A Jess Bridges Mystery
This time he was attempting the minimal interaction policy, which seemed a decent holding pattern. Work had become his refuge and as long as he returned each night, she hadn’t yet had the gall to follow him there again. How long could this go on? On other occasions, he’d known that it would be temporary; that once she’d regrouped or found a new boyfriend she would move on. Alarmingly this time she showed no signs of shifting. She’d told him she’d got in trouble with the wrong sort and was worried for her safety. Her policeman son felt a safe haven for Haven Keene.
His grandparents hadn’t been aware of the irony when they gave her that name. Like Mrs Green the gardener, his mother had fashioned her life in the image of her name so she was eager to find one safe spot after another, never creating her own.
The front door opened. A slight, almost girlish dark-haired figure stood in the entrance. From a distance she looked young enough to be his girlfriend. Only close to could you see the lines life had etched around her eyes and the thickening of the face towards the neck. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ she asked, not bothering to keep her voice down.
Mindful of the sleeping neighbours, Leo got out, picked up his messenger bag and went inside. The house even smelt strange with her in occupation. She liked a brand of essential oils that she burned obsessively in the kitchen and small living room. Leo suspected she did it to hide the smell of what she preferred to smoke. Officially she was a non-smoker, but Leo had found stubs of enough hand-rolled cigarettes to give the lie to that claim.
‘Hello, Mother.’ He didn’t put his bag down, knowing she’d go through it when his back was turned.
‘Have you eaten? I made you supper but you didn’t call.’ She’d left her long hair loose and her big eyes were outlined in kohl. He thought of it as her waif look, meant to be appealing, except she’d picked her audience poorly.
‘I had something at work. And I told you not to make anything for me.’
‘But it seems silly to cook for just myself, with you working so hard and no one looking after you.’
Was that what she told herself she was doing? Looking after him?
‘Made any progress on finding somewhere else to live?’ He knew the answer, of course.
‘But it’s not safe for me! I told you that.’ She put a cover over the plate of risotto she’d reserved for him.
How much this was the case and how much a figment of her imagination, he didn’t know. ‘It’s not sustainable, you living here. I need my space.’
‘But you’re barely here – and I’m your mother!’ She shoved the plate in the fridge and let the door slam, glass jars clanking.
Leo walked out into the garden. Solar lights dimly lit the path to his pond.
‘Leo, it’s pitch dark out there! You’ll trip!’
He tuned her out and found his favourite bench by his pond with no difficulty. It was screened by bushes from the house. His mother didn’t venture out here, thank God. He could walk this blindfolded, having laid out every inch of the landscaping himself. Putting his bag down, he rested his arms on his knees and let his head drop. Could he change the locks? She’d probably just break a window. Not come home until she was gone? But she’d probably never leave, living rent free. Forcibly eject her? She’d just charge him with assault and that would be the end of his career. Get a restraining order? It might come to that. If he took that route he’d have to make it clear he asked her to leave and gave her a deadline. This just letting things drift was not good.
But was she really in trouble?
Who knew? Surely it wasn’t his responsibility to sort out the tangles that the woman who ruined his childhood got herself into? That was unfair in the extreme.
A faint plop came from the pond, possibly a droplet rolling off one of the overhanging twigs of the weeping willow at the far end. Deep in the water, hiding from sight, was his giant koi carp Goldemort and his remaining followers. How many would be left by spring? Leo wondered. Leo suspected his fish, like his mother, of vampiric tendencies.
It was chill and damp in the garden. Even in winter Leo found it beautiful, a sylvan palace of intricate interwoven branches shot through with the dark gloss of the evergreens. Sprays of red berries from holly and tiny apples on the crab decorated the borders – not that he could see these now but he knew they were there. The yellow explosion of the mahonia bush enlivened one corner, the spiky leaves looking like frozen fireworks shooting out from the main stem. For all this nature is never spent … it was a line from an Oxford poet that Leo often revolved in his mind like a lucky penny in his pocket. It brought him hope at his lowest, prevented him even from slitting his wrists at the very worst. Things come back even when all seems utterly hopeless. He just had to have faith.
