The Murder House (12 page)

There was a gusty sigh. The prospect of a police visit nearly always brought witnesses to their senses. ‘He just went. What's this
really
about, Inspector? Has he been caught drink-driving? Or curb-crawling, perhaps?'

‘Not as far as we know.' The police computer had been Oakley's first stop, after he had persuaded Mrs Paxton to go home in case her son tried to contact her. Phoning hospitals and the mortuary had been the second. ‘And I told you what this is about: Mrs Paxton is worried. I hope her fears are groundless, but we're taking them seriously, even so.'

Brotherton was silent, so Oakley waited, too. There was a tendency in people, even self-assured lawyers, to fill gaps in conversations with words, and Oakley had been rewarded with all sorts of information with his wait-and-see approach in the past. Brotherton didn't gabble, but he did start to talk.

‘Last Tuesday evening James told his secretary that he would be late the following morning, but he never turned up. I assumed he was making enquiries about one of his cases – he's a partner, and we don't keep tabs on each other's movements. However, he was definitely expected for the Yorke remand hearing on Thursday, and he caught us unawares when he wasn't there.'

‘He didn't tell anyone at the office that he planned to go away?'

‘No, and believe me, I've asked. I was vexed about him not showing up for Yorke.'

‘Where do you think he might have gone?'

‘I've no idea,' said Brotherton waspishly. ‘But I can tell you that he'll be looking for another firm when he gets back. We can't have unreliable partners.'

No, thought Oakley grimly. Clients like Noble and Yorke were not to be let down. They were powerful men, with the money and connections to make life uncomfortable when things didn't go their way.

‘What about his clients?' he suggested. ‘Perhaps we could ask them?'

‘I couldn't possibly give you names,' said Brotherton irritably. ‘We have rules about that sort of thing. However, as you seem to be insinuating that James' disappearance might be sinister I can tell you that Yorke is his only major active case, and
he's
not in a position to do anything – he failed to make bail, as you know perfectly well.'

‘No, but Yorke's friends and family are not behind bars,' Oakley pointed out. There was a silence on the other end as the lawyer digested this.

‘James disappeared
before
Yorke's remand hearing,' he said eventually. ‘So they are unlikely to have harmed him.'

It was a fair point, although it did occur to Oakley that Michael might be pleased to have his brother locked away, thus leaving the way clear for him to take over the family business.

‘Is there anyone at the office who might be better acquainted with James? A friend, perhaps?'

‘James didn't have any friends, although you could try Tim Hillier. But I'm sure James will turn up when he's ready. Young people do, don't they?'

‘Most of the time,' replied Oakley.

Colin insisted on escorting me home that night, which he'd never done before. I was still a little high from the wine, and I was enjoying his company, so I invited him in for coffee, and one thing led to another. I'd never made love to anyone so savagely before. It excited and frightened him, and it astonished me. I didn't think I had it in me. But they say that sex and death are closely related, so perhaps I needed one to counterbalance the other. Or perhaps it was because it had been a while, I was tipsy, and Colin was a good-looking bloke.

We lay in bed afterwards, talking in soft voices, although my walls were thick and there was no possibility of being heard by the neighbours. But it felt right, speaking quietly in the darkness. At first, the room was lit dull orange from the glow of the street lamp outside, but that reminded me of the house on Orchard Street, so I lit a candle and drew the curtains.

‘You don't like being in the police, do you?' he asked, running his hand across my hip and down my thigh. He looked as though he liked the feel of it. I certainly did.

‘Not much. I'm not very good at it – I don't assert myself enough.'

‘I wouldn't mind being stopped by you if I was speeding,' he said dreamily. ‘But it would probably be some plod.'

‘They're not plods,' I said sharply. ‘People are always accusing us of being thick, but we're not. The exams we take are tough, and we
can't
be stupid and survive. And anyway, most have got A-levels and even degrees these days, like bank clerks, nurses and office workers – and
they
don't have a reputation for being dumb, do they?'

