The Death of Jessica Ripley Read online

  “I don’t know; I’ve only just arrived.”

  Eddie looked at all the police vehicles blocking her van in and doubted that very much. “What the fuck have you been doing? Why haven’t you supervised the cordon, or started on the exterior photography?”

  “It’s your job, and I didn’t want to stand on your toes.”

  “Stand on my toes? Christ, you were all for stealing my office yesterday.” He stepped back, out of the way. “Come on, we need to get suited up. Get your camera gear sorted. Chop chop.”

  He sighed, walked away from her and peered over the hedge into the driveway. He could just make out Benson and headed in his direction, hoping for a modicum of sense.

  Benson looked Eddie over as he approached. “How come you don’t look like a tramp?”

  “I was out,” he said. “Restaurant.”

  Benson raised his eyebrows. “Restaurant, eh? Been on a date?”

  “And they said you’d never make a detective.”

  “Who with?”

  “Can we just get on with this shit, please? I’m in a bad enough mood as it is.”

  Benson shrugged. “Fair enough. I’m just pleased to get out of the house.”

  Eddie sighed, and folded his arms.

  “Having an argument with the wife.”

  Eddie stared.

  “And I was losing. As usual. I often wonder why—”

  “So who is the dead guy?”

  Benson gawped. “You amaze me. You ram your fancy date down my neck, but as soon as I mention… You don’t give a flying shit, do you? I’m going through hell every time I have to set foot inside that house, knowing that nagging bitch is waiting for me, and you do not give a toss! Here I am spilling my heart out…” He closed in on Eddie. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

  “Sorry.” Eddie looked at his watch. “Twenty past eight.”

  * * *

  Eddie lifted a finger towards Benson. “I know what I meant to ask you,” he said.

  “I sent Khan.”

  “What? To interview the rapist killer? Why would you do that?”

  “Because I’m a manager, and I’m allowed to delegate if I so choose.”

  By twenty to nine Eddie, Benson, and Nicki were standing in the ample reception of the house, wearing full scene suits, overshoes, masks, and hair nets. Anywhere else and it would have been a hallway; here, it was a reception. Anywhere else and they would have looked like painters and decorators; here, they looked like CSI. A chaise along one wood-panelled wall, a grandmother clock in the corner. Nice.

  Nicki looked puzzled. “We haven’t enough stepping plates for this place, Eddie.”

  “I know, right! You’d think they could’ve murdered him a bit closer to the door, eh?”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “We could just drag him this way a bit. No one would know. It’d make our lives—”

  “Seriously.”

  Eddie cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously, you say?” He straightened his back. “Well, okay. Put three down here,” he said, “leading us to the lounge. We’ll walk through the lounge and through the dining room, and we can use the rest of them in the kitchen, okay?”

  “How do you know the murderer didn’t go in there?”

  “I don’t. But it’s carpeted, and so we won’t be destroying any footwear marks even if he did.”

  “How do you know it’s carpeted?”

  “Fuck’s sake.” Eddie sighed and performed a good long blink, raising his eyes to the elaborate plasterwork on the ceiling. “I looked through the front window.” He smiled at her. “Okay?”

  Nicki nodded, and set to, clanging the noisy aluminium plates on the hardwood floor.

  “You gonna tell me who’s bought it, then?” Eddie asked Benson. “Or are we playing twenty questions?”

  Benson had his arms folded, bottom lip out, sulking.

  “Look,” Eddie whispered, placing a hand on Benson’s shoulder, “about you and your wife. I know things are tough…”

  Benson unfolded his arms and turned to Eddie, nodding, ready to open up the conversation again.

  “…but no one gives a fuck. So can you please tell me who’s dead, who found him, blah blah, and then you can go home and sulk some more. Okay?”

  “I hate you, Collins.”

  “I don’t care. Now fucking tell me!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eddie and Benson stood on a pair of plates by the head. Nicki was on the plate behind them, trying not to look.

  “His name’s Dr Stanford Bolton.”

