Murder on Page One (6 page)

‘An odd one, this,’ Dr Dai ‘the Death’ Williams commented.

‘Bloody odd,’ Peters muttered as Flick and Baggo pressed forward.

The body was of a man in his forties. His yellow, woollen coat appeared expensive. He lay on his back, arms by his side, brown leather gloves on his hands. His hair was black, plentiful and curly. His staring eyes seemed surprised. But it was his mouth that was remarkable: it lolled open, his tongue sticking out. An ordinary kitchen fork had been driven through his tongue and lay across his right cheek.

Dr Williams squatted down again and rolled the body over. ‘Shot in the back twice,’ he said, pointing to two red-rimmed holes in the yellow coat.

‘Who is he?’ Flick whispered.

Osborne replied, ‘Denzil Burke. I’ll give you two guesses what he did.’

‘A literary agent?’ Baggo asked.

No one bothered to confirm.

‘When did he die?’ Flick looked towards Dr Williams, who had already pronounced death and extracted the dead man’s wallet from his jacket.

‘That’s an interesting one.’ Williams’ eyes lit up. ‘He appears healthy and was probably taken by surprise. Rigor mortis has only just started. This frost would certainly delay it. He might have died as early as seven last night. It could have been hours later. I’ll have to get him on the slab before I can tell you more.’

Osborne said, ‘Mrs Burke reported him missing this morning. About the time a passer-by noticed him. She doesn’t know yet. I think it’s a job for you, Sergeant. Take Baggo.’

‘There’s no doubt it’s him?’ Flick asked, her heart sinking.

‘None. We’ve seen his driving licence.’

‘So this is not his house?’ Flick asked as they left the tent and discarded the suits. It looked as run-down as the front garden. The front door, in particular, needed paint. The outline of a head could be seen behind a dirty net curtain.

‘No, Sarge,’ Peters said. ‘Looks as if it was chosen because of the cover. He lived at 55 Kitchener Grove. I guess he was walking home when he was surprised and killed then pulled in here. The murderer probably dragged him backwards into the bushes and escaped over that low wall into the next door front garden.’ He pointed to where SOCOs were examining impressions in a flower bed. Flick turned back to the house.

‘Who lives here?’ she asked.

‘An old lady, Sarge. Mrs Montgomery. She says she saw nothing.’

‘And next door?’

‘Unoccupied.’ Peters nodded towards a For Sale sign.

Osborne said, ‘Right, when you see Mrs Burke, find out as much as you can, but remember to be tactful, Felicity.’

Flick snorted. She and Baggo returned to her car, ignoring the journalist’s shrill questions. She drove off quickly and headed back to Worple Road. Once satisfied that she was not being followed, she doubled back to the Grove, avoiding the Crescent.

‘White man speak with forked tongue,’ Baggo remarked as they drew up outside number 55.

‘I was waiting for someone to say that,’ Flick muttered as she pulled up the handbrake.

The house was semi-detached yet substantial. Painted white, with large bay windows, it suggested prosperity rather than opulence. Clumps of snowdrops bordered the garden path. In the tiled porch, a muddy rugby ball balanced on a full sports bag. Janis Burke answered the bell, worry etched on her face. She had fine features, with long, brown hair and a centre parting. A thickened waistline was the only sign that she might be over forty. As she sat down in the untidily stylish front room, dominated by a huge fitted bookcase, Flick could see that the widow sensed the worst.

When the first bout of weeping subsided, Flick gave such details as she could, as gently as possible. With prompting, Mrs Burke told the officers that her husband took the train to work, using Raynes Park Station, ten minutes’ walk from the house. On Fridays, he went for a drink after work, normally getting home about seven. Sometimes he was later, very occasionally crashing out at a friend’s in town. The previous evening he had not phoned to say he would be late, and his i-Phone had been off when she had called him. She had gone to bed, but woken about two. Assuming he was either in town or downstairs in the spare room, she had gone back to sleep. There was no sign of him when she got up and his phone was still off, so she had called the emergency services.

