The Murder House (23 page)

Merrick worked steadily, looking at all Yorke's known associates, and when he finished he pulled up Noble's file and did the same with him. Then he stopped, because there were too many to look at in one sitting. But he had a good memory for faces, and the one in the bar had been a pleasant one. If Paxton had been meeting a criminal, Merrick would find him.

When Oakley presented me the envelope containing James' dental records, I don't know how I managed to stretch out my hand and take it. Was there someone up there who knew what I'd done and was determined to ensure that I played a role in every aspect of this wretched case? Was this the way I was going to be punished – by being forced to deliver the documents that would begin to give the police their answers? And why the hell was he bothering with dental records anyway? Surely they were a bit passé in the age of DNA analysis?

‘His mother delivered them,' explained Oakley when I'd asked the last question rather snappily. ‘It's unlikely to be him anyway, so no point in wasting valuable police resources with expensive tests from FSS.'

He didn't think the body was James! Well, that was a relief. So why was the wretched man bothering with dental records? My thoughts were in such turmoil that I pulled into a side street and parked, to give myself time to think it all through. I didn't think I'd acted suspiciously when Oakley had given me the envelope, although it occurred to me that he might have heard my heart thumping. I suppose he'd assumed any reluctance on my part was to do with Wright. At least, I hoped so. So what was I going to do? I didn't want him to identify James. I wanted everyone to go on thinking the body was Kovac's. Then, if all went well, communications with Albania would eventually break down, and they'd never know whether the missing scientist was dead or alive. Kovac was a very convenient corpse for me.

I pulled the computer-printed pages from the envelope and studied them. There was a chart with boxes for each tooth, crosses marking off the ones that had been extracted or lost, and black ink marking where fillings were. I did the only thing I could: I took a black pen from my bag and put a cross over James' upper right second premolar and gave him a filling in his lower left central incisor, relieved to see that the ink was a pretty good match.

I was pleased with myself. That should confuse them! Even if they did eventually check the dentist's computer, the delay I'd caused would work to my advantage. Witnesses would become less certain of what they had seen, or would move away, and that could only help me. Clearly the best way forward was to slow the whole thing down: the longer they took to identify James, the more difficult it would be to trace him to me. Mrs Greaves would forget what she had noticed about the woman in the scarf, and there might even be a way I could get at James' phone records. I wondered what more I could do to keep the Kovac line of enquiry going, given that it was the biggest time-waster.

I was glad that my note had finally arrived, but had I done the right thing by sending it? Obviously, the best outcome would be for the Yorke gang to be charged with Kovac's murder. Should I send another, to point them in that direction? I decided I'd have to. I'd also visit the incident room when I got back, to see what I could find out. After all, Oakley himself had told me to go and look at the note.

I started the car and was about to ease back into the traffic when the radio crackled. I answered, and Jeeves told me to return to the station immediately. My stomach did somersaults. Why? Had Oakley read my horror after all, and was waiting to arrest me? Had my letter given something away? But I'd been so careful! Surely a hair or a flake of skin hadn't dropped into the envelope! Had it?

My poor heart was thudding again and I thought I might pass out, but then I realized what Jeeves had said: that
Wright
wanted me back. I closed my eyes in relief. Wright had heard what Oakley had told me to do and objected to me being used as CID's errand runner. Wright was just playing power games. I needed to stop jumping in alarm every time something perfectly normal happened, or I'd end up betraying myself. I had to get a grip.

‘I've got a man from Academic Accommodations in the interview rooms,' said Merrick, walking up to Oakley and Davis. ‘It's taken me this long to get hold of anyone, as the place shuts down for two weeks in August for holidays. Anyway, he's in number three. His name's Geoff Jessop.'

When Merrick had gone, Oakley turned back to Davis. She'd been telling him that, despite spending the best part of three days at the university, she'd learned little about Kovac. He was polite, worked hard and missed his family. He'd once mentioned a brother in the Albanian secret police. Davis intended to ask Professor Jinic for more specifics about that particular organization, to help determine how such an involvement might bear on the case.

