The Electrician's Code (4 page)

Chapter Seven

A
s Theo headed toward the house, he asked Dorland to fetch the nurse and bring her. The front hall led straight into the kitchen. To his left was the drawing room with hardwood floors and a faux fireplace. There was no television, no radio, and no framed photos of family or friends on the mantle only a medal encased in glass. A comfortable leather recliner and a wooden side table with one lamp were the only pieces of furniture in the room. However, lining three of the white walls were rectangular framed sets of multi-colored tile.

“That’s one way to tile a wall,” Theo remarked to himself. He went up to the art to take a closer look. “What is this? So this man, for relaxation, would not turn on a match on the telly or play chess or scrabble but would sit in this chair and stare at these? Did Mr. Tipring create them?”

“He did. He called this room his gallery.”

The nurse stood in the doorway with Dorland. Her pale face, white nurse’s uniform, and clean white shoes made her look like a ghost.

“Thank you for coming in,” said Theo. “I know this day has been traumatic but I’m hoping you can answer some questions. But before that, could we possibly go through the flat and see if anything has been stolen. Ms . . . Mrs . . .” Theo fished for a name.

“Perkins, Ms. Perkins. Megan is my first name. I’m Mr. Tipring’s nurse, I mean, I was. I work here every day, weekends included, from nine until five. I cleaned for him, cooked his meals, made sure he took his pills. Anything he needed.”

“Wow, every day.” Theo remarked.

“I have no family so I don’t mind. I knew what I was taking on when he hired me, and he paid me well. I just don’t understand. Why would they stab him? What possible reason . . . ?”

“That’s what we hope to find out. Did Mr. Tipring live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have family?”

“I’m sure he did. However, I’ve yet to meet any of them.”

Theo gave her a pair of gloves and led her through the rooms—bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen—and she quietly looked over Mr. Tipring’s things.

In the bedroom, Theo went through the man’s belongings. When he reached the chest of drawers, he motioned Dorland over.

“What do you make of this?” he asked pointing to a large shadow box sitting atop the drawers. The box had neatly arranged earrings in rows. “Why do you think he has all this jewelry?”

“Those belonged to his mother,” the nurse said, coming to view the jewelry with them. “He loved those. I believe they are the only thing in the house that belonged to his mother.”

Theo nodded and opened the top drawer. The socks were not folded. Instead, they lay flat, one on top of the other. Almost new. He reached under them—nothing. “Did he have a desk?”

“No. He did all his correspondence at the kitchen table.”

Theo stepped through a doorway at the back of the kitchen that led to a tiny bathroom with a plain bathtub. The bathroom was white, clean, and simple, the towel was blue, even his toothbrush, which lay parallel to the toothpaste on the sink, was white.

“He was a very particular man. He had a place for everything and if it were missing, he would notice. Many of my friends thought it would make me crazy because if you saw my house four months ago, well, it was in no particular order, if in any order whatsoever. However, I prefer things neat now. I don’t believe anything in the house was touched.” She sat down at the kitchen table. “He didn’t have many belongings and never bought more than he needed. One day I went to the shops with his list and just added a small box of biscuits thinking he would like them . . .” She walked over to the cupboard beside the fridge and opened the door. “He never touched them.” She pointed to the box of digestives.

She turned to face the detectives and leaned back against the worktop. “I should make some tea. I come in every day and the first thing I do is make tea.” She poured water from the tap into the metal kettle and placed it on the hob. “Two lumps and no more than two lumps, he would say to me. Every day he would tell me when the kettle started whistling even though I’ve been working here four months. Every day.”

“Do you know how Mr. Tipring lost his leg?” asked Theo.

“At first he wouldn’t tell me. Said I should mind my own business. However, in time, he explained he received a wound in the war, and because of an infection his leg had to be amputated. Apparently, it’s why he received the medal in the drawing room.”

“Okay, Ms. Perkins,” Dorland said, “do you have any idea what happened today? Any idea why someone would murder Mr. Tipring?”

“What do you mean? Should I know what happened?”

“Did your boss have any enemies. Anyone who would want to kill him. Did he get on with his neighbors? Did he owe someone money? Maybe he owned something valuable and someone killed him for it?”

“No,” she cried out. “That’s horrible. No, he never had any enemies. He was just an old man who couldn’t even walk very far. He rarely left the house. I think he must have been the most boring person on the street. I can think of five other people just on this crescent who would be more likely targets than Mr. Tipring.”

“Why was he outside this morning? Was it to get his morning newspaper?” Theo asked her, motioning the nurse to sit in the reclining chair.

“He retrieved his paper every morning and left it on the kitchen table until his tea was prepared. I told him when I started working for him that I could bring the paper in when I arrived but he told me it was something he liked to do for himself.”

“And he never even started reading the paper until you arrived anyway?”

