The Death Pictures (23 page)

The knot in his handkerchief reminded him that tonight he’d look up page 98 in the latest Oxford English Dictionary of Quotations. Then he’d go through the pictures again to see if it could mean anything. It was cheating of a sort, but only very mildly he reassured himself. And who would ever know if he did solve the riddle? He’d tell the world it was down to a flash of realisation. Genius even, perhaps? He couldn’t help but like the sound of that.

‘Great!’ Adam’s near shout roused him from his thoughts. ‘I think we’ve got him. Fingerprinting say a dishwasher would get rid of any prints in a couple of cycles at most. And that knife would have been through scores. A defence barrister might make a play of it, but our technical people reckon we can do a simulation that would destroy any holes they’d try to knock in the case.’

Dan checked the car’s clock. Almost six. No chance of a story on the 6.30 programme. It looked like a long night beckoned. ‘Are you going to charge Kid then?’ he asked.

‘No, not yet.’ Adam wound down the window and stuck an elbow out, breathed in the air. ‘I want to put it all to him in an interview first. But basically yes, I think we’ve got enough to charge him. I just want to see if he can come up with anything we might have trouble with at the trial.’

Dan was almost convinced. Almost. But there was still something nagging at him.

Was it the man’s character? Someone who’d always tried to do what he saw as good in the world? Was it the speed of thought needed to invent the plan Adam was convinced he had? Or that basic question that was still bothering him. Why kill McCluskey if he was going to die in a few days anyway?

Ah, maybe Adam was right. Maybe it was talk of being exposed as a plagiarist that panicked Kid. What did he know? He was only a journalist. But he had helped to solve the Bray case, hadn’t he?

The traffic ahead slowed and stopped. Road works on North Hill by the University. Gas and electricity supplies for new halls of residence, another wave of students for the city. A pneumatic drill thudded. Dan pulled on the handbrake.

He looked over at Adam. ‘While we’re stuck in this, take me through it again.’

Dan realised he hadn’t managed to keep the doubt from his voice. Adam sighed.

‘With pleasure,’ he said heavily. ‘Let me try to convince you. Abi leaves the house at 7.15, verified by nosey neighbour, annoying but impeccable witness. She says goodbye to Joseph, yes, I will get some milk, something like that. Kid arrives about 7.45 by his own statement, but I don’t believe that. We get the emergency call just before eight. We arrive, Kid’s there, McCluskey’s dead. There’s one of Kid’s prints on the knife that slit McCluskey’s wrists.’

Good start thought Dan. I’m beginning to be convinced. ‘And the post mortem evidence?’

‘Death from heart failure, brought on by blood loss due to cuts to the wrists. He was very weak as we know, so the doctors estimate it would have taken less than half an hour to die. There’s the bruising on his body, on the knees, the lower arms, the top of the shoulders and the back of the neck. They’re consistent with being pulled up the stairs and then held down in the bath.’

Dan shuddered, imagined a man holding another down, someone who was a friend, cutting his wrists, watching him slowly die. ‘So you’re saying…’

‘It’s simple,’ Adam snapped. ‘McCluskey tells Kid about revealing the secret of the statue idea in those tapes he’s going to record. Kid panics. He imagines his reputation disappearing in a flash. He sees the knife on the side in the kitchen and the plan comes to him. He forces McCluskey upstairs and gets him into the bath, then holds him down and cuts his wrists. He waits for him to die, then calls us.’

‘But there was no blood on Kid or the phone? Or anywhere else in the house?’

‘You wouldn’t expect to find any. I told you, the blood flows from the wrists, it doesn’t spurt. So none gets on Kid’s clothes. And when McCluskey’s dead, Kid can wash his hands and then make the 999 call. Flush plenty of water down the sink and there’s no trace.’

The traffic trundled on, past the road works. They were almost at Charles Cross. Dan was starting to believe Adam’s theory. It seemed to have all the answers.

‘And the timing?’ he asked.

