Murder of a Dead Man (11 page)

‘Then we have to accept that Anthony George is dead,’ Peter agreed. With the doctor’s, Mark’s, Caldwell’s and now Davies’ assertion that they’d identified George’s body, that fact had been established. ‘But you are aware that someone removed his face afterwards?’

‘Sick bastards. If I’d got hold of whoever did it I would have killed them.’

‘Inspector Edwards said you knew Anthony George better than anyone?’

Luke nodded, as he motioned to the young man behind the bar to refill their glasses.

‘Have you any idea why anyone would want to impersonate him?’

‘Impersonate?’ Luke gazed blankly at Peter as the barman set a large gin and tonic before him and fresh pints in front of Anna and Peter.

‘You agreed the man in that video looks like Anthony George.’

‘From what was said on television last night, and what you’ve just told me, this Tony was a down-and-out who slept rough and in hostels.’

‘Yes.’

‘Funny kind of an impersonation that lands a man on the streets. Now if he’d tried to take over Anthony’s house and money I could have understood it. Anthony’s mother had a nice place, and a few bob, from what I understood.’

‘You got nothing after Anthony died?’ Peter probed for signs of resentment.

‘I got a great deal more than I deserved.

Anthony lent me the money to buy this place. I gave him a full partnership in return for his cash, but it was a private arrangement. I wanted Anthony to draw up a legal contract, but he never did. Said we didn’t need one.’

‘And when he died?’

‘His solicitor, nice chap, elderly…’

‘Brian Marks,’ Anna supplied.

‘That’s him. I met him at the hospital.

Afterwards… after the funeral that is, I went to see him. I told him about the arrangement, but he said as there was nothing documented about the loan in Anthony’s will or in his papers, I should forget about it. When I said I couldn’t do that, he suggested that I pay something to one of the charities named in Anthony’s mother’s will when I was on my feet.’

‘Generous of him.’

‘He insisted it was what Anthony would have wanted. Being a solicitor, Anthony must have realised what would happen in the event of his death. A few weeks later Mr Marks called in here.

He brought some of Anthony’s private things from the house. Told me to take my pick. Drove round to see some of Anthony’s other friends too.’

‘What sort of things?’ Peter had the list Brian Marks had compiled, but there was no mention of any loan to Luke Davies on it.

‘His silver hairbrushes, a few paintings, modern art, nothing valuable, Anthony patronised the students at the art college and he had a good eye.’

As Davies’ description tallied with the list Marks had given him, Peter didn’t press any further.

They sipped their drinks in silence for a while.

‘I’ve been thinking about that man in the film ever since I saw the news last night. Even if I hadn’t seen Anthony dead, there’s still no way I’d believe he was him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Anthony would have shot himself sooner than dress in the filthy rags that man was wearing. He was fastidious and abhorred dirt of any kind. He wouldn’t even use my bathroom unless I cleaned it first.’

‘So, you don’t think he would have survived Jubilee Street?’

‘Jubilee Street?’ Luke looked quizzically at Peter.

‘The area where the down-and-out was murdered,’ Anna told him.

‘I don’t know about Jubilee Street. But I do know he wouldn’t walk behind the bar in case beer splashed on his clothes. Wouldn’t even sleep in my bed until I’d showered twice to rid myself of the smell of alcohol and food.’ He looked at their empty glasses. ‘Another?’

‘We’ve either got to drive back tonight, or find a room.’

‘No one’s driving anywhere,’ Peter said flatly.

‘We’ve both just drunk three pints.’

‘I’ve a room I can let you have upstairs.’

‘As long as you bill us for it. And the drinks, this trip’s on expenses.’

‘Glad to.’

‘In that case, another round, barman.’

Both Peter and Anna were the worse for wear when they climbed the stairs of the pub that night. The only difference between them was in the way they held their beer. Peter was slow and deliberate in his speech and movement. Anna was slurring and swaying on her feet.

‘We should have asked him for two rooms as it’s going on expenses.’ Peter tried to insert the key into the lock and steady Anna at the same time.

‘I didn’t hear him say he had two.’

‘I don’t think you’ve heard anything that’s been said for the last half hour.’ Peter turned the key and kicked the door open.

