Death Call (10 page)

Chapter 10

There were no signs of life in the house, and the back door was slightly open. What more could a body ask for? It was just a matter of pushing it in and hey presto! You were inside and stumbling around a new experience.

The kitchen was of the expensive variety, with fitted units bearing doors of mahogany, or some such hardwood. An oven in the wall, a separate hob, a huge fridge freezer and a breakfast bar gave the appearance of money. There had to be money around this house. There just had to be. It was only a matter of going through the whole place methodically, turning out every drawer, every pocket, in the hope that either cash or credit cards would turn up. If that failed, then there was always the TV and video. They’d be worth a few quid.

The living room was decked out with fake wooden panelling that made the room look and feel like an elevator in a smart hotel. It was way too small to carry such heavy panelling. It was as if the occupants had enough money to do with the house whatever they wanted, but not quite enough to live in a house as big as they would like. That explained the tasteless mix of decor.

Whatever it was about African wood-carvings, someone somewhere was making a killing. Sculptures of African tribal chiefs and bare breasted women adorned the mantelpiece and the top of the TV set, with, of all things, a bust of Beethoven on the upright piano which stood in the corner. A piano that looked like it had never been played and probably came in kit form, minus hammers and strings. It was a house owned by a couple of wannabes.

All of the drawers in the living room contained papers and bills. The house belonged to a married couple and, from the look of it, they had a child or two. There were toys scattered around the floor – the kind of toys that belonged to a four or five year old boy. The child, no doubt, was to be found in a playgroup or pre-school during the day, while his mother and father spent the day advancing their careers in mind-numbing office jobs.

Up the carpeted stairs, along the smooth banister. A bronze pot at the top of the stairs containing dried flowers, and above that, a rather horrible print of some Aboriginal dot painting. Lizards, birds and kangaroos, all cavorting around the canvas like a menagerie out of control.

Whoever had designed the place didn’t seem to know what it was they wanted. Perhaps the differences were down to the husband and wives’ different backgrounds or social standings. One was a wood panelling would-be Lord of the manor, the other an apologist for the white races’ misdeeds over the last few hundred years. They would definitely be strange bedfellows, no matter what they looked like.

The bathroom was another design gem, with a sunken bath and a multi-directional shower – heads coming out from all angles. The kind that you could fix so that the spray went up your arse and in your eyes at the same time.

There were gold fittings on all of the fixtures, including the shell-like sink unit and bidet. How many people actually use their bidets on a regular basis? It was one of those questions that no one would ever be able to answer.

There were three bedrooms, each decked out differently, as you might expect. One, a spare room, looked like something from a Laura Ashley showroom, with long floral drapes and pretty little lampshades. They were all in sickly pastel colours – the sort that would drive the occupant crazy if they stayed more than a couple of days.

It looked like something straight from the pages of a romantic novel. All flowery and safe, all cosy and warm, away from the real world – the world where you are only as good as the money in your pocket, the car in your driveway, and holiday destination in summer. There would be nothing of value in the guests room, nor in the nursery, which was also decorated in a typically repulsive style. Orbitals hung mercilessly from the ceiling, teddy bears stood propped up in the corner and there was an overriding smell of tired children. Yeah, just what you’d expect.

The door to the master bedroom was ajar. The guy pushed it and walked in, discovering a naked and disembowelled body draped over the bed. The shock froze him to the spot and then brought forth a convulsion of vomit, which splattered on the shag-pile carpet in a perfect circle.

He immediately ran down the stairs and out the front door, turning only once in his bid to get away from what he had just discovered. It wasn’t the kind of thing he usually came across while breaking into houses.

****

Mrs. Cynthia Slater picked up her little boy from the playgroup at five-thirty, going then to the supermarket to buy some groceries. It was difficult keeping a house and a job, not to mention a child. At the age of thirty, Cynthia had crumbled under the pressure of her parents, who wanted some grandchildren to spoil, and had her little boy, Johnny. That was five years ago. It all seemed easy then. Only now, little Johnny was proving to be an expensive handful.

Between nursery bills, clothes and toys, Johnny was stripping their combined income of around ten grand a year. Cynthia still felt she hadn’t lived, hadn’t travelled, and now it looked like she never would. Not with the mortgage she had taken on with her husband, Chris. Although both held down reasonably good jobs, they were finding it increasingly difficult to stretch their income to cover the things they had enjoyed before they had Johnny.

The days of fun and the nights of dancing were all but a memory for Cynthia Slater, and indeed for her husband, who could usually be found working at his desk until seven or eight every evening. She was now used to arriving home to an empty house. No welcome, no warmth, she thought as she parked her car in the driveway.

Johnny was playing up. He hated the child-seat in the back of the car. He couldn’t see out, and that annoyed him greatly. His protestations were driving his mother up the wall.

‘Come on then,’ she said, undoing the straps on his little seat. ‘We’ll have you out of there in a jiffy, and then Mummy will make you some dinner....’

‘I want chocolate!’ Johnny said.

‘After your dinner, darling, after your dinner....’

Cynthia, trying to hold onto her little boy and three bags of shopping, barely managed to get to the front door without catastrophe. As she fumbled with her keys, she noticed that the door was open. She left the shopping on the doorstep and put Johnny back in the car.

Slowly, she opened the door and shouted into the house: ‘Hell! Hello, is there anyone in there? Come out now if there is, and I won’t phone the police. I promise I won’t phone the police, just come out....’

The reply was a deafening silence. Perhaps they had already left, she thought, taking a small step into the hallway. Maybe the video and TV or microwave are gone.... Trying again, she shouted into the house.

‘Look, will you please come out....’ She was shaking by now, but growing ever confident that the house was empty. Still, she didn’t want to take the risk of going in alone.

