The Murder House (31 page)

‘We don't know he died then,' warned Merrick. ‘He might have died on Wednesday or even later.'

Oakley shook his head. ‘You just pointed out that he was obsessed by work. I don't see him not showing up on the Wednesday morning without good cause.'

‘All right. So, he left work at four thirty and probably headed to Clifton, where he met this friend. Farnaby saw him at five thirty, and I saw him at six, so it wasn't just some quick sordid drop off or hasty exchange of information. They stayed together for at least thirty minutes, and probably longer. We don't know when he left.'

‘He went to Orchard Street, which he knew was empty because Academic Accommodations would have told him Kovac had left that morning. He also had a key, because Urvine and Brotherton look after the property.'

‘Why there?' asked Merrick. ‘Why not a pub?'

‘Because he didn't want to be seen. If that anonymous note is anything to go by – and there's no reason we shouldn't take it seriously – the Yorkes are involved. Paxton probably had some trick lined up to get him bail, but died before he could deliver. That suggests three possibilities. First, a rival gang decided to prevent Yorke getting out. Second, Paxton's plan fell through, so the Yorkes killed him. Third, he did have something lined up, but was killed trying to organize it.'

‘I agree that he was meeting someone in secret. Orchard Street isn't his kind of place, so he must've had some sly reason for going there. But I don't think the Yorkes killed him. Even if Paxton didn't manage to get Billy bail, he'd still be his best bet for the trial.'

‘And I don't see a rival gang as responsible, either,' admitted Oakley. ‘I think we'd have heard something on the street if so. Yet that note must've been sent by someone with a grudge against Yorke.'

‘At lot hinges on that,' sighed Merrick. ‘Find the writer and we'll have cracked the case.'

‘Any ideas? Other than hoping the saliva gives us something?'

‘None.'

They looked up as Evans walked in. He held a sheaf of papers, and his beaming face suggested that there was good news at last.

‘A big step forward!' he announced. ‘I got fingerprints to re-check the partials on the duct tape against Randal. We got two hits.'

Oakley took the report from Evans and his elation turned to disappointment. ‘No – two of the partials have
points of similarity
to Randal's, but the probability of them being his is one in ten thousand.'

‘That's good enough for me,' said Evans.

‘Well, it's not for me. There are four hundred thousand people in Bristol, which means that in this city alone we've got forty people who'll match. Nationally, there'll be six thousand. I don't want to go to court with that.'

‘But Bristol's not a population of four hundred thousand criminals,' Evans argued stubbornly. ‘Discount kids, grannies and God-fearing citizens, and there'll be a lot less.'

‘You're assuming that a criminal murdered Paxton,' argued Oakley. ‘However, think about the fact that he had confidential police papers in his files, and … shit!' He broke off as a dreadful possibility occurred to him.

‘Wright?' asked Merrick softly, reading his mind. ‘
Wright
killed Paxton, because Paxton threatened to expose him for leaking confidential information?'

‘It fits, doesn't it?' asked Oakley. ‘Find out whether Wright was working on the Tuesday that Paxton went missing.'

A discreet word with Jeeves – as far as that was possible – told them that Wright hadn't been out drinking with the lads that night. DI Davis agreed to speak to Wright's wife to see whether she recalled her husband going off on business of his own.

‘Kovac and Wright together?' she asked doubtfully. ‘Sounds like a strange combination.'

‘I'm not sure how Kovac fits in,' said Oakley. ‘
If
he does.'

‘Of course he does.' Davis ticked the points off on her fingers. ‘He disappears the day that the murder is committed. He steals plastic and tape from the university. He remains missing.'

‘It's all very speculative,' said Oakley. ‘And there's no evidence that Wright was in the house
before
the Paxton murder. But since he was wearing gloves when he died, I suppose he'd have worn them the first time, too. I wish we had something a bit more concrete. God knows, I didn't like the man, but I don't want him charged with murder on the evidence we've got.'