‘I’ve been thinking about the case.’ Anna fell over Peter’s feet as she entered the room.

‘Wait until I’ve found the light switch.’

‘Very nice.’ she sank down on to the pink satin-covered king-sized bed.

Peter walked across to the second door in the room and opened it. The bathroom had a pale pink suite, gilt taps and green tiles. He glanced at the disposable toothbrushes, small tubes of toothpaste, and sample-sized bars of soap and decided he could live with it for one night.

‘Do you want first shower?’ He turned around.

Anna had fallen asleep sideways on the bed.

‘Bloody women. Never can hold their booze.’

He stripped off her shoes. Her jacket was easy enough, her blouse and skirt complicated and difficult with buttons and hooks in unexpected places. Either women’s clothes had changed, or he was out of practice. He tried not to look as he peeled off her tights, but found it impossible. She had a stunning figure. He kicked himself for not noticing before. But then she was always wearing trousers, or long skirts. Not that she had any reason to, with her legs.

Resisting temptation, he stopped at her bra and pants. He turned down the bedclothes, rolled her to the top of the bed and laid her beneath the sheets.

The first time he’d been alone in a bedroom with a woman for months, and she was out cold.

Exhausted after a brain-storming session with Dan and Bill that had produced absolutely nothing, Trevor walked into his empty house. He closed the door behind him, more preoccupied by thoughts of Daisy Sherringham – Randall – he corrected himself, than corpses without faces.

His birthday cards were still on the windowsill in the living room. He took them down; hesitating as he picked up the one Lyn had sent him. A humorous card depicting pink and blue hippopotami wallowing in mud. What was he doing thinking of one woman, while living with another? He had no right asking Daisy out to dinner. It was the kind of behaviour he’d always criticised Peter and his other colleagues for. The “screw them all, anything goes as long as we’re not found out” attitude that so many officers adopted as a defence mechanism against the trauma of broken relationships.

Until now he’d prided himself on being honest with the women in his life. Not that there’d been that many. Just two. Mags and Lyn. But he’d been the one to ask Lyn to move in with him after she’d seen him through his darkest months in hospital.

She’d seen him at his lowest ebb and steered him professionally, caringly and later, lovingly, back to health. What right had he to forget their life together to chase rainbows? Because that’s what Daisy was.

The brightest rainbow that had ever sparkled over his horizon. He couldn’t honestly say he’d ever really known her. He’d never as much as held hands, let alone kissed her.

He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

Seeing the party leftovers he opened the bin and shovelled the lot into it before stacking the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. He opened the door of the freezer. What was Lyn’s favourite meal? She liked light, tasty snacks. Pate on toast – tuna and pasta salad – Chinese –He found the menu card of the marina take-away and glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. Even if Lyn had gone for a drink she’d be home in half an hour. He ordered a special for two to be ready in twenty minutes. Unimaginative but quick, then he laid the table in the dining room with candles and the best linen he could find.

At half past eleven the take-away was drying in the oven and he was two thirds of his way down a bottle of wine when her car pulled up in the drive.

‘You’re home.’ She looked at him in surprise as she hung her coat away.

‘I got a take-away, it should still be edible.’

‘If I’d known I would have been here earlier.’

There was an edge to her voice that reminded him she was usually the one who sat waiting for him to return.

‘You ready to eat now?’

She looked at the table, the candles, the wine, and something snapped.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘A drink then?’

‘There’s no need to open another bottle for me.’

‘Lyn, I’m sorry. I don’t like working these hours any more than you do. But I’m a copper. It’s what I do for a living. I thought you understood.’

‘I do – I –’ It would have been easy for her to take a step forward and fall into his arms, but pride held her back. ‘I’m tired, I’m going to bed. Don’t forget to turn the oven off before you come up.’

‘Good morning.’

Anna opened a bleary eye to see Peter, standing over her, damp from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist and a tray of coffee in his hands.

‘I sent down for this. Thought you might need it.’

‘What time is it?’ she slurred, her tongue suddenly feeling too large for her mouth.

‘Eight. They’re going to expect us back in the station in a couple of hours.’

‘They can expect all they like.’

