The Murder House (10 page)

The courtroom was full – Yorke had plenty of friends and family to support him. There was his brother, Michael, looking like an overgrown public schoolboy with his dark floppy hair, summer blazer and loose white trousers, and his chief henchman, Dave Randal, a thick-set man with no neck, a shaven head and the kind of nose that had been hit too many times in brawls. Oakley was sorry he hadn't managed to nab them too, as he was sure Michael had helped to collect the valuables while Randal had dealt with the victims.

He looked at the spectators. There were several high-ranking villains, all wearing smart suits and brandishing mobile phones. There were a couple of respectable middle-aged women whose charities had benefited from Yorke's munificence, and there were men Oakley had seen playing golf at Bristol's most exclusive clubs. Yorke was a gutter thug no longer: his wealth, however obtained, had launched him into outward respectability.

There was a murmur of consternation when the hearing was postponed because Paxton hadn't arrived, and Yorke grimaced when he was led back to the cells. By one o'clock, Paxton still hadn't appeared, and a breathless junior from Urvine and Brotherton respectfully requested that the hearing be postponed. The expression of annoyance on the magistrates' faces was mirrored in Yorke's, and Oakley watched him give the junior a piece of his mind. The hearing was duly postponed and Yorke remanded in custody until the following Monday, much to his outraged indignation.

‘Odd,' murmured Evans. ‘Paxton doesn't seem like the kind of man to forget a wealthy client.'

‘That's what Yorke thinks,' said Oakley, amused. ‘Look at him! He's furious that his expensive lawyer doesn't think him worth a few minutes in court. It was worth wasting a morning just to see the bastard inconvenienced.'

I saw Oakley several times that day, but I couldn't bring myself to speak to him, let alone tell him I was a murderer. No one can know what it's like working in a police station when you've committed a terrible crime. It's as if the building is bearing down on you, threatening to suffocate you, and everyone is looking at you accusingly. It was hard not to feel I was going mad.

I'd had to deal with a distressing case, too. The body of a teenager had been found in the river, and Paul Franklin and I were detailed to investigate. The boy's name was Shane King, and he'd been fourteen. The police surgeon said that he'd probably got trapped in the mud that lined the Avon, and had drowned when the tide came in. Footprints higher up the bank and some scraps of rope indicated that friends had probably tried to help him, but the mud was thick and the water more powerful than they.

Shane's death had been late Tuesday or early Wednesday, and I found myself wondering whether he'd died before or after James. It was a gruesome thing to be pondering, but when you've killed someone such considerations play a large part in your thoughts.

Anyway, Shane had been in the river for two days, disguised by the grey-brown mud and unmissed by his family. Although his mother wept when we broke the news, she couldn't remember when she'd last seen him. She thought it was Tuesday, because that was when she got her benefits and he'd been after her money. Shane's father was unknown, and his half-brothers and sisters seemed indifferent to his fate, although they all perked up when the mother asked whether she'd be able to claim compensation for her loss.

Paul and I tracked down Shane's friends, a sullen, uncommunicative horde. They refused to admit that they'd been with him when he'd drowned, although mud still caked the shoes of most of them. There wasn't much we could do, except to point out that they should stay away from the river. Then they threw stones at the patrol car as we drove away. None hit us, and it didn't seem worth going back to take issue with them.

We drove to the station to put in our report. I imagine Paul thought me a dull and uncommunicative partner, but my thoughts were in turmoil again about whether I should confess. I just didn't know what to do.

Five days after the murder, the initial horror had faded. That's not to say that it didn't feature regularly in my thoughts, but I'd come to terms with it. I still had visions of James lying on the floor twitching, but it was more remote, as though I wasn't the one directly responsible. I'd have given anything to talk about it with someone, but as I still couldn't bring myself to face Oakley, obviously that was out of the question.

It wouldn't be fair, anyway, to tell family or friends such a terrifying secret. The law makes it impossible for anyone to have that sort of knowledge and keep it to themselves. It was my mistake, my crime and my sin, so it would be my secret. Then, when I was caught, I wouldn't have the agony of wondering whether it was because of clever policing or a dreadful betrayal.