‘Abi told us Kid was due at 7.30. He says he was a bit late and it was 7.45 when he got there. But we have no evidence at all to back that up. I’m guessing he arrived at 7.30, they had the row and he called us when McCluskey was dead, just before eight.’ Dan pulled up in the police station and they got out of the car. ‘Convinced yet?’ Adam continued.

Dan thought for a moment. He couldn’t see any holes in it.

‘Just about.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Adam sarcastically. ‘Let’s go put it to him and see what he says. Then we can charge him and get down the pub in time for a celebratory drink. I always like to toast catching a murderer.’

Chapter Twelve

Suzanne stared out of the windscreen as the intricate black iron gates swung open. Claire put the car into gear and they drove slowly up the crunching gravel drive. Both said nothing. Their conversation had faded as they approached the house. Abstract shapes of bronze sculpted forms slipped by as they followed the sweep of the drive, past a mirrored pond, a willow bending subserviently before it. Blocks of light shone from the house, half hidden beyond the dark, tapering curves of a line of trees. Even in the gathering darkness, Suzanne could sense the grounds were impeccably kept. She noticed she felt tense.

Edward Munroe had done well from his work. His house, just outside Modbury, half an hour from Plymouth in the classic Devon countryside of the South Hams could more accurately be described as a small mansion. She and Claire exchanged looks as they parked next to a new Jaguar. They got out of the car and knocked the heavy black iron ring.

Suzanne had expected him to keep them waiting and he did. On the phone he’d said he’d be delighted to help the constabulary, in that resonant and commanding voice juries so loved. But she thought she could feel a sneer – or was it just amusement? – that the well- publicised break-up of his own marriage and subsequent custody battle could possibly make him a suspect in this terrible case. But he was always on the side of the law he said, and would help them as much as he could. She’d had to turn a sarcastic laugh into a cough.

They were about to knock for the third time when the door groaned open. An elderly lady dressed in an apron appeared from behind it. ‘Mr Munroe will see you in the library,’ she said in a soft Devon burr and led them into the house.

They followed her along a stone-flagged corridor to another heavy wooden door. Stag and fox heads snarled down at them from the walls, along with birds frozen in death in their polished glass coffins. Suzanne counted off a thrush, buzzard, blackbird, heron, barn owl and bittern. The woman knocked reverentially, waited, then pushed it open.

Edward Munroe stood by a stone-arched window, peering into at a leather-bound book. He put it down, walked over and shook their hands but didn’t introduce himself. He was wearing the lawyers’ uniform of a navy blue, chalk pinstripe suit and dark blue tie, but Suzanne was surprised to see slippers on his feet.

He followed her look. ‘Sporting injury,’ he said gruffly. ‘I run to keep fit.’

Or from slipping, when running away after breaking into a woman’s home, she thought. Suzanne didn’t need to check. She knew him well enough from her days in the witness box, but his build was right for the man they were hunting. His courtroom experience meant he’d know exactly what the police would look for as evidence too, useful if you wanted to cover your tracks. And in the ashtray were a couple of discarded cigar butts.

‘So, how can I help you?’ He didn’t offer them one of the red leather chairs, but stayed standing by an antique wooden desk. His dark hair was swept back, greying at the temples in a way he’d obviously decided was distinguished and becoming. Suzanne was sure it would have been dyed otherwise. He had a shadow of a beard which he ran his hand over while they talked. A less likely rapist you couldn’t imagine she thought. But experience had taught her you never knew.

‘Mr Munroe, please don’t think this is anything other than a routine inquiry. But we’re looking at anyone in the area who could have had a reason to dislike women so much he’d want to attack them.’ His smile said he’d heard that before. ‘Rape them in fact,’ continued Suzanne, quietly satisfied that made the smile disappear. ‘And your name came up in our inquiries with the Child Support Agency as someone who...’

She searched for the words. Adam Breen had warned her to be diplomatic. The man had powerful friends, he’d said. ‘…someone who had a dispute over maintenance payments for their child. The family courts also told us of your challenge over custody.’

