When I was twenty feet away, a halogen floodlight tripped on. Arched windows and elaborate chimneys gave Fairview Lodge a Gothic aspect, accentuated by an air of general neglect. An overflow pipe dripped steadily on to the patio and the roots of a shrub had burst its terracotta pot. Twenty minutes to inspect the place and then I intended to be kicking back in the Pheasant with a craft beer in one hand and a halloumi wrap in the other.
The original door had been replaced by one made out of a sheet of plate glass. Through it I could see a wooden-floored corridor, a side table and an antique rocking horse. Its painted eyes regarded me balefully through a fringe of matted hair. Half a dozen envelopes had been stacked on the table; a couple were lying under the letterbox. They may not have attended to the leaky pipe, but someone had visited Fairview Lodge in the last few days.
The key turned easily in the lock, although it was an effort to slide the heavy door open. A burglar alarm mounted on a wall to my left started a staccato beep. I tapped four zeros into the keyboard and the beeping terminated in a shrill crescendo.
Opposite me was a polished-oak staircase. To its right was a hallway that led to the rear of the house, and a door that led who knew where. I picked up the envelopes. One was a TV licence reminder; the other had VIRGIN MEDIA stamped on it. I placed the mail on the side table and patted Dobbin’s head. He undulated slightly, as though grateful for the attention.
The living room was so large that it had to have been two individual rooms knocked through. In its centre were two mustard-coloured sofas, served by a slate coffee table. On the table lay a glass ashtray into which Rocco had probably knocked the ash from his spliff while watching the smart TV to the left of an inglenook fireplace.
I could well believe that neither Harry nor her husband had spent long in the house before their marriage went west. The place didn’t give off the impression that a pair of lovebirds had lavished care and attention on it. The best thing you could say about the beige curtains was that they didn’t clash with the brown carpet.
A door at the opposite end of the living room led to the dining room, which in turn was connected to a well-equipped kitchen. A putrid sweet smell turned out to be from a bag of rotting satsumas covered in mould. I thought about chucking it into the steel waste bin, but what was the point? Instead I closed the cupboard, traced my steps back to the hallway and began to climb the stairs.
Four doors led off the landing. The first was a small bathroom containing a shower stall and a lavatory. Several white towels had been folded neatly on a pine blanket chest. I looked at my face in a mirror and asked what the hell I was doing prowling around empty houses at my age. One answer was that I was the blameless victim of a predetermined chain of cause and effect. Another was that I was a sad fucker who’d allowed his chances to slip between his fingers.
Like most of the great philosophical questions, it was one best answered with a drink in one hand and a couple inside you. The Pheasant was beckoning. I checked out the guest bedroom by sticking my head around the door and giving it a quick shufti. Nothing out of the ordinary that I could see; nor was there in the master bedroom.
Only a sense of professional duty, combined with mild curiosity as to whether the decorator had opted for damask and gold again, led me to open the fourth door on the landing. The curtains were drawn and the interior in darkness. I flicked the light switch and discovered that there was a considerable difference in this room and that it had nothing to do with the décor.
Lying diagonally across the bed was the body of Harry Parr.
NINE
The only dead bodies I’d seen prior to entering Fairview Lodge were those of my parents. In Dad’s case, I was there when he drew his last breath. My mum I saw two hours after she suffered the stroke that killed her. The one thing that struck me was that death really does what it says on the tin. We come and we go, that’s the end of the story.
Harry Parr had definitely gone. Death had cranked the skin tighter around the skull. The effect was to draw back her lips into something between a smile and a snarl. She was wearing a dove-grey dress and a single black stiletto. The other shoe lay next to the bed. Judging by the smell, Harry’s bowels had evacuated.
The window catch refused to open. I was on the point of putting an elbow through the glass when finally it released. Leaning over the sill, I spent a minute gulping fresh air into my lungs like a man who had surfaced after a long dive. I should have left the room immediately and called the police. Had there been a note or an empty bottle of paracetamol, that’s what I’d have done. No sign of either.
Using a ballpoint pen, I removed strands of blonde hair from Harry’s face. Her eyes bulged as though about to slop out of their sockets. I struggled against my gag reflex and was rewarded with the sight of an improvised garrotte. The thin leather belt had been removed from the dress and was still wrapped around the stippled flesh of Harry’s throat. I dropped the pen into a wastepaper bin and hurried to the bathroom.
I puked three times, rinsed my mouth and splashed water on to my face. The emergency-services operator instructed me to stay where I was until help arrived. Downstairs I found a well-stocked drinks cabinet. What it didn’t contain were any glasses, and I couldn’t face the kitchen and the smell of rotting fruit. I unscrewed the cap off a bottle of Johnnie Walker and drank straight from the neck.
I’d almost reached the label by the time I heard the first siren.
‘So, to get this straight, then,’ DI Standish said, looking down at his notes for the umpteenth time. ‘After entering the property, you made a survey of the downstairs rooms before going upstairs, where you found the body?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Which you recognised as being that of Ms Harriet Parr?’ I nodded. ‘How did you recognise Harriet if you’d never met her?’
‘I’d seen a couple of photographs.’
‘Given to you by her father?’
‘That’s right.’
Standish sucked his teeth. ‘How long have you been an investigator, Kenny?’
‘I’m more of a skip-tracer.’
‘Licensed?’ I nodded. ‘So that means you didn’t compromise the crime scene?’
‘Not after I realised that’s what it was.’
‘I’m guessing you haven’t seen that many, what with you being a skip-tracer.’
Although Standish may as well have said ‘useless twat’, my SIA course had emphasised the importance of respect for and cooperation with the police. Along with the majority of his fellow officers, Standish didn’t see it the same way.
‘If I find you’ve jeopardised this investigation then I’ll make your life bloody uncomfortable,’ he continued. ‘And that includes withholding information.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said.
‘Just so long as we’re on the same page.’
‘We are.’
Standish treated me to a hard stare. I returned it with a frank and cooperative expression. He shook his head and refocused on my statement.
‘How do you know Mr Parr?’
‘I used to work for him years ago,’ I said. ‘Has someone called Frank to tell him what’s happened?’