Perhaps it was time he told someone about this. He’d spent thirty-six years alone; did he really want to spend the rest of his life like that? The burden of his past was crushing him slowly but surely.
‘Leo, when you’ve finished sulking, lock up! I’m going to bed!’ his mother called, acting as if the place were hers.
He sat in silence for a little longer, waiting until her words became true. She sometimes said things like that just to lure him inside. It gave him the chance to appreciate the dark smell of winter, the drifts that he left to moulder to encourage wildlife. They would be turning dark brown and black as the leaves returned to the earth. It was not good for a garden to strip it bare as Chernov had done. Over time, the soil lost its natural structure and required more and more artificial fertiliser to struggle through the growing season. Mess had a purpose.
He looked back to the house. One light had gone out – the one in the spare room. It was safe to go inside.
Chapter 7
Jess
I stood at the window cradling a mug of coffee. My office had one of the best views in the world as it looked out on the main quad. This famous landmark, featured on many a postcard, had four rectangles of manicured lawn divided by flagstone paths, and a fountain with a statue of St Nicholas carrying a child on his back in the centre. You could fit four tennis courts in here easily. The buildings themselves were a soft apricot colour, recently cleaned to get rid of their twentieth-century grime, and in the winter sunlight they glowed, seeming to belong to another, nicer world. That was until you spotted the gargoyles leering at you from the guttering, adding a little demonic to the heavenly. Something was always happening out there: porters strutting in their magpie uniform of bowler hat and black suit; students landing briefly in flocks then flying off to mysterious destinations; academics speeding by in their raven-black gowns, late for a lecture or tutorial.
Errol came into view, dressed as usual in his battered green Parka and college scarf. The difference today was that he was trailed by a cameraman, sound guy and two others on the documentary team. He had been probably told to cross the quad as he would any other day but it was hard to act natural on order. Instead he looked hunted, like they were a team in a BBC nature documentary.
Then the cameraman made the cardinal error of stepping on the grass. Mr Newton shot out of the porter’s lodge like a rocket on fireworks night.
‘Get off the grass! Only fellows of the college are allowed on the grass!’
The cameraman ignored him. He was probably used to location filming in war zones and jungles, and an irate porter did not scare him. He actually had the temerity to lie down to get a better angle, inflaming the situation. Mr Newton seized the camera by the lens and started pulling. This wasn’t going to end well.
‘Hard at work, I see?’ said Paul, appearing in the doorway to look down on the two desks of his junior staff. Jennifer didn’t work Fridays so I was alone.
I didn’t waste time on defending myself. I was due a coffee break as he no doubt knew. ‘I think you might need to do something about that,’ I said instead, pointing to the confrontation on the lawn.
He glanced down at the altercation. ‘Oh Lord. I told Mr Newton they had the Master’s permission to film.’ Turning on his heel, he sped downstairs and by the next sip I saw him join the fray. Errol, standing on the sidelines unregarded, looked up and saw me watching the fracas. I waved and beckoned him to join me. It was plain there was no more filming going to get done for the moment. He sidled away without anyone noticing and bolted up the stairs to my sanctuary.
‘Bit much?’ I asked as he came into the office. ‘Need a coffee? Or tea? I have some herbal ones.’
‘Coffee. Milky. Thanks.’ He unwrapped his scarf and slid out of his Parka, halving in size.
I poured him one from the vacuum jug the kitchens supplied me with each day for visitors, added a generous quantity of milk and handed it to him. ‘Does this call for biscuits?’
‘Yeah. I think it does. Thanks, Jess.’
Rummaging in my desk drawer, I came up with a packet of chocolate cookies. It was Friday after all. ‘Save me from eating them all myself.’
He took five. One of the oddities about Errol’s metabolism was that he could eat huge amounts with no apparent effect on his body.
The dispute down in the quad appeared to be ending. ‘How long do you have to go around with those guys following you?’
‘They want to film me on four days over December – today and then they’ll be back for the rehearsals and return with a bigger team for the live service. Fresh is coming to that.’