  Eddie turned sharply. “Doc Bolton? The Doc Bolton?”

  Benson nodded.

  Nicki tried to peer over their shoulders. “Who’s Doc Bolton?”

  “I thought he looked familiar. See what death buys you,” Eddie waved an arm at his opulent surroundings. “Wonder if I’m in his will.”

  “See what hard work buys you,” countered Benson. “I couldn’t do what he did.”

  Nicki tried again. “Who’s Doc Bolton?”

  “Our old Home Office pathologist from years ago,” Eddie said. “I’ve spent many a happy hour watching him slice and dice. Must’ve retired ten or twelve years ago.”

  “I wonder if Prof Steele will enjoy this one?”

  “I bet he squirms a bit,” Eddie chuckled.

  “Who’s Prof—”

  “Our current Home Office pathologist. You and Kenny did the barrister’s body with him, remember?”

  “Ah, yeah, I didn’t really pay too much attention to his name, actually. I was trying to stop myself from barfing across the mortuary floor.”

  Benson and Eddie shared a look.

  Eddie nodded towards the body. “Who did it, and why?”

  “I’ll just pop out and ask. Back in a minute.” Benson lurched past Nicki and was out of the room in seconds, taking the rustling noise of his suit with him.

  “Was it something I said?”

  Eddie looked at her. “Probably. But then again, he’s a strange bugger; I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I’m glad he’s gone, actually,” Nicki said.

  “Cut him some slack. You get used to the smell.”

  “I mean, it gives me a chance to apologise again about sticking my nose in with the Troy business.”

  “Okay, I’m happy for you. Now shall we concentrate on him before he rots away?” He turned back to the body.

  “I’m just trying to be friendly, actually. Trying to start over, because I’ve noticed a touch of frostiness towards me, and I don’t know why.”

  Eddie sighed and turned around to face her. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what your game is—”

  “Game? I’m not—”

  “And you wouldn’t believe how not fucking interested I am. In the meantime, I’m frosty towards you because you’re a stranger. I don’t like people, but I’m forced to live among them and work among them. And I really don’t like strangers. I have no idea if you’ve got my back or if you’ll stab me in it, but if I had to guess, I’d go with the knife every time. But we’re not here to discuss that.” He pointed at Bolton’s body. “We’re here to make sure this man gets a top-notch service from CSI. I think he’s earned it, don’t you?”

  “Well—”

  “How about you leave your broken personality and your fake platitudes at the door?” He smiled at her. “And let’s make a start.” He clapped. “What do you say?”

  She stood perfectly still, eyes wide, and Eddie could see her jaw grinding away angrily.

  “Are you going to storm out in a temper, or are you going to tell me what you’d do in a murder scene like this one?”

  She continued to stare at Eddie for some time, all stiff shoulders and stiff upper lip. Then, as though deflating, she rounded, went limp, and began to look at the room. A full minute later she said, “Well, we know who he is, so we’re in no rush to get a formal ID. We can leave him alone for the time being until we’ve done our preliminary work.”
r />   “Which is?”

  “Recording the scene.”

  “Excellent. Do it.”

  Nicki prepared the camera, made adjustments to the flash, and proceeded to quarter the room, making the body the subject of her images as she gradually closed down the gap to it.

  Eddie watched her work, and he couldn’t get his first impression of her out of his mind – how she’d tried to roll him over so she could get him into bother with the gaffer. He didn’t like it, didn’t like how she worked, didn’t like how underhanded she was. And it set him on edge whenever he was around her.

  Had he been here with Kenny, they would have split the jobs between them and just got on with it, stopping every now and then for a chat or a farting competition. But with her he was tense, didn’t even know if she could do the job.

  Time to find out. “Do we think it’s a robbery, or a burglary? Do we think it’s motiveless? Targeted? What are you thinking?”

  She looked up at Eddie, let the camera swing on its strap, and took a breath. “I… I don’t know.”

  “Well of course you don’t know. But think it through, give us some starting points.”

  “How could I possibly know if it was burglary? I don’t know if anything’s missing.”

