“Anything else?”
“Doorman said Russell entered the building through the garage and went straight up to his apartment. No more than ten minutes passed before he fell from the building. He’d been out to the parents’ for Sunday dinner.”
“Was that a regular affair?”
“Like clockwork, according to the doorman. Left every Sunday at six-thirty.”
“Anyone with him when he returned?”
“Doorman says no. He followed Russell on the CCTV into the elevator and all the way to his flat. He’s certain Russell was alone.”
Kate made a mental note to interview the doorman herself. “Rather late to get in from the folks’ house, isn’t it?”
“Maybe the duke likes to eat at midnight.”
“Maybe,” said Kate. “Did the doorman notice if Russell was acting strangely? Drunk? Merry? Morose?”
“Doorman didn’t speak with him, did he?”
“Yes, that’s right. But you said another resident called it in. What about the doorman? Didn’t he see anything? I mean, Russell practically landed right in front of his face.”
“Too dark. You know how you can’t see a thing out of a lit room. Same thing.”
“What about the noise?”
“Listening to his iPod, wasn’t he?” said Laxton. “Ask me, he’s telling the truth, though I did catch a whiff of something on his breath.”
“I take it it wasn’t mouthwash?”
“More like a bit of Bushmills.”
Kate stared at Laxton. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone had a drink on duty.”
Laxton colored, but said nothing. Two years earlier he’d been suspended for drinking on the job after the car he was driving mounted the sidewalk and nearly ran over a mother and daughter. The incident had cost Laxton a promotion to detective chief inspector and put a halt to any further advancement within the force. Kate knew all the details. The adjudicating officer had been Lieutenant William Donovan.
“So that’s everything?” she asked.
“All yours,” said Laxton. “Have a look around, but I’m sure it’s just a formality. Russell’s got some kind of security system up there. Motion detectors, pressure pads, thermal sensors. There’s no way someone could have gotten into the place to harm him. Take my word, Katie. I know a jumper when I see one.”
“Got it, Ken. Thanks.”
“I’ll stick around for a bit, if you need me,” said Laxton, rocking on his heels.
“Aren’t you set to go off shift at seven?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m happy to help.”
It suddenly struck Kate why he was even more dressed up than usual. Russell’s death was sure to stir up a hornet’s nest of media attention, and Pretty Kenny wanted his share of the spotlight. He’d probably already worked out how appearing in the papers would return him to the Met’s good graces and get him another crack at a promotion.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Kate.
“Really, I can stay. You might need an extra hand.”
“I can handle it from here. I’ll catch you back at the nick.”
Laxton frowned, then stormed off.
“Oh, Ken,” she called after him. “Who belongs to the blue Rover over there?” She pointed to a navy four-door Rover parked next to the ambulance. No other private vehicle was parked inside the police tape.
“Don’t know. It was there when we arrived.”
Laxton stalked back to his car. The wind picked up, making a mess of his hair. For once Pretty Kenny left it alone.
Kate returned to her car and took a box of latex gloves from the backseat. “Sergeant Cleak,” she called out as she slipped on the gloves. “The time is now six-oh-seven. Please note that as of this moment, we have officially taken charge of this investigation.”
“Yes, boss.” Reginald Cleak fell in behind her. Balding, stout, and possessed of untrammeled humor, Cleak was a thirty-five-year veteran of the Met and Kate’s right hand. Over the years the two had done tours together in fraud, cybercrime, and most recently the Flying Squad, better known as “the Sweeney,” the elite task force assigned to hunt down and capture armed robbers.
In one hand Cleak held a notepad, in the other a pen. The notepad was officially known as the “decision log.” It was Sergeant Cleak’s job to follow Kate around the crime scene and record every order, observation, and instruction she gave. The reasons were twofold: First, if Lord Russell had by some stretch of the imagination been murdered, and if one day his murderer was brought to the Old Bailey, the decision log would serve as a minute-by-minute record of every step taken during the investigation. Second, after the investigation and trial were completed, the log would be the subject of a thorough analysis conducted by the Murder Review Board.
“Victim is Robert Russell. Approximately thirty years of age. Cause of death, blunt force trauma resulting from a fall from the fifth floor of his residence at One Park Lane, London.” Kate knelt. “Let’s have a closer look, then,” she said. “You may do the honors, Sergeant Cleak.”
Cleak pulled off the sheet.
Russell lay facedown, his neck clearly broken, head bent grotesquely to one side. It appeared as if he’d landed head first. There was a lot of blood, but it didn’t faze Kate. She’d seen worse.
The deceased was dressed in a blue blazer, jeans, and a collared shirt. The force of impact had scattered his shoes and personal effects to the far end of the driveway. Kate noted that his arms were splayed to either side of his torso and that the palms were turned up. She lifted his left wrist. The crystal of his Rolex wristwatch was shattered.
Odd, she thought.
No matter how committed jumpers were, they nearly always raised their hands to break their fall. The survival instinct was difficult to master. For Russell’s watch to have struck the stairs in that fashion, his arms would have had to have been relaxed, possibly hanging at his side. It crossed her mind that Russell might have been sitting on the balcony railing and somehow fallen asleep. Instances of drunken students falling from their college windows after dozing off were common enough.
She ran the notion past Cleak. He shook his head, as if she were daft. “Look at the railing. Barely wide enough to set an elbow on.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Kate returned her attention to the body. It was then that she noted a prominent bump on the crown of Russell’s head. She parted his thick blond hair. The scalp bulged as if a golf ball had been inserted beneath the skin. In a moment her eyes traveled from Russell’s shattered Rolex to the balcony and back to the grotesque lump on the dead man’s scalp. It was obvious that at some point, either during or prior to the fall, Robert Russell had been hit on the head.