The Murder House (29 page)

I thought it ironic that Wright's death should come about as a result of my note, and all I can say is that he must have been really drunk to think that he could introduce the betting slip to the crime scene at that stage of the investigation. Perhaps he'd intended to ‘find' it himself – an experienced officer solving the case with a quick and penetrating look around him. I doubt Oakley would have fallen for it, though.

The other thing I gleaned from the grapevine was that Wright had given James the information about Butterworth's Blunder – he'd photocopied the property book. But his bank account didn't show any sudden and inexplicable payments, so it was generally assumed that his motives were malicious rather than fiscal.

I was livid, though, because I saw that I'd probably told James nothing he didn't already know from Wright about Butterworth's Blunder on that horrible day on the train. He'd merely wanted to put me in a terrible situation, so that he could use my guilty conscience to blackmail me later. He'd played me for a gullible fool.

Still fuming, I went home to get ready to see a play at the Old Vic with Colin. My life was so much better than it had been the week before. Colin and I were still getting to know each other, and I liked him more and more. Wright was gone, and the atmosphere at work had been much nicer, despite the shock at his death. Taylor had ordered Oakley not to waste any more time on James' disappearance, while DI Davis was doggedly bent on proving that Kovac was the killer. And James' murder seemed a lifetime ago. I barely thought about Wright's. Perhaps I was getting used to them.

The police search for Marko Kovac grew more intense now that the case involved the death of one of their own. His photograph was shown again and again on television, with a bulletin to say he was wanted for questioning.

There were two theories among the murder squad officers. First, Davis led a faction that thought Kovac had murdered either someone connected to his secret policeman brother, or someone trying to steal his research. This scenario had him returning to the house when the guard was absent, so he'd been there when Wright had arrived.

The second theory, headed by Evans, was that Kovac was the victim. He'd been delayed in leaving, and the Yorke gang had found him in a house that should have been empty. He was killed to ensure his silence. The gang had then waited until the police stopped guarding number nine, and had killed Wright when he burst in on them.

The problem Oakley had with both hypotheses was the house – why would Kovac return to a place he had cleaned his belongings out of, and why would the Yorke gang be there at all, never mind going back again later? He also thought Wright's death was more complex than just stumbling across the culprit and paying the price. But he had no better explanation, and Taylor was beginning to lose patience with his refusal to accept the conveniently missing Albanian as a solution to the mysteries.

He visited the university again that evening, but the department was locked up. He was about to leave when he saw Ron Yates carrying two buckets of dirty water.

‘Trouble?' he asked, watching Yates tip them down the drain.

‘An ongoing problem – a flood in the basement. Any news on Marko?'

Oakley shook his head. ‘But I wondered if he'd received any post this week that might help us find him.' He knew he sounded as though he was snatching at straws. ‘May I look?'

‘Nothing came this morning – I've been keeping an eye on it, like you asked. But there might have been a delivery this afternoon. Come in, and we'll check his pigeon hole.'

Oakley followed him along a corridor and down a flight of stairs, where Yates stepped carefully across a puddled floor that was swathed in black plastic, all fixed together with thick lines of silver tape. A large roll of the plastic lay at the far end of the room, along with a box containing a dozen rolls of duct tape.

Oakley stared at them. ‘Did Kovac ever ask for any of this?'

Yates shook his head. ‘No, why?'

‘Then could he have helped himself?'

Yates shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so, although I can't imagine why. No one ever comes down here except me. There's a men's loo over there, but most of the staff use the newer ones on the first floor.'

‘So he may have come for the toilet and seen this plastic and tape?'

Yates nodded. ‘Why? Is it important?'

Wright's murder had taken precedence over the stale case of the unidentified body, and Oakley had been forbidden to interview the Yorke gang until it was determined if they were involved in the sergeant's death. He protested vehemently, but the three superintendents were adamant – he might spoil their chances of nailing Wright's killer if he asked the wrong questions. Oakley disagreed, but an order was an order, so he grudgingly abandoned that line of enquiry.

