Kick Back (20 page)

More likely, she was hot on the trail of some tale to titillate her readers. There was nothing unusual in her driving as though she were the only person on the road. Like most journos, she operates on the principle that the hideous road accidents they've all reported only ever happen to other people.

The Golf had gone from outside the house in Tamarind Grove. Cheetham's BMW was still sitting outside the garage, but there were no lights on in the house, though it was dark enough outside for the street lights to be glowing orange. Chances were Cheetham had been driven off somewhere by the lovely Nell. Which meant there was probably no one home.

To make doubly sure, I got his number from Directory Enquiries. The phone rang four times, then the answering machine cut in. “I'm sorry, I can't take your call right now …” And all the rest. It wasn't proof positive that the house was unoccupied, but I figured Cheetham was too stressed out just now to ignore his phone.

I couldn't resist it. Within minutes, I'd changed from my business clothes into a jogging suit and Reeboks from the holdall I'd removed from my wrecked Nova. I added a thin pair of latex gloves, just in case. Out of my handbag, I took my Swiss Army knife, my powerful pocket torch, an out-of-date credit card, a set of jeweler's tools that double as lock-picks, and a miniature camera. All the things a girl should never be without. Checking the street was
empty, I slipped out of the van and down the flagged path that ran by the side of Martin Cheetham's house. Fortunately, although the bell box on the front of the house indicated he had a burglar alarm, he hadn't invested in infra-red activated security lights, as recommended by Mortensen and Brannigan.

The back garden was enclosed by a seven-foot fence, and the gloom was compounded by thick shrubs that cast strange shadows across a paved area which featured the inevitable brick-built barbeque. There was no sign of light through the pair of patio doors that led into the garden so I cautiously turned on my torch. I peered in at a dining room with a strangely old-fashioned air.

I switched the torch off and moved cautiously across the patio to the kitchen door. It was the solid, heavy door of someone who takes their security precautions seriously. So I was rather surprised to see the top section of the kitchen window ajar. I carried on past the door and glanced up at the window. It was open a couple of notches, and although it was too small to allow anyone to enter, it offered possibilities.

I shone my torch through the window, revealing an unadventurous pine kitchen, cluttered with appliances, a bowl of fruit, a rack of vegetables, a draining board full of dry dishes, a shelf of cookery books, a knife block and an assortment of jars and bottles. It looked more like a table at a car boot sale than a kitchen.

The door leading from the kitchen to the hall was ajar, and I shifted slightly to let the beam from my torch play across the room. Caught between the beam of my torch and the gleam of the street light out front, I could see the body of a woman twisting slowly round and round, round and round.

Next thing I knew, I was crouched down on the patio, my back pressed against the wall so hard I could feel the texture of the brickwork against my scalp. I didn't know how I'd got there. My torch was turned off, but the sight of the dangling corpse still filled my vision. I squeezed my eyes closed, but the image of the body hanging in mid-air was still vividly there. It sounds callous, but I felt outraged. I don't do bodies. I do industrial espionage, fraud and white-collar theft. The desire to curl up in a tight little ball was almost overwhelming. I knew I ought to get the hell out of there and call the police, but I couldn't get my limbs to move.

It looked like an open and shut case. The woman called Nell had arrived earlier in the afternoon; now there was a woman's corpse in the house, and her car was missing. What it meant to me was that Cheetham would be facing a murder charge rather than one of fraud. Either way, he wouldn't be practicing as a solicitor again in a hurry. But Lomax, on the other hand, would almost certainly live to defraud another day. All he had to do was deny everything and blame it all on Cheetham.

I struggled to my feet. I wished Richard was with me. Not because he'd be any practical use, but because he'd be talking me out of what I was about to do. I knew it was crazy, knew I was taking the kind of stupid chance that Bill would seriously fall out with me over. But I'd come this far, and I couldn't stop now. If there was any proof of what had been going on, I wanted to have a good look at it before the police sequestrated it. As Richard has pointed out on several occasions, I subscribe to the irregular verb theory of language: I am a trained investigator, you have a healthy curiosity, she/he is a nosy-parker.