From behind came the sound of a car. It was Maggie Cocker from next door, with her husband, Wilfrid. Cynthia rushed over to their car as the couple emerged.

‘Good Lord, Cynthia, are you all right?’ Wilfrid asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost....’

‘I think my house has been burgled and I don’t want to go in – the front door was open when I got home....’

‘Calm down, Cynthia. Wilfrid will have a look for you, won’t you Wilfrid?’ Maggie said, helpfully.

Wilfrid didn’t look like he was up to tackling a burglar. He was nearing seventy, and was painfully thin.

‘Yes, darling, I’ll check it out,’ Wilfrid said, putting on a brave face. ‘It’ll probably be empty now, anyway,’ he said, hopefully.

Wilfrid Cocker wasn’t a brave man. Instructing his wife to phone the police while he went into the house, he took his first tentative steps inside, speaking loudly as he did.

‘Listen now, I’m coming in, if there’s anyone in there, you’d best get out,’ he warned, as he crept slowly into the hallway. There was no reply.

The living room was empty – as was the kitchen. Papers strewn around the floor told the story of a burglary, but there were no obvious signs of sound or movement in the house. Confident that the house was empty, he called out to Mrs. Slater.

‘It looks like you’ve been burgled all right, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone in the house now. I’ll just check upstairs,’ he said.

Wilfrid was sweating. He wasn’t used to such excitement, and that, together with the stair climb, had him panting for breath by the time he reached the top. Checking the nursery and spare rooms first, he slowly made his way to the master bedroom. As he did so, an area police car pulled up in the driveway. Mrs. Slater looked relieved at their presence.

‘You reported a burglary, ma’am?’ said one of the officers, putting his cap on as he emerged from the car.

‘Yes, my neighbour’s husband has just gone in to check that the house is empty....’

‘Right, we’d best take a look, ma’am. Just stay right here, please. Come on Phil, you take a look ‘round the back, and I’ll go in the front....’

As the first officer entered the hallway, he heard a scream from upstairs.

‘Oh, merciful Lord, God help us!’

Wilfrid had just made his grim discovery. Running from the bedroom, Wilfrid moved toward the stairway in an effort to get away from what he had just seen. Tripping on the bronze pot at the top of the stairs, he tumbled down into the hallway like a rag doll, stopping at the feet of the police officer. His partner, Phil, had just made his way through the house and saw what had happened.

‘I’ll call an ambulance. Is he okay?’

‘Looks like he’s in shock. I’ll take a look upstairs, see what he found....’

Officer Fred Chapel climbed the stairs and slowly entered the master bedroom. There was blood everywhere.

‘Phil, we’ve got a body – call CID.’

Wilfrid was dead on arrival at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Cardiac arrest, according to the paramedic who attended to him, probably brought on by the shock of seeing the dead body and falling down the stairs. Either way, there were two bodies in the picture now.

Detective Richie Wheeler was accompanied by his partner, Tony Thompson. Wheeler and Thompson were two of the night shift detectives in the area. Everyone else had gone home for the night in CID, and it was up to the two detectives to get things going.

Forensics were soon on the job, white-suited figures taking scrapings, temperatures and looking for fibres and hairs that could help the inevitable investigation.

Maggie Cocker, Wilfrid’s wife, was now to be found in the accident and emergency waiting room, crying. Cynthia and Johnny sat quietly in their car, while the two detectives kept order around the house. Chris Slater was on his way home, following a fraught phone call from his wife. It wasn’t an ordinary night for the Slaters.

Chapter 11

DCI Jones was playing with his beard again. That was always a bad sign. Whenever he played with his beard, his mind was whirring away like some kind of automatic machine that couldn’t be stopped unless you had the know-how. Carroll still wasn’t sure if he had that know-how.

He had called Carroll and Grant at around seven that morning, telling them they had a big day ahead of them, and requesting their presence at eight-thirty in his office. Whatever it was, Carroll thought, it had better be good.

Grant had gotten lucky the night before, when his wife’s date failed to show up. Instead of going out on the town with her gangsta boyfriend, Sam had the evening to sit and talk with his estranged wife. He had made an effort to sort out what they would do about the impending divorce. Victoria had opened a couple of bottles of wine and, once the kids had been put to bed for the night, there was no stopping her. Grant couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. It seemed like years, but it didn’t take him long to get back into his stride. Whether it was something to do with the disappointment of her Yardie boyfriend not turning up, or whether she still had feelings for Sam, wasn’t really obvious. Sam just decided to go along with the flow.

Victoria was all dressed up, wearing the sort of finery that he remembered from when they were dating all those years before. Once they were married though, she had let herself go to seed. It was as if she didn’t care how she looked anymore. Maybe that was why Grant had taken to spending more time at work. Whatever their separation had done for Vicky, Grant thought, it had worked wonders. She used to complain that she didn’t feel like getting dressed up and was always tired from looking after the kids. That certainly didn’t seem to be the case now.

He had forgotten how quickly she could move him with just one look. A certain glance, a way of moving, a swing of her hips and that damned seductive smile. He knew what was coming, but he had to sit back and wait for it. There was no use in rushing Victoria. If he rushed her, then she’d only get annoyed at his presumption and he would’ve found himself back in his Dalston flat – alone. She always did like to be in control.

Grant’s phone call came at just after seven, as DCI Jones had trouble locating him. He wasn’t to be found at his Dalston flat, so, using his rusty detecting skills, Jones had tracked him down to his wife’s house.

Victoria wasn’t amused at being woken up at seven in the morning by Sam’s boss. It reminded her of the way it was before their split, and she didn’t like it one little bit. It was all she could do to stop herself from screaming at him to get out. He apologised, understanding the fire that was present in her eyes, and left.

Carroll and Grant sat down in front of Jones, waiting for the story to be told. Jones obliged.