He nodded dismissively. ‘I quite understand officer. You must do your job thoroughly of course. Yes, there was a dispute with my ex wife, but it’s been resolved now.’ He looked her up and down, a lofty stare. ‘I should of course add that it was entirely within the bounds of the law. I was – shall we say not best pleased – at the way we parted and so was in no mood to surrender to her all that she wanted. It was she who left here after all.’

Suzanne nodded. The news of the former Mrs Munroe walking out to live with her fitness instructor had made all the papers. It was interesting he’d mentioned it though. She could hardly ask if he hated women, but she knew now he hated at least one. And that could have been the start.

She wondered if it was the loss of his wife or the blow to his pride which had hurt more. So there was a motive. And there was no alibi for any of the attacks. They’d already discussed that on the phone. Appearing in court in front of a judge counted as an unshakeable alibi to her. But he’d been at home, or shopping, or out for a run when the attacks took place. And no he’d said, no one could verify that. He’d been alone.

So, one question remained. How to phrase it? He’d picked up the book again, glancing at its pages as though already bored with his visitors. There were more important demands on his time, clearly.

Suzanne coughed loudly. ‘Again Mr Munroe, please don’t think this anything other than a routine inquiry, but could we take a sample of your hair or saliva for a DNA profile?’ The book landed back on the desk with an echoing thud. ‘It would help rule you out of the investigation,’ she added quickly.

He stood and stared at her. Had he turned a little pale? What was he thinking? Feign anger? Throw them out? He’d never been so insulted... Or was he really angry? Would he try calm reason and excuses? Whatever, she was suddenly sure she wouldn’t be getting that sample.

‘Mr Munroe?’ she prompted gently.

‘I’m sorry officer. I was just debating with myself.’ There was a smile, but it was one of the thinnest Suzanne had ever seen. A lawyer’s smile, she thought.

‘You’ve put me in a very difficult position, you see. Very difficult,’ he continued. ‘Of course I want to help you and I understand the need for a sample. But I’m an active supporter of Liberty. You know, the civil rights group?’ Both Suzanne and Claire nodded. ‘And I do quite a lot of work for them. My position of principle is against a DNA register of innocent people. I believe it to be an infringement of civil liberties.’

He paused, turned a couple of pages of the book lying on the desk.

‘No, officers, I’m afraid I can’t do that. It would go against my principles. I’m sorry.’ The tenuous smile again. ‘You’ll just have to take my word for my innocence I’m afraid.’

‘You realise that will make you a suspect for the attacks sir?’ Claire got the words out before Suzanne had a chance to stop her. But well done, she thought, well done. You’ve hit the target. For the first time, either in court or here, in this interview, Edward Munroe’s famous cool was faltering. His face had turned puce.

‘Yes I appreciate that, officer,’ he snapped. ‘But I’m shocked you could even consider it. Quite shocked.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but we all have our jobs to do,’ continued Claire. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re as innocent as your clients.’

‘Mr Kiddey, I don’t think you appreciate how serious your position is.’ Adam stopped pacing and leaned over the man sitting at the table in the interview room, his head bowed.

‘It doesn’t come any more serious than this. It’s murder, Mr Kiddey.’ Adam thumped the table, making Kid look up. ‘Murder!’ continued the detective. ‘And you know what follows murder?’ No response. Adam leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Life in prison is what.’

‘I can’t believe this is happening.’ Kid’s voice was breathless, his mouth hanging open. ‘I can’t believe it. He was my friend. He was my mentor. He was my friend and now he’s dead. And you think… you think…’

‘I don’t think,’ Adam interrupted. ‘I know. I know exactly what happened, Mr Kiddey. I’ve got the evidence to prove it. And I’m going to charge you with murder now and recommend to the judge you spend the whole of your life in prison, unless you start telling us the truth.’

He paced over to the door and the uniformed officer there, whispered in his ear. The man slipped out, returned quickly with a bottle of water. Adam took it and swigged. Kid looked up longingly, but said nothing.

Dan checked his watch. Just before nine it said, so probably ten past. An amber halo of street light was spreading from the small strip of barred window, high up on the interview room wall. It made for a Hallowe’en mix with the harsh green glow of the fluorescent strip light.