“No. He always waited to read the paper until I had prepared his tea and toast. A creature of habit that man was. But, many older people become like that. I worked for an older man before Mr. Tipring who had to have his bath at ten twenty-five in the morning. Every day. On the dot. One day, there was not any hot water for his bath. When I told him to wait while I boiled the water, he didn’t. He climbed into the freezing-cold water. I found him shivering and blue trying to find the soap he had lost under the water. The silly old man nearly froze to death; he ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. Some older people are just like that, I hope if I become like that someone will just shoot me and put me out of my misery.” She stopped. The kettle let out a loud whistle and she shut the burner off. “Would you like a cup?”

Theo nodded.

She retrieved three white cups from the cupboards and placed them on the table with matching sugar container.

“I really need to ask about the gallery,” said Theo. “It really is very unusual. Tiles pushed into pink mortar. Did he consider it artwork?”

“He was very attached to those creations. He considered it art. In fact, the previous full-time nurse told me that when he does leave the house, it often is only to an art gallery where some of that artwork was displayed. He never asked me to take him there so I don’t know how much art he has sold or has on display.”

“Does it mean something?” asked Theo. “Most art contains or portrays a message, something the artist is trying to express.”

“I don’t know, I never asked. He never told me. When he . . . I don’t know, some nights he would go in there and sit down and just stare at them. Lost in contemplation. I thought that he liked the art because they are orderly, each tile the same size, in rows, orderly, maybe looking at them calmed his mind.”

“Is there a chance that whoever killed Mr. Tipring did so because he wanted to have access to the art?”

“Are you asking me if someone wanted to steal those pieces of art? Why? Why would they want to? I doubt anyone knew he had art here. In the four months I have worked here, he had never had a single visitor. Not one. Besides me, no one has entered this house, until today.”

“And nothing, none of his art has been stolen?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. None are missing, as far as I can tell.”

“And he never had art anywhere else in the house?”

“Just there.”

Theo pointed to the roof. “This is a two story house. Does Mr. Tipring own both flats?”

“He only uses the downstairs.”

“Who lives upstairs?”

“No one, it’s empty. He keeps . . . kept both the upstairs and the downstairs but no one lives up there. Mr. Tipring liked the quiet; it would have been too noisy for him if someone were upstairs trampling on the floor all day. I believe he keeps . . . kept it empty, but I have never been upstairs. He could have used it for storage, but I doubt it because he would have such a difficult time climbing the stairs to fetch anything.”

“Do you have a key for upstairs?”

“No. He must have one, but I don’t know where he would have kept it.”

“That’s all right. We may find it around here. Do you know of any family Mr. Tipring had that we should notify?”

“He kept all his correspondence and bills in there. I think if he had any letters from his family, it would be with them.” She opened the pantry and pulled out a wheeled three-drawer plastic container. Inside were neatly labelled files and other correspondence.

“We would like to take these. Dorland, try and find a way to contact his nearest relative. Also, I would like you to find the key to the upstairs flat. In the meantime, I’m going to re-visit your uncle.”

Chapter Eight

T
he body was hoisted into the bus by ten. Theo stood in the drive as the workers wrapped up their various assignments. The pathologist sang a chipper tune. For them, the case was well underway, but for him, it was only the beginning.

“What do you have for me?” Theo asked. “Please tell me everything I need to know to solve this case.”

“Oh, and ruin your fun? I think not.” Dr. Waynton leaned in, almost touching Theo’s cheek with his nose. “However, I will be happy to tell you what I know. First of all: our man has one leg. That, my friends, did not happen this morning. Also, he was stabbed once in the chest. That did happen this morning, and it was fatal. I would imagine he died almost instantly. I see no other marks or wounds other than a small one on the back of the head, which he most likely received when he fell backwards. As far as I can tell, he was not beat up or anything. That is my point.”

“Time of death?” Theo asked.

“Around seven this morning give or take a half hour or so. For now, that’s all I have for you. However, after the postmortem is complete, I should be able to tell you more.” Waynton made his way to his car, but stopped. “Uh, Blackwell, I forgot. There is something else. Talk to SOCO. I bagged a note found in our victim’s robe pocket. We couldn’t understand what it meant but it might be key to the case.”

“Thank you.”

Immediately, Theo headed off in the direction of the SOCO van. Four or five men were loading totes of supplies and evidence. A young man in a blue jumpsuit, clearly SOCO, turned and gave Theo a nod.

“You’re here about the note,” the man said and held out his hand. “Woolsey, Ryan Woolsey.” He removed his latex glove and grabbed Theo’s hand to shake it heartily. From a box in the bus, he retrieved a clear bag. Inside was a small nicely cut and laminated square piece of paper.

Theo looked down at the note:
Why Run Backward You’ll Vomit
.

“That’s it?” Theo asked. He turned the note over a few times as if the movement might reveal more words. “What does it mean?”