‘A world-famous rapper is coming to our Christmas Eve service?’ My rash agreement to decorate the chapel returned to me with full force. How could I impress with my Christmas display someone used to touring with sound and light shows?
‘Yeah. He’s a good guy. He says he likes traditions and stuff.’ A second biscuit followed the first in short order.
‘Are you trying to tell me he’s just a regular guy, this man with a private jet and more money than God?’
Errol shrugged. ‘Don’t think God bothers with a bank account, but basically yeah. Sanyu’s very excited.’
‘That’s all we need – an excited Sanyu.’ We shared a smile.
‘He’s invited the choir from my Pentecostal church back home to join the service.’
I wondered how that would work: the white-robed choristers and a gospel choir from Hackney. Sounded like a Christmas version of Harry and Meghan’s wedding. ‘Sanyu or Fresh?’
‘Sanyu, of course. My mum’s thrilled.’
‘Your mum’s in the choir?’
‘Yeah, and my sisters and my youngest brother. That’s where I learned to play the organ. Can’t sing a note. I’m the family disgrace.’
I gave him a soft punch on the arm. ‘You’re hardly that, organ scholar.’
‘I suppose they might think different now I’m here. Mum loves this place. She’d be here every weekend if I let her.’ Errol put the mug by the kettle. ‘I think they’re looking for me. I’d better go.’
‘You’re welcome to hide up here whenever you need.’
‘Thanks, Jess. Oh, and how’s Flossie?’ Errol and Flossie were pals as he’d taken the dog for a walk when I had ’flu last month.
‘She’s made new friends. Snuck into next-door and charmed the police.’
‘Police?’
‘Yeah, they found a body in the garden.’
‘What? For real?’
‘Yes. I saw the news this morning that they think it’s fairly recent and are appealing for information.’
‘That’s … horrible.’
‘I know. Most people hope for fairies at the bottom of the garden and Flossie and I get a corpse.’
From his glum expression, I could tell he didn’t share my gallows humour.
‘Sorry, Errol. I got kinda used to bodies in my old job.’
He looped the scarf around his neck. ‘How could anyone get used to bodies? What were you?’
‘Undertaker’s assistant.’
He looked very hard at me. ‘Are you joking again?’
‘Nope.’
‘I thought you looked for missing people?’
‘I do – that’s what I hope to make my main line of work. All this? The undertaking, temping and so on – that’s just to pay the bills.’
‘You’re weird, do you know that?’
‘Oh yes.’
He went to the door. ‘But you’re interesting. I’m telling my film crew to include you.’
‘Don’t you dare, Errol!’
With a passable devilish chuckle, he went back down to the quad where the film crew were seeking him.
I sat back in front of the computer and returned to the winter newsletter I was compiling for past students. Errol was so relaxed with me, it was just a shame he struggled to show this side to others of his age. He probably got on with me because he had older sisters so he was used to teasing and being teased.
Back to the report from the First Eleven.
***
At one a message from Leo popped up on my screen. It started so well.
I need to see you.
But then it went downhill.
And if possible search your garden. Would you be able to return early and show my officers where the tools are kept?
So it was about the case.
I knocked on Paul’s door. ‘Is it OK if I leave now? The police need to search the grounds of the house I’m staying in and I have to be there.’
Paul sniffed as if the police search was my fault. ‘I suppose you can go.’
‘I’ll carry on working on the display at home and will be contactable by phone should you need me. On the subject of which, how much have I to spend?’
‘The Master is considering it. He did express the wish that you get sponsorship from local firms so it wouldn’t come out of college funds.’
‘With only a few weeks to go? That’s hardly likely, Paul. You need to cultivate those kind of relationships months in advance. Does he have any suggestions for me?’
‘The Master is too busy to do your job for you.’
The unfairness was breathtaking. ‘Excuse me, this isn’t in my job description, none of this is.’
‘Then you want nothing to do with the service, I suppose? It isn’t in your job description to do the reading either.’
The man was shameless. ‘I’ll need a budget, Paul, and I think it is definitely in your job description to provide me with one.’
He tapped a few keys on his computer with the pecking movements of the typing challenged. ‘I don’t like your tone.’