Flick was noting this when the door swung open. A tall boy in his mid-teens with a shock of black, curly hair came in.

‘Is there news about Dad?’ he asked.

‘Oh Philip …’ Janis Burke began, then buried her head in her hands.

‘I’m afraid your father’s dead,’ Flick said. The boy swayed and Flick wondered if he was about to faint. He sat beside his mother and put his arm round her. The doorbell rang loudly and insistently.

‘God, that’s my lift for rugby,’ Philip said.

‘Do you want me …?’ Flick asked.

‘Would Dad not want me to play?’ the boy asked, his face stricken.

‘I think your mother needs you here,’ Baggo said quietly. ‘I will tell them.’ The doorbell rang again.

A minute later, Baggo returned. ‘The man is very sorry,’ he said. ‘He says there is no question of you playing today and he is sorry he rang the bell twice.’

The officers spent a further half hour there. Between cups of tea, they learned that the dead man had not discussed his work very much at home, but that things had been tough in the book business recently. To their knowledge, there had been no particular worries, no trouble with unpublished authors and certainly no threats. After an emotional call to a daughter at university, arrangements were made to formally identify the body early that afternoon.

‘You can do this job as long as you like, but that’s something you never get used to,’ Flick said in the car.

‘Inspector No gave it a wide berth,’ Baggo agreed.

* * *

The formal identification was one task Osborne felt he could not delegate. Supported by her son, Philip, and Denzil’s brother, Janis spoke clearly and firmly. The body was her husband’s.

‘Why are you not showing us the whole face?’ Philip asked as the sheet was pulled up. The mortuary attendant had kept the mouth and the desecrating fork covered.

‘No need to distress your mother,’ Osborne said roughly.

‘What do you mean?’ Janis turned on him.

‘His mouth was a bit of a mess. You’ll be able to see him at peace after the post-mortem.’ Flick tried to reassure her.

For a moment it looked as if Janis was going to protest, but she merely shuddered and walked out of the room.

* * *

‘The Death says he was killed between six and ten last night,’ Osborne told the team late that afternoon. ‘Two shots in the back, with an upwards and leftwards trajectory. Bullets were nine by nineteen millimetre Parabellums. Probably fired from a Beretta handgun. The first bounced off a rib and entered a lung. The second stopped his heart. No one seems to have heard anything, and there was less charring than you would expect from point-blank range, so I think the killer used a silencer. The fork was stuck in his tongue after death. It’s with the scientists, but Death says it’s an ordinary fork you could get anywhere. The SOCOs don’t think they can tell us much. Please, someone tell me some good news. Sergeant?’

‘Chandavarkar and I both felt Mrs Burke and Philip had nothing to do with it. They alibi each other. He was supposed to play rugby this morning so had a quiet evening in yesterday. They were both really upset, and we thought that was genuine. We went to see Mr Burke’s PA at her house before lunch. Again, she was distressed, and we didn’t think she was putting it on.’

‘She’s a great looker, and cried her eyes out,’ Baggo interjected. ‘I think it’s possible she and the late Denzil had the hots for each other.’

‘But we have no evidence for that,’ Flick said quickly.

‘Did you not ask her?’ Osborne said.

‘That would have been quite inappropriate,’ Flick replied.

‘Well check it out on Monday. Ask round the office. Anything else?’

Flick said, ‘Burke dealt mainly with crime novels. There was the usual number of wannabe authors asking him to represent them. Ms Spence, the PA, will give us a list next week, but she doubts if it will be complete. One interesting thing is that, a few years ago, at the Harrogate Crime Writing Festival, Burke promised to take on six new authors each year. Ms Spence hinted that he had enjoyed too good a lunch when he said it. Anyway, things have been very tight in the publishing business, and he hasn’t taken on a single new author since making that promise. One of the tabloids made a fuss about it on a slow news day: “Crime Writers Wronged” was the headline. Mr Ralf Wallace from Bracknell had a bit to say, apparently.’

