Bugger. This case was going to have a hell of a high profile, and they were going to have to suffer a relentless stream of inane questions from the press. People often asked how he coped with having to convey the worst possible news to families, but at least he could show how sorry he was. He didn’t stick a microphone under a grieving relative’s nose and ask how they were feeling.
The heavy traffic had slowed Becky to a crawl, so it seemed safe to ask her a couple more questions.
‘Who found him?’
‘The cleaner. She’s waiting to talk to us at the house, although I gather she’s pretty incoherent. DCS Sinclair’s off at some fancy wedding in Bath and a car’s gone to pick him up and take him directly to the scene. He’s asked me to be family liaison officer on this one because of its high profile. I did the job for yonks before my promotion, so it’s no problem.’
‘Have we managed to get hold of the next of kin?’ Tom asked.
‘Afraid not. He was found at his house in Knightsbridge where he usually stays during the week, but his family home is in Oxfordshire. The local police have been despatched there but there’s nobody home. There’s a daughter from his previous marriage, but as far as we know at the moment that’s it. We’ll send one of the locals to the ex-wife’s house as soon as we know what’s going on with the current wife. It would never do for the ex to know first, would it?’
Becky spotted a gap in the traffic, and put her foot down - dodging between cars and changing lanes before slamming her brakes on again. Although it was only about eight miles from Tom’s apartment to Hugo Fletcher’s house in Egerton Crescent, the early afternoon London traffic was a nightmare.
‘I’m going to put the siren on, sir, if that’s okay. We need to get a shift on.’ Becky tucked her hair behind her ears, and flicked the switch on the dashboard. Immediately what looked like an ordinary saloon car had flashing headlights and a siren to clear a way through the dawdling Saturday shoppers.
For the sake of his safety and sanity, Tom decided that silence would be the best option, but he was actually quite impressed. Although Becky’s driving appeared erratic, she didn’t miss a single opportunity to nip into the smallest gap between two cars, or swerve into the next lane when the narrowest of openings presented itself. Her face was a picture of concentration and determination.
Despite her best efforts, it still took a good fifteen minutes to get to the scene, which had already been sealed off. Tom looked at the elegant crescent of white painted houses, adorned on the outside with clipped box and bay shrubs. Clearly money was no object in this family - but even that hadn’t prevented the untimely death of such a famous and well-respected man.
He was less impressed with the crowd gathered in the street outside, cameras at the ready.
‘Shit. Becky - if the wife’s not been told yet we have to keep a lid on this. Have a word, would you? I’m not at my best when dealing with that lot.’
He made a beeline for the front door before anybody could shout any questions at him.
‘Top floor, sir,’ the young PC on the door helpfully informed him as Tom struggled into his coveralls. He made his way up the stairs, taking in the sumptuous surroundings. Over recent months, luxury had become no stranger to him - but somehow this house spoke of centuries of wealth in a way that was not so familiar.
He stopped at the bedroom door. The crime scene team had just about finished and were packing up to go. The pathologist was by the bed, performing his usual tricks. Tom looked around. It was a light and airy room, but strangely only the carpet seemed to have any relationship with the twenty-first century. For Tom’s taste, the large four-poster was better suited to a country house, and the heavy pieces of dark wooden furniture made the room feel more oppressive than it should have done. Mind you, Tom acknowledged to himself, the dead body on the bed didn’t do much to lighten the atmosphere.
He took in the two glasses of champagne, now gone flat, and could see that prints had been taken from them. And there was still condensation on the outside of the bucket, suggesting that the ice hadn’t long been melted.
There was something tragic about this setting. An occasion that had clearly begun as a celebration or romantic tryst had ended with a dead body and an endless stream of men in white coveralls. Tom could picture the scene: glasses raised in a toast; a private smile full of promise; a kiss, perhaps. So what went wrong?
A young crime scene technician with pale skin and a spotty face looked up from where he was packing up his equipment and pushed his glasses back up his nose.
