The Murder House (21 page)

When he'd gone, I stood in the corridor so I didn't disturb the old lady, but I watched her carefully. I could see her thin chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, while the monitor at her side traced endless wavy lines that became mesmerizing after a while. I felt a surge of rage against the man who'd hit her, and hoped Oakley would make Yorke and his gang pay for what they'd done. I hoped they'd pay for what they'd done to
me
, too – if it wasn't for their crimes James would never have been in a position where he could blackmail me.

Then I recalled the idea that I'd had in Orchard Street, about connecting the Yorke gang with the murder – a link that was likely to be made anyway when FSS finally got round to analysing the duct tape and partials found on the plastic wrapping from James' body.

As I stared at Mrs Vinson, my idea of an anonymous letter pointing at the Yorkes seemed to be an increasingly good one. Oakley was moving away from the Kovac theory anyway, so why not point him in the right direction? I was fairly sure the gang didn't know I was the killer – I'd probably be dead if they had – but there was no question that I'd be safer without them walking free.

Yes, it would certainly suit me to have them arrested. And being hardened criminals they'd never reveal that the body was James, as that would help the police, something no self-respecting villain wanted to do.

I'd do it, I decided. Not only for me, but for Mrs Vinson and her family. And for all the other Mrs Vinsons who'd be hurt if Yorke and his minions were allowed to evade justice. I'd sworn an oath to protect people, after all, and what better way than removing a band of ruthless thugs from the streets? The fact that I'd be safer without them was immaterial. Or so I told myself in my guise as heroic defender of the vulnerable.

‘Maureen Paxton wants to see you
again
, Guv,' said Evans, putting his head around the door of the incident room. ‘She's been here since seven – well over an hour.'

‘What does she want now?' Oakley was reluctant to deal with her. He'd just finished going through more results from the Solihull lab – they'd been unable to match the DNA found in Orchard Street to anyone on the database. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. More sensitive tests had been ordered, but there was a backlog, so he'd been warned to expect nothing very soon.

‘To see you,' elaborated Evans unhelpfully. ‘She won't speak to anyone else, even Taylor. She says that if she has to deal with plods, then she'd rather have one who doesn't actually
look
like a Neanderthal, even if we all think like them.'

‘She thinks she'll get what she wants by being abusive?'

‘She has. Taylor says you're to talk to her nicely, then get her out of his station.'

‘Great!' Oakley looked at the pile of witness statements, reports, interviews with cashiers from garden centres and reams of badly printed faxes from the Albanian police, most of which comprised accounts of their surveillance on every ‘suspicious' academic in their country over the last ten years. Oakley had glanced through a few, and hadn't spotted Kovac's name once.

‘I'm due at the mortuary at ten,' said Evans, looking at his watch, ‘because that's when Grossman gets in. He forgot to sign his statement – he really
is
losing it these days. But I'm free until then, so I'll read some of that stuff, and highlight the page if I spot anything relevant.'

‘I'll be gone ten minutes,' grumbled Oakley, relinquishing his seat. ‘Not a second more.'

‘About time,' said Maureen Paxton when Oakley entered the room where she'd been asked to wait. ‘Are you aware that I've been in this miserable hole for more than an hour?'

Oakley sat in the chair opposite. He folded his hands on the table and forced himself to be patient. She was just a mother worried sick about her missing son. ‘What can I do for you?'

She slapped a yellow folder on the table in front of him. ‘These are copies of my son's dental records. I want them checked against the dead body in Orchard Street.'

Oakley blinked. ‘Why?'

‘Because I need to know.' Her voice was more desperate than demanding for once, and the tears in her eyes moved him. ‘Please.'

Oakley considered. He didn't believe for a moment that the body was Paxton's, as the haughty lawyer was so unlikely to have been in a place like Orchard Street – if he had, he'd have collected samples from the man's flat and sent them to Solihull for DNA analysis. But Solihull was slow and expensive, and it would take Grossman no more than a minute to compare the records on the table with the body in his morgue. It was old-fashioned, of course, but it would cost nothing – especially as Evans was going over there anyway – and it would calm a frightened mother's fears.