  “Who would?”

  She shrugged, deflated further. “Actually, I don’t know.”

  “He has a housekeeper. So his housekeeper would know if anything’s been taken. I mean, the TV’s still in the lounge, but we don’t know if anything else has gone: cash, jewellery. We haven’t even been upstairs yet. It might be turned over up there.” He stared at her. “Mightn’t it?”

  “Could be.”

  Eddie nodded to himself.

  Light dawned on her face. “So we should go and check.”

  “We will. Soon,” Eddie said.

  “Anyway, how do you know he’s got a housekeeper?”

  “Because his wife is dead.”

  Nicki laughed. “How could you possibly know that? She might be out at bingo, or a WI meeting, or—”

  “She’s in an urn in the lounge. We walked right past her. No more bingo for Mildred Bolton.”

  “But someone else might live here with him. He might have family here; there are lots of photos on the hall walls.”

  “He lives alone. He has a housekeeper. She calls around once or twice a week, and her name is Mrs Watkins.”

  Nicki stared wide-eyed at Eddie. Eventually she broke into a grin, and then a small laugh fell into her mask as she pointed a gloved finger at him. “I get it, I get it. So you’re taking the piss out of me.” She held up her hands, “I admit, you got me then. Hook, line and sinker.”

  Eddie looked confused.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Benson appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Nothing seems out of place upstairs.”

  “We thought you’d gone home for a shower.” Eddie looked up. “In and out pretty quick, then?”

  “Seems so.”

  “So someone walked past a houseful of high-value items, and didn’t even search upstairs. They wanted him dead.”

  “They might have been scared off by someone.”

  Both turned to Nicki. “You forgot the pizza,” Benson said.

  “Oh. Yeah.” She looked down and got back on with her work. “It was only a suggestion.”

  “Judging by the TV on pause, he wasn’t expecting a lengthy visit. She came to kill him and then left again. She came for one thing only, and when she’d done it, she walked. Nice and calm.”

  “Except for the pizza delivery,” Nicki said.

  “Except for the pizza delivery, yes.”

  Nicki dropped her roller, sat back on her haunches, and said, “So now you’re starting to freak me out, Eddie.”

  “He has that effect on most people, love,” Benson said. “Why?”

  “Were you here when it happened? You seem to know—”

  “He knows shit-all, love. He’s doing what he always does: pissing in the wind and hoping some of it sticks.”

  Eddie twitched his head like a pigeon. “You been eating mixed metaphors again?”

  “No way can you deduce the attacker was female,” Benson folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

  “Well, based on the size of the footwear marks, it’s either a female or a very small male.”

  “You got footwear marks?” Benson lurched forward and peered across the breakfast island. Nicki rollered a black gelatine footwear mark-lifter into position and then gently peeled it off again. She flipped it over so the gel faced upwards. Eddie passed her the torch and she shone its beam at ground level across the gel.

  “Nike Cortez,” she said proudly.

  Eddie nodded. “Yep.”

  “How do you know it’s the murderer’s?” Benson said.

  “Because there’s another one over there in blood. We’re going to swab it. I’ll bet you next month’s pittance it comes back as Doc Bolton’s blood.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Benson walked around the breakfast island, his suit crackling.

  “Just don’t stand between here and the hallway door.”

  “Any sign of the knife?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll have OSU search the drains in daylight,” Benson said.

  “Good.”

  “Okay, well, I might as well get out of here.”

  “You might as well arrange the body snatchers; we’re almost done with him.”

  Benson’s phone rang, but before he could unzip the suit and reach inside his pocket, the caller rang off. “I hate these bastard—”

  Someone swung the front door open and called, “Tom?”

  Benson’s eyes widened, and Eddie watched him dash back across the kitchen floor, through the dining room and lounge, and into the hallway. He reached for the front door handle.

  “Stop!” Eddie shouted. “Don’t touch that door, Benson!”

  Benson almost skidded to a halt, his hand an inch from the handle. He turned and shouted, “Nearly gave me a bleedin’ heart attack then!”