‘Not much to go on, sir. We’ve got some prints, but nothing to compare them with other than the victim, so they could be legit. The only thing we have found of any consequence is one very long hair. Discovered it in the bathroom. It’s a red hair - I don’t know if that’s significant. We’ll have it checked out and get back to you. If we’re lucky it might have some root attached to it. And then there’s the knife.’
Tom turned and glanced back at the bed, with a puzzled frown.
‘Based on a conspicuous absence of blood, I can only presume he wasn’t stabbed?’
‘No - he wasn’t. Which is what makes the knife a bit odd. It was on the bedside table, right next to him. No sign of blood, no fingerprints. It’s one of a set from the kitchen, and I think it’s what you’d call a boning knife so it’s very sharp - it appears to have been very recently sharpened, actually.’
‘Any idea what it could have been used for?’
‘None at all, I’m afraid. But we’ll take it back and do some more tests to see if anything shows up.’
Tom nodded to the other technician, who was leaning casually against the wall, having clearly finished his work.
‘Thanks, guys. I presume you’ve taken the cleaner’s prints?’ Tom asked.
‘Yep - all done. She’s in a bit of a state, though. We’ll leave it up to you to find out from her who might come into this room in the normal course of events, so we can rule out their prints.’ He closed his bag of tricks with a decisive clunk.
‘Right. That’s us done. We just need to bag the scarves, when you’re ready, then we’ll be off.’
Tom turned towards the bed where a large man with an equally large girth was leaning over the body, peering over a pair of half moon spectacles. The deceased’s arms and legs were tied to the four corners of the bed with dark red scarves, and the mouth gagged. The body was naked and in good shape for a man of Hugo Fletcher’s age. Tom stood and stared at the body. First champagne, then some form of bondage. But it didn’t look like a typical BDSM scene either. There were no physical signs of discipline or sadism.
He hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the pathologist before, and walked over to introduce himself. He always liked pathologists; he’d never met one that wasn’t a bit quirky.
‘Good afternoon. I’m DCI Tom Douglas. Thanks for keeping the scene intact for me, but I think we can release his hands and feet now.’
‘Rufus Dexter. Won’t shake your hand just now,’ he said, waving a gloved hand that had been God knows where in Tom’s general direction. He leaned over to start the untying process whilst the crime technician started on the other side of the bed.
‘Strange one, Tom. He’s tied up, so foul play? Probably. Sexually motivated? Scarves would certainly suggest that. Died on the job? Don’t think so. Possible, though. No evidence that he actually was on the job. Penis is clean - I’d say it hasn’t been inside a woman since his last shower. Have to check that, though. Could have been oral, I suppose? Don’t know.’
Tom interrupted this flow of information.
‘A bit of an assumption that it was a female, don’t you think?’
‘Hmph. Suppose so. Always appeared pretty straight to me when I saw him on the box. Ever hear a whisper about him having the remotest interest in men? Thought not, though anything’s possible, I suppose. No signs of anybody being on or around him - female or male. The bed is undisturbed. I’ve been over his body and haven’t found any hairs - pubic or otherwise - that don’t belong to him. He’s clean as a whistle.’
Strange, thought Tom. All the evidence suggests that sex was on the cards, but nothing appears to have happened.
‘Any idea on the cause of death?’
‘Can’t see any immediate signs of anything being done to him. Possibly he was tied up and left, and the resulting panic caused a heart attack, or he’s been poisoned in some way? We’ll test the champagne, of course. Won’t have any answers until I open him up and get some tox results. Sorry.’
Tom asked if they could turn the body over - just to check for any marks that could suggest some form of erotic sexual preference that might be linked to the bondage. The back was clear, but bruising left by the scarves on both the wrists and ankles did suggest a struggle.
‘Can’t take that to mean anything,’ announced the young spotty technician. ‘They’re supposed to writhe around in ecstasy when they play these games. It’s how they show they’re enjoying it. Doesn’t mean he was struggling. And they don’t always have sex - you know, in the usual way. She could have just jacked him off.’
Tom looked at the crime tech with interest, but resisted the temptation to ask him how he knew so much about bondage. And fascinating though this speculation was, it was time to get some facts. He turned to Rufus Dexter.
‘Any idea of the time of death?’