‘I'll send them to the pathologist this morning,' he promised. ‘But is there any particular reason why you think the body may be James? Did he have friends in Orchard Street?'

‘Of course not!' she snapped. A tear spilled, and she dabbed at it impatiently with a linen handkerchief. ‘It isn't the kind of road he would frequent.'

‘Then why …' He nodded at the file.

‘Because I
know
something bad has happened,' she whispered. ‘Mr Brotherton said he's on unpaid leave of unfixed duration. Do you know what that means?'

‘No,' admitted Oakley.

‘It means they assume he's dead.' Her chin trembled. ‘They'd have sacked him by now if they thought he was alive – and they're trying to protect themselves from looking callous when his body is found.'

‘Are you sure you're not reading too much into it? Going away without telling your boss is grounds for dismissal by most companies. Perhaps Urvine and Brotherton are actually keeping his job open to give him the chance to explain.'

More tears spilled. ‘I just need to know he's all right.'

Oakley took the records and stood up. ‘I'll have this done this morning, Mrs Paxton. But are you
certain
there's nothing that's made you think the man in Orchard Street is James? He's never mentioned clients there?'

‘No, but you can go to his office, and look at his files. That will tell you.'

‘Let's take it one step at a time. We'll see what comes from the dental records first.'

‘Thank you, Inspector.' Her voice was still unsteady. ‘For taking me seriously, and for not telling me that everything will be all right.'

‘I'll be in touch as soon as I hear the results,' he promised. ‘Whatever they are.'

Mrs Vinson's plight had moved me, and I'd sent my anonymous note three days before. However, although I took every opportunity I could to talk to the Orchard Street team, I hadn't heard a thing about it. I'd taken a lot of care over it, so I hoped it wasn't lost in the post.

First, I'd bought the paper from W.H. Smith, a cheap and nasty pad for fifty pence. A packet of brown envelopes set me back seventy-five pence. I'd nudged them into the shopping basket without touching them and let the cashier put them in a bag for me. Once home, I wore gloves when I touched them. I used a cheap biro I'd found at work and I'd practised writing using capital letters and pressing quite hard. My own writing is light and flowing, and I never leave an indentation on the paper beneath. It seemed a good idea to make one now, to be certain it was as different from my own writing as possible.

I'd thought carefully about what to say. I wanted CID to know that Yorke was involved in the Orchard Street murder, but not that the body was James, lest it led to me. The Yorke mob would deny murder, of course, but why else would they try to get rid of the body? They'd go to prison, and good riddance.

I'd carefully cleaned the table with a hand-held vacuum cleaner, ridding it of any stray fibres that might be traceable. Then I'd placed the pad on it, and written:

BILLY YORKE KNOWS 9 ORCHERD STREET AND HE KNOWS WHAT HAPENED THERE. ASK HIM ABOUT IT AND HIS GOONS TOO. ASK HIM ABOUT FALSE CONFESIONS WHILE YOUR AT IT AND WHY HE WAS PISSED OF BECAUSE HE DID'NT GET BAIL.

I'd been pleased with the result, which I felt was enough to point them in the right direction without giving too much away. I was particularly happy with the spelling mistakes and poor punctuation, which added an air of authenticity. It wasn't too illiterate, just uneducated enough to have been penned by some thug with a vendetta against Yorke. It crossed my mind that I should hint that Noble wrote it, and thus strike a blow at him, too, but I decided not to push my luck. I could always write another later, if my first try at manipulating an investigation proved successful.

When the murder team started questioning Yorke's louts they'd think they'd been betrayed by a rival gang. The letter would never be traced to me. Again, I'd told myself as I wrote that I was doing the police, Bristol and Mrs Vinson a favour.