However, just because I'd killed a man didn't mean I had to sit in every night and dwell on it. I could go out and see my friends without telling them about the thing that had changed my life. I was due to meet my old school friends the following evening for a drink, and I intended to go.

Monday saw a silently furious Billy Yorke represented by Robert Brotherton, one of the founding partners of Urvine and Brotherton. He spoke with great eloquence and conviction, but there was no convincing reason why Yorke should be released while awaiting trial. The accused man's composure crumbled when he heard he was to remain in prison until the prosecution was ready to proceed, and not even his elegant suit and immaculate tie could disguise the fact that he hadn't risen very far above his origins – he screamed abuse and threats, and even some of his entourage seemed taken aback by his loss of control. Still howling, he was dragged from the courtroom.

His more worldly associates muttered about miscarriages of justice. Michael raised a hand to his brother in a way that indicated the battle would go on, while Randal's face was ugly with rage. Oakley imagined he would be lost without his boss – he didn't have the brains to organize a successful life of crime for himself. Could Michael take up the reins to keep business ticking along? Not the burglaries, as they needed Yorke's expertise and Michael was clever enough to know it, but some other illegal venture?

‘I thought Mr Paxton planned to take this case,' Oakley said in a friendly way to Brotherton. ‘I'm surprised to see you here.'

‘He's on holiday,' replied Brotherton with a tight smile. ‘Well, it's August, after all, and he hasn't had a break since he joined us five years ago. He deserves his spell in the sun.'

‘He abandoned an important client in his hour of need?' asked Oakley, surprised. ‘That doesn't sound like him.'

Brotherton clicked his briefcase shut and looked hard at him. ‘This was only a remand hearing. He'll be representing our client at the trial.'

‘Yorke doesn't think this was “only” a remand hearing,' remarked Oakley. ‘He was expecting his freedom this afternoon, not a ride in a prison van.'

‘Then his expectations were unreasonable,' said Brotherton crisply. ‘Good morning.'

He heaved his briefcase from the bench and made for the door, a tall, business-like figure in the lawyer's traditional pinstripes, dark tie and white shirt. He carried himself with the self-assurance that came from a moneyed background, and exuded a sense of importance. Oakley remembered him from long before, however, when he himself was a cadet struggling to make his superiors think a half-Indian would make an acceptable police officer. Then a lowly law clerk, Brotherton had been gauche, brash and naïve – his suave manners had been acquired along the way.

Meanwhile, Yorke's supporters milled around like angry wasps, and Evans wisely suggested that he and Oakley leave before they found themselves confronted. They headed for the door, but Michael intercepted them.

‘We're going to appeal,' he said smoothly. ‘Just so you know.'

‘Fair enough,' said Oakley amiably.

‘My brother isn't pleased that you've put him in this position,' said Michael, his youthful face expressionless. ‘He wanted me to tell you that.'

‘Are you threatening us?' asked Oakley coldly.

‘I'm passing a message to the officers in charge of my brother's case,' said Michael, unmoved. ‘That's all.'

He walked away, intercepting Randal, who was steaming towards them. Randal's face was murderous, and it was fortunate for him that Michael could control him, because an encounter would have almost certainly ended in Randal's arrest.

‘Animals!' muttered Evans in disgust. ‘Do you want to do anything about Michael, Guv? We both heard him, so we should be able to make something stick.'

‘Nope,' said Oakley, his eyes never leaving Michael as the young man strode away. ‘He was just talking. We'll let it go this time.'

‘As long as you're sure,' said Evans. ‘But I'll jot it in my pocketbook anyway, for the record.'

‘There's a missing person's report going around,' said Evans, poking his head around the door of Oakley's office late that afternoon. ‘Thought you might like to know.'

Oakley looked up from his computer screen to see Evans' eyes bright with humour.

‘Who?' he asked, sensing his DS was itching to tell.

‘James Paxton,' Evans pronounced with satisfaction. ‘His mother came in last night and said that he failed to show for a garden party yesterday. The vicar was there, apparently, and Mrs Paxton was
most
embarrassed when her son didn't appear.' He chuckled.