I took a deep breath and studied the kitchen window, carefully averting my eyes from the doorway leading into the hall. If I could get up to it, I thought I might be able to reach through the open window and slip open the catch on the side section, which would be big enough to let me climb in. Unfortunately, the sill wasn't wide enough to stand on, and there was no conveniently placed ladder. The only things that were remotely portable were the carefully arranged bricks of the circular barbecue. They weren't mortared together, merely assembled like a child's building bricks.

With a sigh, I started shifting the bricks to build a platform beneath the window. I was grateful for the latex gloves; without them, my hands would have been in shreds. It didn't take long to construct a makeshift set of steps that brought me high enough to slide my arm inside the unfastened window. My fingertips could barely brush the top of the window catch. I withdrew and opened the blade of my Swiss Army knife that looks as if its only purpose is to remove Boy Scouts from horses' hoofs. It has a sort of hooked bit on the end and almost certainly has some quaint name like “cordwangler's grommet disengager.”

With the blade extended, I was able to flick the catch upwards. I pushed the window towards me, and it swung open. I stepped into the kitchen sink and closed both windows behind me. I searched the draining board for a cloth then carefully wiped the sill and the sink to remove any obvious traces of my entry. The last thing I wanted was to be lifted for murder. What I was really doing was putting off the moment when I'd have to confront Nell's dangling body. She must be suspended from the banister, I realized as I braced myself to go through the doorway.

I emerged into the hall, gritted my teeth and switched on my torch. The body was still twisting languorously in some faint draught. Steeling myself, I started at the floor and worked upwards. A brown court shoe like the one I'd seen emerging from the Golf a couple of hours ago lay on its side on the plain oatmeal Berber carpet, as if it had been idly kicked off. Its partner was on the left foot of the body. The ankles were lashed together with an incongruous Liberty silk scarf. The scarf was tied in a slip knot that had tightened to cut into the flesh above the ankle bones. She
wore sheer dark-tan stockings. They looked like silk to me. I caught a glimpse of suspenders under the full, swirling skirt. I couldn't see the underwear. The smell made me glad of that. My eyes travelled upwards, over a silk tunic cinched in at the waist by a woven leather belt with gilt studs, like a stylized leather queen's. The shapely legs were bent at the knees, held in place by another scarf that was tied to the belt.

The wrists were tied together in front of the body with another scarf, clasped like an innocent Doris Day in a nineteen-fifties film. Again, a slip knot had been used. It looked like a bizarre sexual fantasy, the stuff of snuff movies. I tried not to look too closely at the ligature, but it was obvious that the woman had been hanged by a rope of silk scarves. I closed my eyes, swallowed hard and made myself look at the face.

It wasn't Nell.

Not by any stretch of the imagination was that swollen, engorged face the same one I'd seen in Buxton and later in Cheetham's office. From below, it was hard to say more than that, but the hair looked strangely asymmetrical. The one ear I could see was an ominous bluish purple, and the skin of the face was an odd color. Horrified but oddly fascinated, I skirted the body to climb the stairs for a better vantage point. Five steps from the top of the flight, I was almost level with the staring eyes. Dots of blood peppered the whites of the eyes. I tried not to think of this as a human being, but simply as a piece of evidence. Close to, it was clear that the brown hair was a wig. What was also clear, in spite of the hideous distortion of the features and the heavy make-up, was the identity of the corpse. That was when I lost it.

 

I splashed cold water over my face, drawing my breath in sharply as it hit. I dried myself on toilet paper, then flushed it down the loo. Then I flushed the loo again, the sixth time since I'd lost my lunch. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean the forensic scientists aren't out to get you. I gave the toilet bowl a last wipe down, then flushed again, praying the U-bend was now free from any traces of my reaction to discovering Martin Cheetham hanging from a banister dressed in women's clothing.

I closed the toilet lid and sat down on it. It was only my second corpse ever, and the discovery seemed to be taking a bit of getting used to. The voice of wisdom and self-preservation was telling me to get out of there as fast as possible and wait till I was in another county before calling the police. The bloody-minded voice from the other side of my brain reminded me that I'd never get another chance like this to get to the bottom of whatever had brought matters to this pass. I couldn't believe Cheetham had killed himself because he thought I'd uncovered his dishonesty in the land sale. There had to be more.

