The sight and sounds were familiar to him: a crowd of people moving in random directions, each at their own pace, inside and outside of the cordoned off area. A jumble of subdued voices. People staring blankly at their first ever sight of a corpse.

Murder always made its presence felt: an abandoned body moulded into a frozen pose which life never would have forced upon it. The blatant theft of an individual’s dignity.

Onlookers were straining to see the spectacle. Constables were ushering them away, assuring them there was nothing to see. “It’s all over now”.

For the corpse, this was true, but for Detective Superintendent Keane this was how it started. The majority of his new acquaintances were dead from the first meeting. Clearly this made his job more difficult, but this was the challenge that drove him: to rectify an injustice on behalf of someone who could give him neither assistance nor gratitude.

The tall, wiry figure of Keane approached the scene. Dressed as ever in an immaculate, dark blue, three-piece suit with a white shirt and maroon tie, and wearing spotless, black, laced-up shoes, he seemed very much out of place in a scene that depicted the basest element of human nature.

“Right up your street, this one.” said Hayes rising from his crouch.

Detective Sergeant Hayes liked to get straight to the point. He seemed to be all extremes and no middle. His features where blunt but somehow appealing; a round, mobile face with expressive, pale blue eyes. His long, wavy, fair hair defied the current fashion as much as his choice of clothes reflected it. He had a well-built, sturdy body, yet his movements were always quick and fidgety.

He began to brief Keane: “The only signs of a struggle are the graze on his face, and the tear in his sleeve; there’s no blood, no bruising on the body or head, nothing seems to be broken, no strangulation. There’s absolutely nothing to indicate why he should be dead.”

“He is dead, then?” goaded Keane

Hayes chose to let a sarcastic expression suffice as an answer. He looked at Keane’s placid countenance; his long narrow nose, below the olive-green eyes and the perfect moustache, and his tidy dark brown hair with a few grey streaks combed straight back. Self-control and motivation seemed to come effortlessly to him. Let’s see how he would deal with this, he thought.

“So that doesn’t grab you? Well, what about this, then?” Hayes moved his hand down to the man’s throat and began to scratch at it, just above the flashy golden necklace.

“What are you . . . ?” Keane froze in momentary shock as Hayes began to pull off the man’s face.

“He’s wearing a theatrical mask”, said Hayes, very matter-of-factly, impatient for his boss to finally lose his composure.

“Wait! Don’t tear it any more. Leave it. We need good photos of what he looks like with that mask on. Where is Alex, by the way? We need his verdict as soon as possible. That mask has to be preserved, but we also need to know who is dead. Tell me we have some ID, and I’ll promise not to kiss you.”

“No ID, no wallet, ring removed – see the tan mark there. No glasses, but he is wearing contact lenses. And he still has his watch on, it’s a . . . Rolex! And this attaché case is . . . empty.”

“Alright. And you’ve combed the area for . . . “

“Yep, nothing.”

Keane paused and then thought out loud, “Who has been killed here? Who was the intended victim? The man behind the mask or the man who looked like the mask? . .“

“. . . or was it someone who was a complete stranger to the killer?” added Hayes.

Keane simply pressed on, “And why . . .? Hayes, if you are being chased or attacked – you’re wearing a mask, remember, and someone is trying to kill you . . . wouldn’t you try and take off the mask?”

“Not necessarily. Not if the attack was sudden or the killer was a complete stranger to me. I’d just try and defend myself”

“Well, I suppose it’s a moot point now anyway, seen from this fellow’s point of view. But how can we know if the killer really did get his man? Maybe he thought he did, but made a mistake?” Keane pondered over the numerous conceivable scenarios.

“Shouldn’t we get him out of here?” asked Hayes

“Yes, right.” answered Keane, but his head was still in the clouds. “You stay till Alex gets here, and I’ll . . . I’ll see you at the unveiling!”

With that he turned slowly and began to make his way back to the car. After a few steps he stopped.

“Discipline, Morgan”, he reprimanded himself. He wanted to let his mind race away and grapple with the mystery, but he knew he had been nowhere near thorough enough. He turned and walked back to Hayes.

“What was he doing here, lying in the middle of the road? Was he going to, or coming from somewhere? What do you think?”

Hayes looked at the corpse. He looked at his suit, tie and shoes. The shoes were clearly brand new.

“Well. Nice suit, but no cologne. I’d say he was dressed to impress a business connection rather than a lady friend. Tie loosened, so perhaps it was after a meeting. He was definitely not coming back from the squash club. It has to be business with that case there. You don’t think the case could be a plant, do you?”

Keane had no answer, he was still lost in his own thoughts. “Was he killed here, or was he killed elsewhere and dumped here?”

Hayes just shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve no witnesses.”

“Have you knocked on everyone’s door yet?”

“No, I mean, no-one’s come forward.”

“ . . . you mean, like they usually do,?” teased Keane

“OK, I’ll get Jenkins over, and we’ll get on with it, as soon as the doc’s picked him up.”