  “Better luck next time.”

  Someone coughed. “Is there a problem?”

  Both turned and looked at the bald head peering at them around the edge of the door.

  “Boss.” Benson said.

  “Fuck,” Eddie whispered.

  “Don’t you like him?” Nicki asked.

  “He’s a gaffer. I’ll have to spend half an hour telling him what we’ve done and what we’ve found and he’ll still want a briefing in the morning. Then he’ll come up with some stupid suggestion or he’ll mess my scene up. So – no, not really.”

  “I tried to ring you, Tom,” Crawford said.

  “Sorry, yeah, couldn’t get—”

  “It’s okay. Can I come in?”

  Eddie blinked. Benson shouted, “Can the boss come—”

  “I heard. Yes. Just don’t touch the interior door handle. In fact, wait, wait, hold it there. I’ll come to you. Fucking Kojak.”

  “We can wait till tomorrow’s briefing Eddie, if you’d prefer?”

  Eddie almost fell over. He looked back at Nicki; she was laughing.

  “I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself.”

  Too fucking late for that.

  “No,” Eddie said, astonished, “it’s fine.” He arrived in the hallway and pulled the door open by the top edge; Crawford, dressed in a full scene suit, stepped inside.

  “I brought coffee and some chocolate bars.”

  Eddie opened his mouth but nothing came out. He grunted a ‘thanks’. “Did you get yourself a lolly while you were there?”

  Crawford looked at Eddie, his mouth turned down.

  “Well, I thought it was funny.”

  Crawford ignored him. “You okay, Nicki?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Good.” He looked at Eddie and Benson. “I don’t want to hold you up; I know you’re very busy. But is there anything that I c
an help with, anything I need to action?”

  Eddie pulled down his mask. “Erm, we were just saying you can call the body snatchers; we’re almost done with him.”

  “Tom, can you sort that?”

  Benson nodded, “Sure, I’ll get right on it.” He sneered at Eddie.

  “And I think he has a housekeeper,” Eddie said. “You might want to trace her.”

  “You never told me that,” Benson said.

  Eddie winked. “You were busy searching upstairs. Tom.”

  “Did you find any records of her, Tom? Name? Address?”

  “No, I… Er, no. I didn’t come across—”

  “Her name’s Mrs Watkins.”

  Benson stared at Eddie, and Nicki looked up.

  “There’s an envelope in the kitchen with her name written on it. Fifty quid inside.”

  “I never saw—” Benson stopped talking. He squeezed past Crawford and out into the cold night air. “I’ll run a check for all Watkins in a mile radius.”

  “Splendid,” Crawford smiled as Benson sank away into the darkness. He turned to Eddie. “Why didn’t you want him touching the door handle?”

  “I haven’t mini-taped it yet. The killer might have opened it. Got to be worth a shot.”

  Crawford nodded. “Indeed.”

  DAY 4

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eddie woke up with a stiff neck and a mouth as furry as a beaver’s belly. He clacked his tongue, adjusted his boxer shorts and walked from his bedroom, aiming roughly towards the kitchen for today’s first coffee infusion.

  He was vaguely aware of the radio playing somewhere nearby, some female disc-jockey spouting bollocks; he tried to blot it out and refocus his mind on the thinning fog of sleep – which in turn was preoccupied with last night’s scene. The footwear would prove pivotal in that case, he could tell – all he could hope for was that the offender wasn’t bright enough to throw them—

  The woman screamed and Eddie jumped back so far that he hit the sideboard and knocked over his favourite vase of plastic flowers.

  “Eddie,” Charles rushed over, “what the hell are you doing—”

  “Stop fussing, Dad, I’m fine.”

  “I wasn’t fussing.”

  “I know!” Eddie pulled at his ever-stiffening neck and looked up from the smashed vase. He found himself staring across the lounge at a pale woman who held a hand to her chest, eyes and mouth wide open. “Who’s this?” He looked down at Charles, who busied himself with the breakage, and only then did he remember that they didn’t even own a radio.