old, bashed and scalded with a kettle and its contents she'd been using to boil her tea. She'd been dead some hours, since the previous night. A courier found her — he noticed the door was open a bit when he was delivering DVDs.'

Paxton shot all three of them a startled look.

'Ring any bells?' asked Kirkpatrick. 'What topped it off was the trail of footprints — cat footprints — coming out of there. It was pretty obvious it hadn't been stepping in mud.'

Paxton nodded, looking grimly into his lap. 'And there weren't any witnesses or any apparent motive.'

'Well, it's only the first day yet,' said Gardner, looking at Kirkpatrick as he spoke. 'We may be jumping the gun on this.'

Paxton chose to ignore the comment, sticking to business as he addressed Gardner. 'Did you feel anything about the house that seemed out of place? Aside from the body, I mean.'

'Well, you'd have to ask John about that.'

'What do you mean?'

'He was the one who actually went to the place — I'm just the OC.'

Paxton was confused. 'OC is officer in charge, isn't it? You mean you're in charge of the case but you haven't actually been to the scene?'

Now Gardner smiled, his superiority returning. 'There's something you have to learn about investigation processes, Mr Paxton. Just because someone attended the scene as part of Crime Squad doesn't mean they'll be assigned the case. Chances are, because they're so bloody buggered after the night shift, someone else will get the job while they go home and sleep. You just got lucky with me last time. We were overworked at the time, so the cases got doled out to whoever was handy.'

'Things haven't changed, Ray,' said Nielsen. 'That was eighteen hours, that last shift.'

'You're in charge of Charlotte Hiscocks?' Paxton couldn't refer to her as just 'the Epsom one'. The dead always had names and identities.

'That's right.'

'And I was in charge of the Gloria Tan investigation, that poor woman in the Foodtown carpark last year,' said Kirkpatrick. 'You've helped us all out, one way or another.'

Paxton answered honestly. 'I'm just glad it's over, Sergeant.'

Gardner smiled.

'
Senior
Sergeant,' Nielsen corrected. 'Detective Senior Sergeant — Ray and I are the sergeants.'

'That's okay, Vicky, it can get a bit confusing if you're not used to it.'

'Sorry, that's right. You did tell me,' said Paxton, feeling stupid. 'I've just never heard of a senior sergeant before. I don't think they have those back home.'

'Oh yes,' said Kirkpatrick, smiling. 'You lot have Inspector Morse and all those fancy British sleuths who seem to be the only detectives on their entire city police force. Well, we're a law unto ourselves out here. You won't see the DIs going out to crime scenes.' His smile faded. 'But getting back to the subject, do you think you'd be willing to help us get some insights into these investigations? We couldn't afford to pay you, I'm afraid. This would be on a voluntary basis.'

It figured, thought Paxton. They paid off street-walkers, petty thugs and other seedy informants, but heaven forbid they should have the shame of a medium on the payroll. He just nodded, and Kirkpatrick continued.

'I'm not quite sure how you operate. Do you need any objects, or a visit to the location? How would you go about it?'