He sent a piece of plastic and a roll of tape from the university to FSS, and the result had come back surprisingly quickly – the edge of the piece from the university was a perfect match for the piece that had been wrapped around the body. Moreover, dust on both proved they came from the Victorian building that housed the physics department. Kovac was indeed responsible for taking them to Orchard Street, thus supporting the theory that he was the killer. As Davis was quick to ask, why else would he pinch them?

Oakley turned his attention back to the anonymous note, casually ignoring both Taylor's orders and the fact that it was a lead that pointed back to the Yorkes. A handwriting expert told him nothing he couldn't have guessed for himself: the author had used capital letters to disguise his writing and the spelling was eccentric, which suggested either a poor education or a deliberate attempt to mislead. Because the writing was neat, the palaeographer was inclined to opt for the second. This fitted in with the pains the writer had taken to make sure there was no trace evidence.

The saliva test on the stamp didn't look promising, either. There wasn't enough of it, and the hot weather since it had been posted had degraded the DNA. FSS hadn't given up completely, though, and one dedicated soul was working on it just for the challenge.

Oakley sat at his desk that evening, put his feet up, and accepted the mug of the powerful coffee Evans brought him. ‘Let's review what we've got – not theories and hunches, but actual facts.'

‘All right,' said Evans, pulling up a chair. ‘Kovac stole black plastic and tape from the university – and there's no reason why he should do that except to wrap a body.'

‘Let's not start with him. Let's look at the Yorke gang.'

‘Why? We'll never get to talk to them as long as the Three Tenors are here.'

Oakley ignored him. ‘Yorke thought Paxton was going to get him bail – a fact borne out by Giles Farnaby's statement
and
by the anonymous note. But Paxton disappeared two days before the hearing. Now, I know coincidences happen, but I don't like this one at all, and I'm thinking more and more that the body might be his.'

‘But he's gone off with his gay pals,' sighed Evans. ‘Even his colleagues think so.'

‘But his mother doesn't, and she knows him better than they do. Let's assume he hasn't, and something bad has happened to him.'

‘Then his disappearance fits with our body's estimated time of death. Moreover, the corpse was wearing a nice suit and a white shirt – lawyer's attire. No tie, though, and Paxton was a man who liked ties, according to Mummy. However, there's one big problem with that theory: our body isn't Paxton, because the dental records don't match.'

‘Did Grossman look at anything other than the missing tooth? What about fillings, bridges or whatever? Did he check any of that?'

‘There was no point. The lost premolar eliminates him. Full stop.'

‘What if someone tampered with the dental records? Such as his mother?'

‘Come on, Guv! She
wants
him identified. Why would she try to mislead us?'

‘Don't you think it's a bit gruesome, bringing your son's dental records to be tested against an unidentified body? Perhaps she knows it's him, but doesn't want us to know.'

‘Now you're in La-La Land,' said Evans firmly. ‘Sorry, Guv, but our body isn't Paxton, and if you think it is, then it's just wishful thinking.'

‘Let's just make sure,' said Oakley, reaching for his jacket. ‘I've had a funny feeling about this for a while. Grossman should still be around. Let's get him to have another look.'

‘What, now?' asked Evans without enthusiasm. ‘It's gone eight on a Friday night. He will have gone home by now.'

‘He's there – I heard Taylor talking to him on the phone about a traffic accident not long ago.'

‘He won't like it,' warned Evans. ‘He'll think you're questioning his competency.'

‘I am,' said Oakley.

Evans was right: Grossman wasn't pleased that Oakley wanted him to go over something he'd already done, especially as he had two victims from a fatal pile-up on the M4. He refused at first, but relented when he realized Oakley wasn't going to leave until he obliged. With bad grace, he snatched up a dental mirror, grabbed Paxton's chart and hauled open the drawer that contained the body.

‘Look,' he said, exasperated. ‘Paxton was missing a premolar – this fellow has all four present and correct. Paxton had a filling in his lower central incisor – this fellow's incisors are untouched. It's not the same man.'