I forced myself out of the bathroom and back on to the landing. “It's not a person,” I kept saying out loud to myself, as if that could convince me. I stood on the landing, above the banister where Cheetham's body was suspended by the rope of silk scarves. From here, it didn't look quite so terrible, though at this angle I could see what had been obscured from below, that he had an erection. I forced myself to reach down and touch the skin of the face. There was no perceptible difference in temperature between my hand and the corpse. I didn't know enough about forensic medicine to understand the significance of that.

I turned my back on the body and started my search. The first room I entered was obviously the spare room. It was lit dimly by the glow of the street lamps. The room was clean and neat, but again, curiously old fashioned, like a room in my parents' house. The wardrobe was empty except for a white tuxedo, dress trousers and a couple of frilly evening shirts. The chest of drawers was empty except for towels in the bottom drawer. On the off-chance, I lifted an insipid watercolor of the Lake District away from the wall. I couldn't think of any reason for keeping it except to obscure a safe. No such luck.

The next bedroom appeared more promising. It overlooked the garden, so I took the risk of drawing the heavy, floor-length chintz drapes and switching on the light. Mirrored wardrobes the length of the far wall doubled the apparent size of the room. A king-size bed dominated the other wall. The plain green duvet cover looked rumpled, as if someone had been lying on it. On the floor by the bed, a magazine lay open. I crouched down and studied it,
gingerly turning the pages. It was sadomasochistic pornography of the kind that makes me feel like joining Mary Whitehouse and the Moral Majority. The key pages came just before the one that lay open on the floor. They featured an illustrated story about a man who got his satisfaction from pretending to hang himself.

As I crouched there, feeling soiled just looking at the porn, by a strange contrast I noticed the bed linen still smelled fresh and clean. I looked carefully at the pillows, then moved round the bed to the undisturbed side, where I lifted the duvet: no stray hairs, no wrinkles in the sheet, no depression in the pillows. I may not have had much experience of suicides, but I couldn't see someone changing the bedding before they topped themselves. On a hunch, I walked across the room to the wicker linen basket. It contained two shirts, two pairs of socks, two pairs of boxer shorts and a bath towel. But no sheets, pillow cases or duvet cover. Curiouser and curiouser.

I started on the wardrobes. The first revealed half a dozen business suits and a couple of dozen shirts, all from Marks & Spencer. A shoe rack along the bottom held a mixture of formal and casual footwear. A tie rack was fixed to the inside of the door, revealing a taste in ties as exotic as an undertaker's. The next section contained leisure wear—polo shirts, rugby shirts, jeans, all carefully pressed and hung. The next unit disguised a tower of drawers. T-shirts, underwear, socks, sweaters, jogging pants, all neatly folded in piles.

The last two sections appeared to be a double wardrobe, and it was locked. The lock was different from the flimsy ones on the other doors and their keys didn't fit. I wondered where Cheetham's key ring was, and doubled back to the drawer in the bedside table. It held a wallet and a bunch of keys, but not the key to the wardrobe. Oh joy, oh rapture. There was nothing else for it. I'd have to try picking the lock, and be careful not to leave it looking like someone had had a go at it.

I took out the slender tools and gently began to probe the inside of the lock with a narrow, flexible strip of metal. Just the thought of picking the lock had my hands sweating inside the thin gloves. I started to poke about in what I hoped was a reasonable approximation
of what my friend Dennis had taught me. After a few minutes that felt like hours, my probe met the kind of resistance that shows a bit of give. Praying the strip I was using was strong enough, I twisted it. There was a click, and the doors slowly opened out towards me.

I could see why Martin Cheetham didn't want any casual snoopers to open them. It was the last thing you'd expect to find in a conveyancing specialist's wardrobe. There were a dozen chic outfits on hangers, each covered with a transparent plastic sheath. They ranged from a cocktail dress with a froth of multi-colored tulle and sequins to an elegant business suit with pencil skirt. There was also a mac and a camel wraparound coat. On a rack on the door was an exotic collection of silk scarves ranging from Hermès to hippie-style Indian. A chest of drawers occupied the lower section of half the wardrobe. The top drawer was filled with an astonishing and luxurious collection of ladies' underwear in both silk and leather. Believe me, I mean “ladies.” The second drawer contained an assortment of foam and silica gel prostheses, which I managed to sort into three categories: breasts, hips and buttocks. It also held more make-up than I've ever possessed, even as an experimenting teenager, and a selection of false nails.