‘And I don’t like being promised a budget to do a job and then having that vanish on me.’
‘I might be able to squeeze something out of the outreach fund. Five hundred pounds maximum.’
Which would probably mean some inner city school wouldn’t get their widening access visit.
‘Five hundred pounds won’t make much of an impact.’
‘Then seek sponsors. I’ve got a meeting.’ He flounced out. There was no meeting but he did like to have the last word in any argument.
Chapter 8
Leo
The initial report on the body had revealed the cause of death. Gunshot to the back of the head. Well, that would do it. The bullet was a 9mm which suggested a handgun, but as it was the most popular brand, that did not narrow it down very much. If Chernov had personal security, they might well have handguns using that caliber, or he might own one himself. It would be worth checking who had access to the house that had a license for firearms. That was if it were legally owned, of course, and there were records.
Unravelling the business relationships of Anatoly Chernov had taken all morning and still there was little clarity as to what exactly he provided the world. He appeared to have a lot of money and no clear way of generating it. Privatised state assets and sheltering of the ill-gotten gains of the men in power seemed to be the front-runners. His capital holdings were huge. In the UK alone, he had several other houses, a share in a business park, and a stake in a football club. Then there was the yacht, the plane, the villa in North Cyprus, property in the West Indies, Turkey, Georgia … too many to itemise. Leo doubted the man himself would’ve known everything he owned without consulting a list. If this murder turned out to be related to Chernov’s money dealings, then the suspects would be legion. When reached by phone, none of the UK holdings had heard from him, but apparently that was not unusual. He did his business through intermediaries.
And the oddest thing? That a man seemingly this big in his own world had not been reported missing by his loved ones. Most families would’ve been turning Oxford upside down if he’d last been seen here. Even the most impoverished family would’ve at least made a police report and done a public appeal on Facebook and in the media, but these cash-rich Russians had done nothing. How to account for that? That they wanted him dead or that they knew it wasn’t him. This was one more reason why Leo wasn’t going to sign off on it being Chernov until irrefutable proof was obtained, just in case. It seemed the territory of spy thriller, but perhaps it was a decoy in the garden, some poor guy used so that Chernov could conveniently declare himself dead to avoid some political heat back home?
‘I’ve got a match on the rings and watch,’ said Suyin, putting up on screen a photo taken from further back in the archive of images.
Anatoly was on a Black Sea beach, arm draped around wife number one. The signet ring and Rolex matched the ones now sitting in an evidence tray in forensics. There were words in Cyrillic that could help identify them as Chernov’s. They were getting those translated.
Leo checked his emails. Chernov’s lawyer was stalling, refusing to release dental records or ask family members to offer up DNA. He didn’t believe it was his client so came close to accusing Leo of police harassment with his repeated requests. It was unbelievable: they shouldn’t be seen as enemies over a simple identification. Leo’s superintendent had warned him to tread carefully. The Chernovs were reportedly great anglophiles and friends of highly placed people in government. That was all Leo needed: politics.
What he did need was some way into this slippery man’s life.
‘Suyin, can you send that hairbrush we found in the master bedroom to the lab? It’s not ideal but, if we assume it belongs to the owner, then we might get somewhere with identification.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘Any news where wife number one lives?’ Leo asked. ‘Perhaps she’ll help us if she’s aggrieved enough at being dumped for wife number two.’
‘Good idea.’ Suyin did some more searches. ‘We’re in luck. She’s in the UK. I’ve got an address for her in London. Do you want me to reach out?’
‘Let’s go to her. Ask for an appointment tomorrow, if she’ll agree to see us.’
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow,’ Suyin said plaintively.
Leo just raised a brow.
‘OK, tomorrow.’
‘I’ll go on my own if you’ve plans.’
‘It’s OK, sir. Hopefully it won’t take all day.’
He, by contrast, would be very happy to be away the whole weekend. ‘I’ll leave you to sort that out while I drive into Oxford and see how the door-to-doors are going.’
***
He caught up with Trevor Kent and Constable Tina Sharp, as they turned the corner into Crick Road. Stopping the car, he got out.