‘No, they don't,' he agreed. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘That's OK. It's just something that pisses me off. Plenty of my colleagues are really bright.'

I reached for him and this time our love-making was gentler and kinder. When it was over, I found myself crying again, and couldn't explain why when Colin asked. He probably assumed it was because I'd been lonely, and was pathetically happy now I had a companion. But I really didn't know what made me weep with dry, wrenching sobs, only that it felt really good to feel the stress draining away and to have Colin holding me.

Already extremely late for his date with Catherine, Oakley called her to cancel their dinner in order to be able to contact Paxton's friend, Tim Hillier. Unlike the conversation with Brotherton, Hillier was more concerned than hostile, but although he was obviously keen to help, he knew nothing of consequence, other than the gossipy assumption at the office that Paxton had booked a last-minute gay holiday.

‘But I don't think it's true,' he concluded. ‘I suspect it was started by Giles Farnaby, who hates him.'

‘Oh?' asked Oakley, jotting down the name. ‘Why?'

‘Giles has been at Urvine and Brotherton longer than James, and the next partnership should have been his. But James got it, basically by putting the word around that he was thinking of defecting to another firm. He wasn't, of course, but it got him what he wanted.'

‘And Giles resents it?'

‘He certainly does! He still hasn't got his promotion, and seeing James getting all the best cases must be very galling. That's why he started the rumour.'

‘
Is
James gay?' asked Oakley.

Hillier shrugged. ‘He doesn't seem interested in men
or
women as far as I can tell. However, I don't think he'd have left Bristol for no reason. He isn't the type. He's too … well, calculating, I suppose. He'd never risk damaging his career.'

‘So, where do you think he is?'

‘I really don't know,' replied Hillier sombrely. ‘But I'm a bit worried.'

Oakley had only ever met Paxton in court, but had found him coolly ambitious and determinedly selfish. That sort of person would make enemies of jealous competitors. Moreover, his work put him in the company of powerful criminals, and Oakley was beginning to have a bad feeling about the mysterious disappearance of James Paxton.

T
he summer was turning into a scorcher. The temperature had climbed to the low thirties, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Britain's beaches were crammed with holiday-makers, and when tattooed youths with heavy boots and naked torsos started a small riot on the seafront of Weston-super-Mare, officers from New Bridewell were sent to help restore the peace. Helen Anderson was among them, deemed by Sergeant Wright to be one of three officers he would rather be without – he didn't like the two new probationers either, with their politically correct training still fresh in their impressionable minds.

Oakley went to Paxton's flat, which was in one of the most expensive and desirable locations in the city. Mrs Paxton went with him, to ensure he didn't touch anything. James, it seemed, disliked fingerprints on his metal and glass furniture, and even she was nervous in the shrine to costly minimalism that was his home. Henry was thriving under her care, but she refused to take the plant home. Oakley understood why: it would be like admitting that her son might never be there again to water it himself.

The flat's walls were white, so that carefully selected artwork supplied the only colour and automatically drew the visitor's eye towards them. The chairs were chrome and leather, and there was a selection of glass-topped tables. The ceilings were high, and large windows afforded pleasing views of the yachts moored along Redcliffe Wharf. Oakley thought the place sterile and unwelcoming, and he couldn't imagine relaxing there with a beer or the paper. The CD stack contained a lot of jazz, which Oakley associated with dull people hoping to make themselves appear interesting. The thick, leather-bound address book was full of clients, but very few friends.

Oakley opened the wardrobe, and asked whether any of James' clothes were missing. Mrs Paxton's face crumpled as she gazed into the cavernous spaces with their neat ranks of expensive suits and laundry-ironed shirts.

‘I don't know,' she whispered. ‘He has so many that I've lost track.'

‘Shorts?' suggested Oakley helpfully. ‘T-shirts? Casual stuff like that?'

‘You mean the kind of thing he'd take on holiday,' she said heavily. ‘I told you – he
wouldn't
go. He doesn't like foreign countries.'

‘What,
any
of them?' asked Oakley, amazed that someone could make such a statement.