‘That's it, really,' she said. ‘I wish I had more. But a word before you go, Neel – I'm making an official complaint about Barry Wright. Will you back me?'

Oakley nodded. ‘But are you sure? He's not a man to go down quietly.'

‘He told me to fuck off. I can't ignore that. Frankly, I'm surprised you aren't doing the same. I heard what he said to you.'

Oakley shrugged. ‘He's not worth the paperwork.'

‘So it's all right for him to tell senior officers to fuck off, and call them any names that happen to enter the mass of slime that passes for his brain?'

‘He's a dying breed, and he knows it. That's his problem – he sees the old order changing and isn't happy with the new.'

‘Bullshit!' declared Davis. ‘Don't make excuses for him! Have you seen how he persecutes Helen Anderson? Giving her all the bum jobs and running her down in front of her colleagues? I'm surprised she's stayed as long as she has. And you should certainly want to see him on the carpet. You know how he feels about
you
.'

Oakley nodded. ‘He started a rumour that it was me – not him – who left his lunch on the floor at Orchard Street. Luckily, everyone knows I don't eat station chips, or people might have believed him.'

Davis pulled a face that registered her disgust. ‘I took that photo down. We don't want officers from other stations asking why we've got pictures of vomit pinned up. Who put it there?'

Oakley grinned. ‘Not me, although I half wish it had been.'

He strongly suspected Merrick, who, as Oakley now knew, had good reason to dislike Wright and his bigoted intolerance.

Geoff Jessop was a burly, confident man in his fifties who wore a tweed jacket, old corduroy trousers and a tie with a small knot. He employed two clerks – one for mornings and one for afternoons – and a cleaner. The company took details from anyone who had a house or a flat to rent, and matched them to visiting scholars who needed somewhere to stay. They had a range of properties on their books, from expensive six-bedroomed houses in Westbury to seedy bedsits in Bedminster. Some owners wanted long-term tenants while others preferred short term. Number nine Orchard Street was in the latter category.

‘Its owners live in the Middle East.' Jessop passed Oakley a card covered with handwritten notes. ‘There's all the information we have, including a list of everyone who's rented it since it came on to our books last summer.'

Oakley scanned it quickly. ‘Three stays by Doctor Kovac, none for longer than three weeks, and half a dozen others, but it's empty a lot. It can't be making much money.'

Jessop took the card, adjusted his glasses and studied it. Then he passed it back to Oakley. ‘You see where it says “4wmx”? That means “four weeks maximum”. That's not much use for scholars who need to be here for a term or more. The ones who come for the odd week usually prefer our bed-and-breakfast service. Orchard Street won't get many takers by imposing that condition.'

‘Why do it then?'

‘I imagine the main objective is for us to keep an eye on it,' replied Jessop. ‘Our cleaner goes round the day the tenants leave, to make sure all's ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Short-term contracts mean it gets cleaned more often.'

‘Will this cleaner have been to Orchard Street after Kovac left?' asked Oakley, his interest quickening.

‘Of course. Gail will have given the place a quick once-over on the Tuesday morning, but Kovac usually leaves the place very clean so there won't have been much for her to do. An American is due in next week, but I suppose we'll have to find him somewhere else.'

Oakley nodded that he would. ‘I'm surprised you didn't hear about the murder. It was in all the papers.'

‘I never touch a paper when I'm away. That's why I go – to escape.'

‘I should try that myself,' muttered Oakley. ‘Can you tell us anything about Kovac? Has there ever been any trouble with him?'

‘None,' said Jessop firmly. ‘We wouldn't have leased him a property again if there had been. We can't afford troublesome tenants, but most are no bother – they don't get their deposits back if they misbehave.'

‘Did you give Kovac his deposit back?'

‘No – he's booked for another visit in December, so we agreed that it would be easier for us to keep it, rather than to fiddle about with cheques each time he comes. I didn't even see him when he arrived in July. We sent the keys to the university.'