‘You, Sergeant, can’t take your drink.’

‘From what I remember, neither can you.’

‘It was me who undressed you.’

She lifted the bedclothes and looked down.

‘Enjoy necrophilia?’

‘No, which is why I stopped where I did.’ He took one of the continental, bowl-shaped cups and placed it on the bedside cabinet next to her.

Tucking the sheet under her arms she plumped up the pillows behind her head and sat up. ‘I hope you folded my clothes neatly.’

‘Neater than you would have, judging by the state of your house. Do you want breakfast up here or downstairs?’

‘I can’t face breakfast.’

‘I thought you were always hungry.’

‘Did we solve anything last night?’ she asked.

‘Only your craving for drink.’

‘What a waste of a day.’

‘And night.’

‘Speak for yourself, Peter. I slept. What did you do with my handbag?’

He looked around blankly.

‘You did bring it upstairs?’

He found it in the corner by the door and handed it to her.

‘Now I can dress.’ She opened it and extracted a clean set of underclothes, a pair of tights, toothpaste and a toothbrush.

‘Now I know why women have suitcase-size handbags.’

‘Did you check in with the station last night?’

‘No.’

‘Hadn’t you better before they report us missing?’ She stepped out of bed and he ran a practised eye over her slender, finely muscled figure.

‘I’d rather stay missing for another hour or two.’

‘You were the one who was in hurry.’

‘Not any more.’ He set his coffee cup on the bedside table.

‘I’ve changed my mind about breakfast. Order bacon and eggs. I’ll eat them downstairs in ten minutes.’

‘Happy birthday,’ Lyn joined Trevor in the kitchen.

‘It’s two days late, but it’s been in the bedroom.’

‘I saw it there, but I didn’t want to open it without you.’

‘I’m here now.’ Lyn looked around. Trevor hadn’t bothered to cook, but he had made coffee, so she took a cup from the cupboard and helped herself.

‘Lyn…’

‘I have to be in work in half an hour.’

‘We need to talk.’

‘Not first thing in the morning.’

‘How many times, and in how many ways can I apologise for what I do, before you’ll accept that this is the way it has to be when I’m working on a case?’

‘It takes a bit of getting used to. The loneliness the broken dates… Wasn’t it today that we were supposed to go to the West Country?’

‘There’ll be other weekends.’

‘When, Trevor?’

He untied the ribbon from the box, removed the wrapping paper and lifted the lid. Nestling on a bed of cotton wool was a pocket watch. A silver antique.

‘What can I say?’

‘Open it.’

He pressed down on the top. It flew open.

Engraved on the inside was

Trevor, thank you for the happiest six months of
my life.

‘I only wish it were true,’ he said guiltily.

‘Will you be home tonight?’

‘No, there’s a doctor I have to interview. The only time we both had free was this evening.

Perhaps tomorrow…’

‘Perhaps.’ She slammed the door on the way out.

‘We’ve had a positive ID on the prints on that bottle,’ Dan informed Trevor when he walked into the station. ‘They belong to a Philip Matthews.

Army private who deserted after laying out a superior officer. He was cashiered from the service after serving time in the glasshouse, then embarked on a civvie career. Breaking and entering, fraudulent use of cheques and credit cards, and demanding money with menaces. Take a look. See if the same thing strikes you as struck me.’ He tossed the report to Trevor.

‘Height six one, medium build, ten stone, black hair, brown eyes… Apart from the mole and scar this could be Tony.’

‘Descriptions match,’ Dan agreed.

‘Have we a picture of Philip Matthews?’

‘Only the faxed one that was sent down the line with his record. It’s pinned to the back of the sheet.’

Trevor flipped over the sheets of waxy paper.

The face that stared up at him, although blurred, was not Tony. It was older, the eyes further apart, the chin longer, the mouth not as wide. ‘Our killer?’

‘Possibly if that bottle had anything to do with the crime. But that would mean the victim wore gloves and Patrick made no mention of gloves.’

‘Could be they didn’t survive the fire.’

‘Could be. I’ve ordered mug shots of Philip Matthews. As soon as they arrive I want you to take them down Jubilee Street. Show them around. See if anyone remembers seeing him there.’