‘You're too soft,' said Davis. ‘He wouldn't have given you the benefit of the doubt.'

I was doing a brief spell of duty in the reception area when the package arrived from the phone company. Both clerks who usually ran the ‘front desk' were off sick, and we were taking turns to do two-hour spells until they came back. Normally, I didn't mind, as it meant staying in rather than trudging around outside. But I was restless and anxious, and I was even more restless and anxious when the courier delivered the parcel.

I knew exactly what it was. And it was a damned shame, because the rumour was that Wright was in the frame for murdering James, and that solution suited me perfectly.

Paul Franklin signed for the parcel, and dropped it in the CID mail basket on the far side of the room. It sat there like a great, bloated bundle of menace, and my eyes were drawn to it no matter where I stood. It held the record of my guilt, and as soon as Oakley began tracking the numbers that appeared in the details printed there, it would be all over for me.

I stared at it. Should I take it and get rid of it on my way home? But Oakley would just order another set, and I couldn't hope to intercept that as well. Should I open it and remove the bit that incriminated me? No – Oakley would notice it was missing. Should I doctor it then, so that instead of my number, it would show someone else's? But I wasn't sure my forging skills were up to that. Moreover, all those options offered only a temporary reprieve – I needed something permanent.

Then the solution came. I could doctor the
whole account
. I could retype the entire thing, leaving out the parts that incriminated me. There were plenty of computers in the station, and no one would ask what I was doing. I could even reproduce the correct font for the headings, and if the phone company's logo was complex, I'd just have to do a cut-and-paste job with glue, scissors and the scanner. Oakley wouldn't be expecting a forgery so he wouldn't question it.

My mind was made up. My spell at reception would be over in a quarter of an hour, and no one kept tabs on me as Wright had done. I could spend the last two hours of my shift pretending to do paperwork. I watched the last few minutes of my reception duty tick away on the large clock above the door, willing fifteen minutes to become ten, then five, then two, then …

‘Good,' said Oakley, walking in and grabbing the parcel. ‘I've been waiting for this.'

The time spent questioning people at the Clifton bar had been a waste. Oakley had expected the hostility and antagonism usually encountered when the police made enquiries among threatened minorities, but most of the clientele were very helpful, and no one had refused to talk to him. Many were academics from the university, along with a smattering of businessmen and clerks. The pub was friendly and relaxed, and he was not surprised that Merrick liked it.

Unfortunately, the patrons could tell him nothing useful. Weekday evenings between six and eight were busy because people stopped for a drink on their way home. Many tables were set in small alcoves, for privacy, so people tended not to notice others. Merrick had seen because he'd been trained to be observant – and because he had a lot to lose by being exposed, he was naturally wary – while Farnaby had been trailing Paxton deliberately.

Only two people recognized Paxton, and one was uncertain, because the photograph Oakley had taken from Urvine and Brotherton's promotional brochure showed him smiling. The other said he had only seen Paxton once – about a month before – with a handsome, dark-haired companion who may have been foreign.

‘Was this him?' asked Oakley, showing the picture of Kovac.

The man shook his head. ‘Not
that
handsome. I'd have remembered
him
.'

On his return to the station Oakley collected the telephone records and took them to the incident room. He and Evans began the laborious process of looking for patterns. Merrick burst in before they'd been at it for long.

‘The forensic odontologist's been,' he said. ‘He doesn't get many cases any more, so he leapt at the chance to do this one. He didn't wait for Grossman to give him the dental records – he got his own set from the dentist so he wouldn't have to wait.'

‘And?' asked Oakley impatiently.

‘And its James Paxton,' said Merrick triumphantly. ‘One hundred per cent certain. Everything matches, and he says he's surprised Grossman didn't see it immediately.'

‘That stupid old man,' grumbled Evans. ‘He should retire.'

Oakley felt scant satisfaction with the news, knowing what it would mean for the lawyer's mother, although Merrick soon had the incident room buzzing with the news, and there was a flurry of activity as some lines of enquiry were abandoned and others begun. Oakley and Evans turned back to the phone records.