Oakley pretended to be sombre. ‘You're not taking this seriously, Graham. The only way a defence lawyer is going to get to heaven is if someone
very
holy intervenes on his behalf. Therefore, I put it to you that Paxton would never willingly miss an opportunity to solicit a Man of God, and we should conclude that one of his clients has slipped a knife between his ribs.'

Evans laughed. ‘That's just wishful thinking! But at least we know it wasn't Yorke. I wish we'd got his slime-bag brother, too. It's an offence to decent folk to see
him
walking free. How's the old lady? She still in hospital?'

Oakley nodded. ‘It's a shame. The old girl deserved better.'

‘Ingram is a cunning bastard,' said Evans consolingly. ‘He'll nail Yorke for her. But, back to Paxton, Barry took the missing person's report from Mummy. He managed to prise all sorts of details out of her to give the lads something to laugh about.'

‘Like what?' asked Oakley, intrigued.

‘Like the fact that he's never had a regular girlfriend, although Mummy claims it's because he doesn't have time, not because he's gay. Like the fact that she knows he wears Y-fronts because she
buys
them for him. Jesus! What sort of man lets his mother get his skivvies, for God's sake?'

‘One who can't be bothered to pick them up himself,' suggested Oakley. ‘I wish I had someone to take care of that kind of crap for me.' He saw Evans look disbelieving. ‘Where would you rather be on a Saturday afternoon: trailing around Marks and Spencer trying to work out the difference between cotton, cotton rich and poly-cotton, or sitting in the Mucky Duck?'

‘I suppose,' conceded Evans. ‘We'll let him slide on that one, then. Wright called Urvine and Brotherton and was informed that Paxton was on holiday. Obviously he booked himself a summer special and forgot to cancel the Pimm's and strawberries under the willows with Mummy and the vicar. He'll be in for some ripe shit when he gets back.'

‘Brotherton told me Paxton was on holiday as well,' said Oakley. ‘I suppose it's true, then.'

‘Of course it's true,' said Evans. ‘The smug bastard's in the south of France or taking the waters in Bath bloody Spa. Mummy will make him wish he'd never gone when he gets back, you can be sure of that.'

‘So will Brotherton,' mused Oakley. ‘Because if Paxton
has
gone on holiday, then he didn't tell his employers. I think that's why Brotherton himself came to remand court today – Paxton went off without asking, and caught them on the hop.'

I wasn't looking forward to meeting Frances and the others at the Watershed that evening. I wanted to sit on my sofa and replay the dreadful scene at Orchard Street again and again, passing the time by imagining scenes where I walked away from James and went straight to Oakley for help. Or called James' bluff, so he was forced to back down.

The more I thought about it, the more I saw I should have held out. James couldn't have
proved
he got bits of Noble's file from me. I wasn't the only one who'd studied it – for all I knew others had sneaked the thing out of the station, too. Oakley might have shoved it in his briefcase at some point. Or Butterworth – he was an evidence-fixer, so what was to say that he hadn't also taken a file home to look through while he rocked his baby to sleep?

James had threatened to tell my colleagues that I'd accepted bribes, but he couldn't have proved that either. And I could have weathered those accusations anyway. Police officers close ranks when one is under attack, and good ones like Superintendent Taylor, DI Davis and DI Oakley would have gone all out to prove me innocent. James wouldn't have got away with it.

Now that I thought about it, I was sure he wouldn't have carried out his threats anyway, as he was likely to have done as much damage to himself as to me, and I simply wouldn't have been worth the bother. I'd allowed his confidence to overwhelm me. For a moment, the blind rage that I'd felt when I'd killed him flooded through me again, and I spent several minutes pounding a cushion, seeing his face in its pillowy curves. I
hated
him! This was
his
fault, and I was damned if I was going to serve time for the likes of
him
!

I was defiant as I donned new jeans and a silk blouse. James' death was too bad. If he hadn't been sleazy and immoral, he wouldn't be dead. And if it hadn't been me who'd brained him, then someone else would have done it. Bristol was a better place without him. Yorke was behind bars, which he wouldn't have been had James been alive, so at least there was one villain who wouldn't be stalking the streets in search of victims to hurt that night.