When I'd finished, I folded the note with my gloved hands and put it in an envelope, sealing it with a cloth moistened with tap water – I knew better than to lick it and leave my DNA. I addressed it to Oakley, thinking he'd be most likely to read it. Then I'd found that I didn't have a stamp, so I'd had to go to the post office. I put the envelope in a plastic bag, bought a book of second-class stamps, and found a quiet corner in which to don my gloves and stick the stamp on the envelope. I dropped the note in the letter box, still wearing my gloves, and went home.

When it was done I'd felt a curious mixture of apprehension and relief. I felt I'd done something good, yet it had been a risk. Mentioning the false confession was dangerous, as it might lead to James – and if he'd told a friend that he was blackmailing me, or had written anything down I'd have some explaining to do. But I sensed that James had been too wise to leave evidence to prove he'd been involved in something untoward.

However, it was now three days later, and I hadn't heard the merest whisper about it. There were plenty of hoax calls, of course – strange, self-obsessed souls who wanted to believe that they had the courage for murder, and who regularly confessed to all manner of crimes. There were calls about the identity of the body, too, including one that claimed Marko Kovac was an Albanian spy. I began to feel sorry for Kovac, having his life pawed through by policemen, when the poor chap was probably happily making sandcastles on the beach with his children.

But where
was
my letter? In Oakley's bin? Lost in the post? Dismissed because it was anonymous? I realized I should have sent it first class, because second class was notoriously slow. Or perhaps I should have shoved it into the station letter box. Should I send another, or leave the whole matter alone?

Oakley went back to the incident room after leaving Mrs Paxton. Evans had gone and Dave Merrick was in his place, reading the Albanian faxes and occasionally scoring a page with an orange highlighter. Oakley began to make tea, using the kettle in the corner, and told him about Maureen Paxton.

Merrick was sceptical, believing that she was only convinced something untoward had happened because she couldn't accept the fact that her son was in the process of coming out. Glancing around to make sure they were alone, Merrick explained that becoming aware of one's sexuality was a momentous occasion, and struck different people in different ways. Oakley noted how knowledgeable the man seemed to be on the subject, and he regarded Merrick with new understanding as he poked the teabags around in the hot water.

‘Being a gay police officer can't be much fun,' he remarked with increased empathy for his colleague.

Merrick hesitated before answering. ‘It isn't,' he finally replied.

‘Is that why you transferred?' Oakley had always thought the ageing parent excuse odd.

‘There was a Wright in my station,' explained Merrick. ‘It just seemed easier to go. But the point I'm trying to make is that this respectable lawyer, who's never been overly interested in girls, suddenly realizes that there's actually nothing wrong with him, and that there are other people who feel the same.'

‘Liberating,' mused Oakley, heaping powdered milk into the cups.

‘Liberating and frightening. He'd want to do something about it straight away, to test himself. His career, family, friends – all would pale into insignificance, and he'd be desperate to act on his new discovery. So Paxton's sudden disappearance doesn't seem at all strange to me.'

‘So you think the office rumour is true, and he'll turn up safe and sound when he's decided he's found the real him?'

‘I do.' Merrick regarded the tea Oakley handed him in distaste, and added more sugar.

‘Do you have any particular reason for telling me this? For example, have you seen him in one of these clubs? Or perhaps heard that he's been rethinking his life?'

‘Yes.' Merrick gave a rare smile. ‘I know I can trust you – you know what it's like to be different and have men like Wright all over you. Can you imagine what he'd be like with me?'

‘Only too well.'

‘I saw Paxton at a watering hole I go to now and then because I've got friends there. It was on a Tuesday evening two and a half weeks ago.' He glanced at the date on his watch. ‘It must've been Tuesday the thirty-first, and it was early evening, because I'd gone there straight after work.'

‘You're not the only one to have seen him there that day,' said Oakley thoughtfully. ‘So did Giles Farnaby. At least, I assume it was the same one. In Clifton?'

Merrick nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘How do you know he wasn't picked up by a killer?'

Merrick grimaced. ‘You probably think gay bars are places where you march in and grab the nearest like-minded man. Well, they're not. This is just a quiet spot where decent, hard-working people go for a drink after work with the kind of friends we don't have to pretend to.'