‘How was he going to get them back to you?'

‘I don't know.' Jessop rubbed his forehead. ‘No, wait a minute! He was going to leave them on the kitchen table for Gail the cleaner, and close the door behind him so it locked. That's right. That's what he did the last time, too. You'll need to ask her whether he left them or not, because I've been gone since just about the same time that he would have completed his stay, and I've not caught up on such details yet. Here's her address.'

‘Is there any more you can tell us about Kovac?' Oakley smiled encouragingly. ‘As we haven't been able to get a much of an impression from anyone else.'

Jessop sat back and closed his eyes. ‘A family man. Wife and two children. Excellent physicist – he had a paper in
New Scientist
a couple of years ago. He loves England. Well, actually, what I think he likes are the shops. He decks himself out in good suits and takes stuff home for his family. He always comes with a briefcase, and goes home with two suitcases.'

‘How does he pay for it? I doubt he earns a princely salary in Tirana.'

Jessop shrugged. ‘A grant perhaps. The EU can be generous to promising research.'

‘We found no suitcases.' Oakley refrained from telling Jessop they'd found precious little else either – just a corpse in black plastic.

‘Then I imagine he took them with him. The killer must've seen an empty house and used it for his horrible work. I can tell you for certain that Kovac didn't do it. He's a physicist.'

Oakley wasn't sure that the two remarks necessarily followed. ‘Then what about the possibility that the body might be him?'

Jessop frowned. ‘Why would anyone would want to kill him?'

‘That's what we're trying to find out. Can you tell us any more about him?'

‘He has a brother who's a secret policeman. I believe that's rather more sinister in Albania than it is here. Perhaps that's an avenue you should explore.'

‘We are,' he said, thinking that discovering more about the Albanian security services was exactly how Davis intended to pass her afternoon. ‘Now what about the house's owners? Who are they?'

‘We don't deal directly with them. We work through their solicitors – Urvine and Brotherton.'

I don't think I'd ever seen Wright so angry. His face was flushed an ugly red, and veins stood out in his neck and on his forehead. I could see one of them pulsing. He was sweating, too, and his hands were shaking. I knew straightaway that
I
was in trouble because Oakley had used me to run his errands. It wasn't fair.

‘
I'm
your senior officer,' he began in a low, menacing voice. We were in the briefing room – he didn't even have the decency to dress me down in the privacy of an office. ‘You do what
I
tell you, not some jumped-up Paki with inspector's pips on his shoulder. So, tell me why you ran his errands when I'd already told you what
I
wanted you to do?'

I could see he expected an answer. ‘He asked me, Sarge,' I said lamely, turning James' dental records over in my hands. I tried to keep my head up, not stare down at my feet like some chastised teenager. I couldn't bear the contempt in his eyes, so I stared at his mouth, and his nicotine-stained teeth. ‘He's an inspector. I didn't feel I could say no.'

‘Didn't feel? Didn't feel?' he mocked. ‘We're not paying you to “feel”, missy. We're paying you to be a police officer. And that means obeying orders, not sticking your nose up CID's arse. And don't think
you'll
be a detective. Frankly, you're not good enough. You're lazy, unreliable and you just haven't got it in you. If you had any sense of responsibility you'd do the decent thing and resign.'

Tears pricked at the backs of my eyes and I tried to fight them back. I knew that Jeeves and Paul Franklin were listening in the radio room, and several others were doing paperwork nearby, trying to look as though they weren't there. I felt myself go hot all over and the heat blaze from my face. I was embarrassed, humiliated.

‘You're useless,' he continued. ‘Yes, go on! Blush! You should be ashamed of yourself. You're a disgrace to the uniform. Just because you've got a
degree
' – his voice turned sneering again – ‘you think you're better than the rest of us, that the rules don't apply to you.'

I felt his spit hit my face, and I raised a hand to wipe it away. I was horrified to find that the tears I thought were under control were trickling down my cheeks.