‘Are those the only differences?' pressed Oakley. ‘What about that big gold crown at the back? Does Paxton have one of those?'

Grossman studied the record. ‘Yes. And a bridge across the lower left seven and eight.' He frowned. ‘And a complete veneering of all four upper incisors. Curious.'

‘Meaning what?' asked Oakley impatiently.

‘Meaning there are two definite differences between this man and Paxton, but there are several similarities, including some distinctive cosmetic work.'

‘So what are you saying? Is it Paxton or not?'

Grossman looked furtive. ‘Perhaps I should call in a forensic odontologist.'

‘How long will that take?'

‘I don't know. A couple of days.'

‘And in the meantime?' asked Oakley, frustrated.

‘I suggest you get a sample of Paxton's DNA. His toothbrush would be best. Or his razor.'

‘So it
is
him?' demanded Oakley. ‘We've got an ID at last?'

Grossman nodded slowly. ‘I can't say for sure, you understand, but I'd be surprised now if it proved to be someone else.'

I finished work at ten o'clock that night and planned to go straight to Colin's place. I'd enjoyed my day, and had impressed Inspector Blake by getting two juvenile shoplifters to confess to a whole string of other offences. For the first time in ages I felt as though I was good at my job. There was no question about it: Wright's absence definitely made the world a better place.

I was humming as I walked out – until I met Oakley and Evans, who were just coming in and looked really pleased with themselves. I asked why.

‘We need DNA to be sure,' said Oakley, ‘but I think we've finally got an ID for our body. It's James Paxton!'

I felt as though the world had suddenly stopped spinning. I'd just about rebuilt my life, only to have it crashing down around me again.

‘I thought dental records indicated otherwise,' I said, with a mouth so dry that it felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool.

‘Some clerk must have cocked up,' Oakley explained. ‘A filling and an extraction were mis-marked. We'll check with the dentist tomorrow.'

‘Grossman is past it,' said Evans disparagingly. ‘He should have noticed the similarities as well as the differences. It's time he retired.'

They walked away, discussing Grossman's incompetence, and leaving me weak-kneed in the doorway. My head was pounding this time, as well as my heart.

How long before they requested James' phone records, and discovered that I'd been the last person he'd contacted? I'd done all in my power to prevent them from learning it was James, and I'd bought myself a lot of time. But now what? I forced myself to walk down the steps, hoping that my shaking legs wouldn't deposit me in a heap on the ground.

I
t had been a busy night for Oakley and Evans, who proceeded as if the body were Paxton. There were numerous protocols to be followed – forms to fill in, a warrant to seize Paxton's records from the dentist and requests made for specific tests, including a visit from the forensic odontologist. Paxton's DNA would need to be matched to the corpse, and his colleagues at Urvine and Brotherton interviewed again. By the time they had finished it was almost four o'clock.

‘Shall we visit Maureen now?' asked Evans, leaning back and rubbing his neck.

Oakley shook his head. ‘Let her have her sleep. God knows, she'll be facing a lot of bad nights from now on. We'll do it first thing tomorrow.'

‘Today,' corrected Evans. ‘I might just kip down in the cells for a couple of hours. It's hardly worth going home and disturbing the missus.'

Oakley couldn't sleep because his mind was racing. He went through witness statements with renewed energy, and by the time Evans arrived back, stupid with sleep and sporting a bad shave, he was impatient to make a start. At eight a.m. they were knocking on Mrs Paxton's door to ask for the keys to her son's flat, so they could collect his comb, toothbrush and razor to test for his DNA. And a cheek swab from her.

Despite Oakley's insistence that nothing was certain until the tests had been run, the hapless Mrs Paxton collapsed on the floor and wept. Oakley radioed for a female officer to wait with her until relatives could be contacted, and it was Anderson who arrived. She didn't offer words of empty comfort, but simply sat next to Maureen and put her arm around her.