“I’ve asked everyone on the scene if they’ve heard this expression and it’s a no. Sorry. Perhaps we’ll find a key to the note in the papers we took from his house.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“We have collected a fair bit but it may not all be relevant. It really is hard to say at this point. No reliable footprints and we’re not sure if there were any fingerprints on the knife, we still have to clean it up a bit. That will all take time.”

Typical. There was a flurry of updates with absolutely nothing updated. He wasn’t closer to finding a motive to this senseless homicide. With all the information he gathered, all he had was that some person walked up to an old man in the street early in the morning and stabbed him then disappeared into thin air.

No one just stabs a person, not in this neighborhood, not like this. He was missing something and he really hoped that the upstairs flat contained a wealth of information he could use. Sadly, he doubted it. But, random, senseless violence was not what he wanted to write down in the report. That would be running backward and why would he want to run backward? He’d vomit.

“Boss,” Dorland yelled behind him. “Found them.” When Theo turned, Dorland jangled the keys in front of his face.

“Wonderful.” He walked up to Dorland and handed him the note. Dorland read it a few times just to make sure he had read it right and shrugged his shoulders.

“Doctor’s note?” Dorland hazarded a guess.

“Obviously,” Theo said, “and with such wise advice, it is only natural one would want to laminate it and keep it in their pocket in case a one-legged man would have the desire. Then he could easily pull out the note and read it and remember, that not only could he not run forward without vomiting, that yes, he could also not run backward without vomiting either. It’s clear to me why you’re a detective.”

“Funny. Shall we?” Dorland rattled the key in front of Theo’s face again.

“Ladies first,” Theo replied.

“So did SOCO or the other officers find anything? Any other witnesses?”

“A menagerie of responses from a menagerie of people,” Theo replied. “One, in a group of women, insists she saw a large scary man walk by her house but didn’t know when. That started the group on a tirade of similar stories, each thinking they saw the man but each time the story became a bit scarier and a bit more far-fetched. One man thought it was a woman; two others didn’t know whom it was that lived in the house. And all the children interviewed apparently thought the one-legged man was creepy.”

Theo followed Dorland into the front hall, where there was a door leading upstairs to the first floor. Theo pushed the key in and turned the handle. The door opened easily, and the musky smell of a flat that hadn’t been occupied, hit them immediately. Dorland took the stairs two at a time.

Poking his head around the door frame, Dorland looked back at Theo, and said, “I think you’re going to find this interesting.”

“Does it answer some of our questions?” No reply. Theo bounded up the stairs after him. The entire first floor was one room with a sink and some cupboards in one corner. The room obviously belonged to the deceased. It was incredibly neat. More paintings lined the walls, the same as on the main floor, and one table filled the length of the room. Laid out in ten separate bins were small colored tiles: white, black, red, purple, brown, blue, green, yellow, orange, and gray. Bags of white mortar with a thick layer of dust lay neatly piled below the table.

“This is obviously where he does his artistic carpentry.” Theo ran his fingers through a tray of red half-inch tiles. “He really is an odd person. One-legged artist. I wonder what will happen to all his art?”

“Perhaps it is stated in his will. He may have had relatives.”

“Do you think they’re worth something?”

“This art?” Dorland laughed. “Although you never know. There are artists I do not like and they make money. Some may actually like what this artist had to offer. Who can say?”

“We may have to do some further digging to find the answer.”

The nurse was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they descended. “Was there anything interesting up there?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to see what he kept up there.”

“That was his studio, where he created his art. We are looking for any reason he might have been killed this morning. I know you told us that he had no enemies, but did he ever disclose to you what his Last Will and Testament contained or anything that may have been on his mind lately?”

“No, but I have only been with him for about four months. I try with all my patients to find out as much as I can about their family or past. It makes spending the day with them easier, but Mr. Tipring, he was quiet. Never spoke about his family or friends, ever. No, that is not true. When I asked about the earrings he told me they belonged to his mother. How fond he must have been of her. I’ve never known a man to keep earrings like that. But then again, I’ve never known a man to keep art like that.”

Ignoring her question, Theo went on, “What about a solicitor? Did he have a solicitor or anyone that handled his personal matters?”

“I don’t know,” the nurse answered in barely a whisper. “Maybe his last nurse could tell you more.”

“Do you know her name?”

“No, but she may have worked at the same agency I work for. A placement agency that matches home care needs with patients. He may have chosen the same agency for his last nurse. I don’t know.” She reached into her purse and handed them a very old card crumpled up in hundreds of tiny folds until it was almost the consistency of toilet tissue. “You can try ringing them at that number.”

“He did not seem worried to you, nothing unusual over the last couple of days?”

“Nothing. In fact, he seemed happier. I don’t know what it was but he actually seemed cheerier. If he knew today was the day he was going to die, he never showed it, not once. In fact, he was planning a trip, not an extravagant excursion, but he wanted to go to the place where he was born. A trip of about a hundred miles but for one who never leaves his house, quite a conquest. One morning when I arrived, he informed me of his plans. I wonder what could be so important there . . .”