“Speak of the devil. Good evening, Alex” said Keane, turning to greet the quick-striding newcomer.

“Evening, Morgan, Detective Hayes. What have we got?”

“A real mystery. No apparent cause of death, yet Hayes assures me this gentleman is not holding his breath.”

The Coroner bent over the corpse, shone his torch, felt, squeezed, and gazed and felt some more. Detective Hayes decided to leave to interview potential witnesses, “I’ll see you back at the station“ he said as he departed, not waiting for a response.

“If anyone has seen or heard anything, bring them in, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

After a good five minutes with no attempt to converse, Alex scratched his nose with the back of his left forefinger (as he always did before pronouncing judgement) and said: “Asphyxiation. Probably induced by poison. Died about 1-2 hours ago. I’m not yet sure how it’s been done, but I can tell you now, I’ve never seen anything quite like this. Morgan, you’ve still got connections from your spooky past, haven’t you?”

“MI5?” whispered Keane

“You will be needing them with this one.”

“I can see you enjoy a little cloak and dagger yourself. Come on. Out with it. What do you know?”

“You see this spot of blood?”

Keane leaned over to look closer at the man’s left ear, and sure enough, a small globule of dried blood inside the ear came into view as Alex shone his torch there.

“That’s fresh. But that wound did not kill him. What killed him was a poisonous injection . . . somewhere . . . possibly here under the tongue. You see the swelling and discolouration?”

Keane wondered to himself how many crimes would go unsolved, or at least take an inordinate amount of time to start on the right track, if it were not for the professional skills of men like Alex.

“Alex, you’re going to earn your ludicrously high wages with this one. How soon can you give me the full picture?”

“I’ll get cracking right away. Get home to your lovely wife, and I’ll tell you a lot more in the morning. Is 9:30 alright?”

“Yes, fine. Listen, the pictures of that mask need to be as lifelike as possible, because we . . . “

“Morgan, I’ve done this before. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Alex.”

Keane took one last look at the masked face, and forced himself to turn away and walk back to his car. He looked up and around. Was Kensington the neighbourhood in London where you would expect this kind of thing to happen? Of course it wasn’t. Where would you expect to find a dead man wearing a mask, killed by a poisonous injection?

It certainly did look like the work of a pro. But was he after the contents of the case? Did he want to take over the man’s identity? And above all, did he kill the man he was intending to kill?

He had too little to go off. He was going to have to do, what he did worst of all: put it to the back of his mind, until Alex could give him some definite leads. Thankfully Jenny knew him well enough to know that his absent-mindedness was not due to any lack of interest in her or her work.

He arrived home around 11 o’clock. Jenny was reading in the study. It was not a good sign.

She smiled warmly to him as he came in and said, “No phone call. This one must be a humdinger!”

“It is.”, he said meekly, “I’m sorry, I . . .” She smiled again, and then he smiled, as they both knew there was no point in him finishing the sentence.

“Would you like any supper?” she asked.

“You know, I’m not really hungry”, he answered, just as much in honesty as in respect for her own busy schedule.

“You probably haven’t had any nourishment since lunch”, she presumed correctly, “You’ll think better after you’ve had something.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

He wondered whether it was best to follow. Jenny would only ever drop her work and read in the study, if her mind was troubled; and it was clearly not his lack of thoughtfulness that had brought this on. He knew he had only one choice.

“Is everything alright at work?” he asked, stepping into the kitchen.

“Yes. Well, the deadline on the Jacobean furniture article has been brought forward to Thursday, and
Gary’s ruined the negatives, so he’ll have to go out there and take them again. But that’s just business as usual really.”

He wondered. It had to be her health or the children. He decided to be more direct.

“Is something worrying you, Jenny?”

She put the knife and bread down and realized, yes it really was gnawing at her. She had tried to dismiss it, but she couldn’t. And he had spotted it right away. A sudden wave of emotion overwhelmed her. He could be late and inconsiderate every day for the rest of his life, it didn’t matter. No-one would ever know her and love her like he did. She broke into tears, startling herself as much as him, and ran over to hug him.

“What . . .?” he began

“I’m . . . so . . . worried about . . . the children!” she sobbed.

“The children? But they are all doing fine. Jason couldn’t be happier now that he’s finished his studies. Remember what he said the other day, about how he can’t wait to come under Alex’s wing, and get his teeth into a real case?”

“No it’s not, Jason, I suppose” said Jenny composing herself again. “Though I doubt whether that boy will be much use in half of the work he’ll be asked to do: he seems totally incapable of registering the fact that a second gender exists.”

“He will find someone eventually, Jenny. Is it Daniel?”

“Well, you know I think it was wrong of you to persuade him to go to University, when his heart is set on becoming a gardener, but no . . . it’s Elaine.”

“Elaine? But she’s always wanted to go to Paris. You know how much that means to her. You’ve heard on the phone how happy she is.”

BOOK: To Make a Killing

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