‘That name’s come up before,’ Osborne said.

‘The man with impaired mobility,’ Flick agreed.

‘Might be worth a visit. Go on Monday.’

‘What about Burke’s office?’

‘Peters and I will go there. You and Baggo are best with the literary types. Have you come up with any suspects after all that reading you’ve been doing?’

‘One or two.’

‘Spill.’

‘There’s a woman who seems obsessed with sex. Her victims die horrible deaths with sex as the theme, and revenge is the motive.’

‘How ’orrible? As bad as the shower scene in Psycho? Oh, sorry if I spoiled your shower this morning. Were you and your boyfriend scrubbing each other’s backs when I phoned?’

Flick wanted to punch the smirk off his face. Aware of blushing, she eyeballed him and said coldly, ‘A woman used a wooden spoon to insert a condom into a man’s rectum. Then she pumped some water in. Lastly, she added acid to the water. When the condom burst, his screams could be heard half a mile away.’

‘I hope she never gets published. Might give my ex some ideas.’ Osborne said, aiming a smile at Flick, who continued to look through him. ‘Do you think she’s worth investigating?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Well do it next week. Take Baggo. And watch yourself, mate,’ he added.

‘I shall wear thick trousers and two pairs of underpants, gov. She is not going to get at me so easily.’

8

Osborne gazed across the Thames towards the Tate Modern. It was London, but not the one he had known and loved. His London had been full of Cockney voices, rhyming slang and fish and chips with pickled onions. Results were more important than how you got them, and spades were called bloody shovels. His Londoners knew about the Blitz and respected those who had lived through it, and for all the porky pies that policemen told when giving evidence, life was simpler and truer. He hated all the hypocritical, politically-correct, beating about the bush and arse-licking that was needed to succeed in modern London.

The dead man’s office, all picture windows and chrome, belonged to the new London. The place was in shock but not mourning. In the time he had been there, two trendily dressed, busy-looking men, younger than Burke, had stuck their heads round the door as if trying to claim the room. While Peters read Burke’s e-mails, Osborne looked sourly at a view more stunning than anything he’d ever been able to see through his office window.

Celine Spence came in carrying a few sheets of paper. Petite, with an hour-glass figure, her olive complexion had not seen the sun for months and this accentuated the effect of her red-rimmed eyes. Only her hair, long, dark and lustrous, had any bounce. Even far from her best, Osborne could see why Baggo thought she was a great looker.

‘As I said, we don’t keep a file on rejects. If they enclose the postage, we send the stuff back. If not, we put it out. We don’t entertain e-mailed submissions. I’ve asked our in-house readers to list the names they can remember, and I’ve done the same. Here they are.’ She placed the paper in front of Osborne.

‘Is that the best you can do?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’ She sounded huffy.

‘Please sit down,’ Osborne said. ‘How well did you know the deceased?’

‘Very well. I’ve been his PA for five years.’

‘Was he easy to work for?’

‘Yes. Very. Unusually easy, as a matter of fact.’

‘What do you mean? Didn’t mind if you slept in?’

‘I don’t sleep in. He was … considerate.’ Her voice caught.

‘Did you see him socially?’

‘A bit. Why?’

‘We have to build up a picture of his life if we’re to learn about his death.’ Osborne had learned that line early in his career. Now, he delivered it as if speaking to a stupid child.

Celine’s lip quivered. She said nothing.

‘So tell us about your socialising with the deceased.’

Celine’s head dropped. Tense, her knees clamped together, she twisted her fingers so it was hard to see what ring belonged on what finger. ‘I saw quite a lot of him,’ she whispered. ‘He loved music, and so do I. We often went to concerts together. Janis isn’t musical.’

‘Did Mrs Burke know about these concerts?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Didn’t she mind?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Did they have what’s described as a “modern” marriage?’ Osborne leaned forward, not bothering to hide the sneer.

‘I have no idea, but I don’t think so. They seemed devoted.’