‘Cleaner’s a silly bat,’ he responded. Didn’t call it in for over an hour. In too much of a panic, she says. She’d been here quarter of an hour before she found the body. How long had he been dead when we arrived? Max three hours, more like two and a half.’
The minute the pathologist paused for breath, Tom jumped in.
‘I understand we were called to the scene and arrived just before 2, and you got here at about 2.30. So time of death was between 11.30 and 12. Yes?’
Rufus nodded.
‘Okay Rufus, feel free to get the body moved when you’re ready. When are you going to do the PM?’
‘Tomorrow morning okay? Prefer to do it early. Press will want some answers. Bloody Prime Minister too, no doubt, considering who it is! Eight am okay for you?’
Tom winced as he thought about the phone call he was inevitably going to have to make. ‘Put it like this - I’m going to be in enough trouble as it is for buggering up Saturday, so I don’t think Sunday’s going to make things any worse. We get an extra hour anyway - the clocks go back tonight. I’ll speak to DCS Sinclair to see if he wants to attend. Sounds like he’s here now, actually.’
Through the open door, the quiet but authoritative voice of Detective Chief Superintendent James Sinclair drifted up the stairs. Tom knew that he would be giving orders in such a way that they seemed more like suggestions, but ones which nobody would even question. His strange lopsided face had left him burdened with the nickname Isaiah, which Tom was ashamed to admit he had failed to comprehend until it was explained to him, but it was always spoken with affection. He had infinite respect for this man, and although Tom hadn’t known him long, he was genuinely delighted when he was appointed to work as his deputy in the murder investigation team. Although he had other reasons for moving to London, working for James Sinclair was an absolute bonus.
The undertakers had been summoned to move the body, and Tom took the opportunity to have another look around. He now realised what seemed wrong with the room. There were no feminine touches at all. He’d never seen a woman’s bedroom that didn’t have at least a couple of bottles of perfume and some evidence of makeup or face creams. But here there wasn’t a trace. He opened the wardrobe door and looked inside. Nothing but smart suits. He walked over to the chest of drawers, and found the same story. Laundered shirts all perfectly folded, and underwear and socks in another drawer.
Leaving the men to do their work, he wandered down the corridor and into a second bedroom. This one was just as featureless as the first, with similar furnishings. The chest of drawers was completely empty, and only the wardrobe held any evidence of a female member of the family, with a few dress bags containing evening gowns but no day clothes at all. It was abundantly clear that the apartment was only used by Hugo Fletcher as a rule, and then only during the working week. Even somebody as apparently important as this man would be unlikely to wear a smart suit or dinner jacket to relax in at the weekend. And from what he could see, the wife only came for special occasions.
Deep in thought, he made his way downstairs to where the DCS was talking to Becky Robinson.
‘Becky, one of the PCs has been trying to get some joy out of the cleaner, but apparently she isn’t making much sense and just keeps going on about the embarrassment of seeing the victim ‘in the buff’ as she puts it. Could you have a go, please? You know better than most how important this is - and time is everything.’
‘Okay sir, I’ll see what I can do.’ Becky made for the stairs to the basement, having already got the lay of the land, it seemed.
Tom looked quickly around him. He hadn’t noticed much on his way in, but now realised that the ground floor was mainly laid out as very smart offices, each of which looked more like an elegant study than a place of work, whilst the two floors above seemed to be living space.
Now that they were on their own, he turned to his boss and filled him in on his conversation with the pathologist. He could see that James Sinclair was quietly assimilating the facts.
‘What do you think about the knife, Tom? Do you think he died of a heart attack, and the knife was originally there to cut him free if he’d stayed the course, so to speak?’
‘It’s possible, but we won’t really know until after the PM. The knots were tight, but not so difficult that you’d need a knife. I’ll get someone on to the make of the scarves and see if we can find anybody who was daft enough to buy all five in the one shop with a credit card, but somehow I don’t think so. He clearly knew whoever was with him; there’s no sign of forced entry, and the champagne certainly suggests it was planned. We need to check if anything was taken, but there are no obvious signs of ransacking the house, and there’s some valuable stuff around.’