I glance at the whiteboard, which has a photograph of a whitewashed farmhouse barely touched by fire. Snow was falling when the images were taken, giving them a sepia tone. A smudge of smoke rises from the roofline, etched hard against the white sky.
“What do you want from me?”
“I have a suspect in custody. He worked for the family. We found his prints in the house and he has burns to both his hands. He denies killing the couple and says he was trying to save them.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“This particular suspect has a history of mental illness. He’s on anti-psychotic medication. Right now he’s climbing the walls, talking to himself, scratching at his arms. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s lying. I can only hold him for twenty-two more hours. That’s how long I have to make a case.”
“I still don’t understand-”
“How should I treat him? How hard can I push? I don’t want some smart-arse defense lawyer claiming I put words in this lad’s mouth or browbeat him into confessing.”
“A psychological assessment will take days.”
“I’m not asking for his life story, just your impressions.”
“Where are his clinical files?”
“We can’t get access to them.”
“Who is his psychiatrist?”
“Dr. Victoria Naparstek.”
The penny drops. I met Dr. Naparstek eighteen months ago at a mental health tribunal hearing that involved one of her patients. She called me an arrogant, condescending, misogynistic prick because I bullied her patient into showing his true personality. I got him to admit that he fantasized about following Dr. Naparstek home and raping her.
Did I bully him? Yes. Did I overstep the boundaries? Absolutely, but the good doctor should have thanked me. Instead, she threatened to report me to the British Psychological Society and have me disciplined.
Why would she recommend me for this case? Something doesn’t make sense.
Drury is waiting for my decision. I glance at Charlie, wishing she were home.
“OK, I’ll talk to your suspect, but first I want to see the crime scene.”
“Why?”
“Context.”
3
The Land Rover skids and fishtails through the slush, following a farm track towards a copse of skeletal trees that are guarding the ridge. The plowed fields are bathed in a strange yellow glow, as though the snow has soaked up the weak sunshine like a fluorescent watch-face before reflecting it back again as an eerie twilight.
The eighteenth-century farmhouse seems to lean against the ridge, protected from the wind. Soot blackens the paintwork above the upstairs windows, like mascara on a teenage Goth.
Released from the claustrophobic heat of the car, I feel the wind tug at my trouser cuffs and collar. Drury leads me across the lawn. He signs a clipboard and hands me a pair of surgical gloves.
“The victims are Patricia Heyman, aged forty-two, and William Heyman, forty-five. Married. One child. Flora. She’s studying at one of the colleges in Oxford. Mrs. Heyman writes children’s books and the husband is a freelance editor. They bought the house three years ago. Both work from home.”
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“The front door was kicked in. Nothing was taken. We found four hundred pounds in a drawer beside the bed and William Heyman had his wallet in his pocket. That’s the problem with amateurs.”
“Pardon?”
“They panic and do stupid things. A professional thief wouldn’t leave a mess like this.”
The DCI unlocks a padlock and pulls aside a sheet of plywood. Snow tumbles from the eaves. The inner hallway looks largely undisturbed. Glancing through double doors, I notice a sitting room with an inglenook fireplace and exposed oak beams. The dining room has a vaulted ceiling and another fireplace. Cast-iron. Fat-bellied. There is a faint smell in the air, a mixture of smoke, butane and bleach.
Almost without thinking I’m collecting the details: signs of normal, everyday life; cups draining next to the sink; scourers, rubber gloves, scraps of vegetables in a compost bin; a tin of drinking chocolate on the kitchen counter. Open. The Aga stove is cold.
Drury is still talking. “This is where we found the husband. Face down. Two blows to the back of the head. Something heavy, blunt-a hammer maybe or an axe. He dragged himself across the floor, trying to get away.”
The blood trail has dried into a dark smear.
“What about his wife?”
“She was upstairs tied to the bed. She was still alive when the assailant doused her with an accelerant, possibly lighter fluid.”
“The fire didn’t spread?”
“Damaged the room, but didn’t get into the ceiling.”
The smell of bleach is stronger here. A side door near the dishwasher leads to the laundry. Wellington boots are lined up-three pairs for mother, father and daughter. A soiled dress is soaking in the tub.
In the living room there are two mugs on a side table. Hot chocolate. Half-finished. A third mug lies in pieces in the fireplace. A bottle of Scotch rests on the mantelpiece. Opened. Single malt. Twenty years. A drop for special occasions.
Propped against a drying rack, a thin pair of leather shoes. Ballet flats. Charlie wears them.
The DCI continues. “It happened on Thursday night, during the blizzard. Half the county was blacked out. Roads closed. Phone lines down. Someone made a 999 call from William Heyman’s mobile at the height of the storm, but the emergency switchboard was swamped and they were put on hold.”
“How long?”
“Four, maybe five minutes. By the time the operator answered, the caller had gone.”
Drury gives me a baleful stare. “It was a hell of a night: dozens of accidents, people stranded in their cars; the M40 was like a car park.”
He leads me upstairs. Crossing duckboards on the floor, I reach the main bedroom and recognize the sickly sweet odor of burning flesh, human fat turned to liquid.
Snow swirls through the shattered window before gathering in a corner of the bedroom. Almost every other surface is covered in a fine layer of black soot. The blaze began on the mattress. Layers of bedding are peeled back to reveal the cross-like outline of undamaged fabric. The outline of a body-two arms, two legs, a torso; Patricia Heyman’s body had protected the mattress from the flames.
“Her hands were tied above her head,” says Drury.
“Was she clothed?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Pajamas and a dressing gown.”
There is an en suite bathroom. The frosted glass window is broken, but not from the heat. Someone tried to force it open, cracking the paint that covers the hinges. Cold water fills the bath, coated in soap scum. Matching towels are folded side by side on the heated rail. A third towel-not from the same set-is resting on a wicker laundry basket.
Further along the corridor is Flora Heyman’s bedroom. Her wardrobe door is open. Clothes lie discarded on the bed. Someone has searched through them. I check the sizes.
“Does the daughter live at home?”
“She has digs in Oxford,” says Drury. “Comes home most weekends.”
“Tell me about the suspect.”
“Augie Shaw. Twenty-five. Local lad. Been in trouble before. He does odd jobs around the place-mowing lawns, cutting firewood, fixing fences, that sort of thing. He’s worked for the Heymans since they moved into the place, but he was fired two weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“Flora says her old man found Shaw inside the house going through her personal things.”
“Personal things?”
“Her underwear.”
“Who reported the fire?”
“A search and rescue volunteer was driving past the farmhouse and noticed the smoke. He called it in. We found Augie Shaw’s car in a snowdrift at the bottom of the hill.
“About an hour later his mother showed up at Abingdon Police Station and said Augie had something to tell us. He had burns on his hands.”
“What was he doing at the house?”
“He says he was collecting his wages. Termination pay.”