Back at the station, he and Evans began to dial the phone numbers in Paxton's address book, only to discover that nearly all the information about his friends was out of date – they'd moved on, and either hadn't told him or he hadn't bothered to amend the entries. Meanwhile, while they waited for Paxton's email provider to give them access to his personal account, Tim Hillier helped them look through Paxton's emails at Urvine and Brotherton. Every message pertained to work, and Oakley thought about his own account, which was liberally strewn with personal correspondence as well as official. He began to see Brotherton had been right: Paxton had no friends, and his life centred around work – which meant he was unlikely to risk it by jaunting off on holiday.

The investigation upped its pace. Colleagues were interviewed, and it quickly became clear that Paxton was unpopular. The gay-holiday tale was repeated several times. Unfortunately, Giles Farnaby was also away, so Oakley was unable to question him about his vindictive rumour-spreading. Nor was he able to question Paxton's clients, details of whom were withheld.

Then a three-year-old child went missing, last seen with an uncle who had convictions for sexual assault, and Paxton was forgotten. After the child was found unharmed, there was an armed raid on a post office, followed by arson at the M Shed. The missing lawyer was no longer a priority, no matter how much fuss his mother made.

By Friday, James had been dead eleven days. I tried not to think about what would be happening to him in the intense summer heat. But I took to walking along Orchard Street on my way to work. It wasn't much of a detour, and something made me want to look at the house as I trudged to and from the station. They say that murderers are drawn back to the scene of their crimes, and it's true, or at least partly true. I didn't mind walking
past
the place, but I felt that wild horses couldn't drag me inside.

I was due to work the two o'clock shift at New Bridewell after three pleasant days doing nothing at Weston-super-Mare – the thugs who'd started the riot soon slunk away when they saw that extra police had been brought in. I strode past number nine, glancing sideways at it out of the corner of my eye, but the house looked the same. The curtains were drawn, and the tiny front garden had an overgrown, unkempt appearance. I wondered again whether the client who had loaned it to James for his shady meetings had been Yorke. If so, it explained why no one had discovered its grisly contents. If Yorke was sent down for life, then maybe James would never be found.

Wishful thinking, I suppose. I knew my period of grace couldn't go on forever.

Oakley was pleased with himself. By interviewing the volunteers at the M Shed, he'd discovered that a gang of youths had taken to hanging around. At first, the volunteers had been delighted that local lads were taking an interest in their heritage, but their optimism had been misplaced, and familiarity had made the kids abusive and cheeky. Eventually they'd been banned from the museum, although they'd continued to lurk around. Then they'd disappeared and hadn't been seen for several weeks.

From descriptions, Oakley had identified one of the boys as Nick King, a twelve-year-old offender from Hartcliffe. Nick had previously confined himself to burglary and joy-riding, although there were a couple of pending charges for suspected criminal damage. His brother Shane had had a brief moment of fame when he had drowned the previous month.

Oakley paid Nick a visit and found him in the garden shed, surrounded by equipment identical to that used to start the fire at the M Shed; there were burns on his hands, and his eyebrows were missing. Nick denied any involvement, but his accomplices quickly cracked. When the boys' homes were searched, a good deal of stolen property was recovered, so that a number of burglaries were able to go down as ‘solved' and New Bridewell's crime statistics received a welcome boost.

Only one lad eluded Oakley's net. That was fifteen-year-old Wayne King, Nick's cousin. With sullen spite, Nick told Oakley that Wayne had goods from other crimes, and that he sold them by phoning up different fences. Oakley thought a schoolboy ringing around to get the best offers on stolen equipment was a sad reflection on society.

By five o'clock Oakley decided that he'd put in a good day's work and would treat himself to an early finish. There was a quiz at his local pub that night. He wasn't very good at quizzes, and usually only knew the answer after someone else had given it, but he enjoyed them anyway. He'd asked Catherine to go with him, and was pleased when she suggested a meal afterwards in a new Balti place in Clifton.