‘What was the last call he made from his landline?' asked Oakley. ‘And when?'

Evans ran his eye down the columns of numbers. ‘There are several after he was probably dead, including three to Urvine and Brotherton. I think that was Mummy, trying to find out where he was. I imagine the last call
he
made was on the Tuesday morning, to Mummy's number. Then there was one on the previous Monday, preceded by a long gap. I suspect he didn't use it much. What about the mobile?'

‘Not as many calls as I'd have thought, considering Maureen said he was never without it. He probably used his office phone until four thirty – although Dave didn't come up with anything helpful when he went through those records yesterday – but there's nothing after five o'clock here. There are a whole series of calls after Friday the third, though, the most recent being this morning.'

‘So it's been stolen,' surmised Evans.

‘That's risky. Using a phone filched from a murder victim.'

‘Why? A dead man's not going to complain.'

‘But his family might. And would
you
take the risk?'

‘No,' admitted Evans.

Oakley shook his head, dispirited. ‘Damn! I bet he had another phone for his more dubious business – a pay-as-you-go, which could be dropped in the river when it was no longer needed. But we'll have to go through his normal records anyway. Just because he didn't call anyone the night he died doesn't mean that he didn't set the meeting up by phone. He might have done it weeks ago.'

‘But these records go back three months,' said Evans, dismayed. He saw his inspector shrug. ‘All right. Let's make a start.'

A third witness came forward to say he'd seen the scarf-clad woman, but since the ‘suspect' hadn't actually been seen entering or leaving the murder house, the information didn't help much. However, the telephone enquiry was proceeding well, because most of the people Paxton had called were clients. As his clients were criminals, the suspect list was growing exponentially. Meanwhile, the phone company was directed to contact the police when the stolen mobile was next used, and the general expectation in the incident room was that when they'd traced it, they'd have the killer.

Yet Oakley remained uncertain. As far as he was concerned, the only real way forward was to interview Randal, to see what he said about the fact that his partials had been found at the scene of the murder.

Unfortunately, the Wright investigation was stopping them. Professional Standards was taking matters carefully, determined that when an arrest was made it would be rock solid. Although it wasn't actually said, the implication was that while the Wright enquiry might jeopardise the Paxton investigation, the opposite would never be allowed to happen.

I couldn't believe my luck! I'd spent the whole night waiting in sick apprehension, expecting at any moment to hear the loud knock on the door, after which I'd be dragged away in handcuffs while my colleagues swarmed over my house, pawing through my personal belongings. I'd been so convinced that it would be my last night of freedom that I hadn't even bothered to undress for bed. I couldn't bear the notion of being found in my nightie.

I'd looked at flights online, and had gone to the bank and withdrawn as much money as I could. Then I'd packed a bag with my favourite things – a picture of my mother, some family jewellery, a couple of books and various other keepsakes. These lay at the bottom of my case, with hot-weather clothes on top.

But I didn't go to Spain, and Oakley didn't come. I couldn't understand why. I went to work that morning, wondering what the chances were that I wouldn't be going home again. But when I arrived at the station, the only news was that Gordon Noble had been arrested for drunk driving. He hadn't been able to stand up straight when his car had been stopped, so even he wasn't going to evade justice this time.

I offered to deliver a memo to Dave Merrick in order to get into the incident room, desperate for information. I felt the familiar thud of my heart as I went in, but it was the same as usual, with people sitting here and there, reading through mounds of paper that would prove irrelevant, and answering phones. Oakley had James' phone records in front of him. He looked exhausted, and I felt sorry for him. Still, I had to think that his moment of victory was coming.

‘You were right, Helen,' he said as I walked past. ‘Looking into Paxton's phone calls is a waste of time. He didn't contact anyone the night he died, while in the weeks before he must have phoned every rogue in the city. It'll take months to eliminate them all!'