‘Any progress?’
Trevor showed him the list they’d been working through on their door-to-door enquiries. ‘We’ve had replies at about seventy per cent of the addresses, which is pretty good. Everyone is very helpful but nobody saw anything. Nothing was heard last year that suggested gunfire and most people repeated that it was quiet around here and they would expect to have noticed something like that. The AI Institute next door was a bust as it’s new and none of the staff were here before July. None of them knew who was in that building earlier, though they think probably builders, refitting the place, so that might be worth checking.’
Could the builders have been involved somehow? wondered Leo. Some dispute that got out of hand? They would certainly have the tools for a burial.
‘The Hong Kong couple two doors away,’ continued Trevor, ‘didn’t speak much English, at least she didn’t. He spoke some but was very reserved. He’s a professor in the Mathematics department. Their children go to the same school as Chernov’s went to, but they’re much younger and so never mixed socially. They’ve never been inside the Chernov house.’
‘Where are the net curtain twitchers when you need them?’ said Leo.
‘There are some, sir,’ said Tina, taking over. She was a stocky woman with a lovely fruity laugh, generally popular in the squad as she always remembered everyone’s birthdays and made cakes. She’d even managed to discover Leo’s, which said much for her detective skills as he liked to keep these details to himself. ‘The Prices across the road. They keep an eye on everyone for that society they run and were able to tell us that Chernov has definitely not been seen at the property since autumn last year.’
‘Thanks. It sounds like I should go and have a word with them. Is Sergeant Boston around?’
‘He’s just popped over to a takeaway place in North Parade.’
‘Tell him to join me when he’s finished his break, would you?’
Leo decided to leave his car where it was and walk to the Prices’ house. It was similar in style to the Chernov property, the same brick and architectural flourishes, but they had a well-stocked garden, bird table and wellington boots in the porch. Lived in and orientated towards relaxed living, he immediately liked it.
The door was answered by a smart-looking man in later middle age. He had his greying hair slicked back from his forehead and striking pale blue eyes, reminiscent of Ralph Fiennes as James Bond’s M to Leo’s mind. His gaze was currently fixed on Leo with a wary but not unfriendly expression.
Leo held up his warrant card. ‘Mr Price? I know you spoke to some of my colleagues earlier. I have a few follow-up questions, if you don’t mind?’
Mr Price stood aside. ‘I take it you’re the big gun? They warned me you might come.’
‘I’d put myself at medium-sized howitzer. But I am in charge of the inquiry, for my sins.’
‘Come through to the kitchen. Meredith, another visitor!’
Leo noticed the RAF insignia on the photos that decorated the wall and deduced he was talking to a retired airman. Other pictures were of Oxford colleges and the iconic skyline of towers and spires, mixed in with some images of African wildlife. A large ebony mask with crossed spears hung over the entrance to the kitchen. He’d lay money on the man having spent some time stationed abroad.
‘I understand you and your wife are in charge of the North Oxford Protection Society?’
‘For our sins,’ echoed Mr Price. ‘Meredith, this is Inspector George. Meredith also works part-time at St Bede’s as – what do they call you, darling?’
Entering the kitchen, they found Mrs Price at the sink. She was a bit of a surprise; Leo had been expecting a female version of the husband, some pallid ash blonde in a twin set and pearls, the cliché of the senior officer’s wife. Instead, she had a sunny smile and vibrant print dress and head wrap that suggested to Leo she was from West Africa rather than the Caribbean. Her diamond engagement and wedding rings were of striking contemporary designs that slotted together. Matching gems twinkled in her ears.
‘Reading champion,’ she said, smiling.
‘Sounds fun,’ Leo said politely.
‘It is. I think that’s another name for assistant librarian. I also travel a couple of times a year to promote the school in Africa – a little perk I appreciate as it gets me back to see my family. International students are big business. Would you like coffee, or are you a tea person, Inspector?’ asked Meredith.
‘Coffee, thank you.’
She placed a bone china mug in front of him, leaving the sugar bowl and a little jug of milk for him to decide how he’d drink it.