Will you please stop leaving used tea bags in your wastepaper bin.
And oblige, the Cleaners.
I screwed one up and threw it into the aforementioned bin and put the other in my drawer just as Sparky and Nigel wandered in, carrying a cardboard box each.
'More reports,' Sparky explained, placing his box on the end of my desk.
'Associated property,' Nigel told me.
'Why,' I began, 'did nobody think it worthwhile to bring to my notice the fact that our dead doctor and our serial rapist lived in the same block of flats?'
'Do they?' Nigel answered, wide-eyed.
'We didn't know,' Sparky replied, on the defensive.
'I thought Mr. Makinson kept you fully informed,' I told them. 'I thought he was very professional.'
'Oh, we knew where the doctor lived,' Nigel countered. 'It was where your rapist lived that we had no idea.'
I felt my cheeks pull back into my sickly grin. 'Love — forty,' I conceded, deciding to change the subject. 'What's in here?'
Nigel flicked open the lid of his box and read from the inventory that was inside. 'Not much worth talking about: contents of his pockets; his mail, diary, address book; one bullet, used; and his door keys.'
I turned to Sparky. 'Any photographs of the body?' I asked. 'We might as well start again, from the beginning.'
He spread the ten-by-eights on my desk. The doctor was laid more or less in the recovery position, with a halo of blood around his head, soaking into the pale carpet. I pulled a close-up towards me.
'He was a good looking so-and-so,' I said, quietly. With a good brain, too, until someone drilled a hole through it. I pushed the pictures around, re-arranging them, absorbing their message.
'There's the SOCO's video of the flat here,' Sparky said. 'Do you want to watch it?'
'Umm, no, I don't think so. Did you mention the keys to the flat, Nigel?'
'Yes, they're here.'
'I think I'll have a look for myself, then. Have you two seen it?'
They both shook their heads.
'OK. Well, let's not move about in a pack. I'll have a ride over there now while you two have another look through this lot. Draw up a table. You know the score: motive, opportunity, evidence; that sort of thing. Sort out a list of acquaintances for us to interview. Then maybe you can have a look at the scene later, if you think it worthwhile. We've been lumbered with this, good and proper, so let's show them how a murder enquiry should be conducted, eh?'
'Right, Boss,' they replied in unison. They looked pleased.
Mews is agent-speak for up market There was no central courtyard, no alley where horse-drawn delivery carts used to clatter over the cobbles. The Canalside development was a rectangular block of a building, in newly- cleaned Yorkshire stone that had been carved and crafted when skills were cheap and the best materials could be dug straight out of the ground. It backed on to the canal, with the old lifting beam still jutting out like a witch's nose The building was preserved for posterity and earning a bob or two for the owners. That was fair enough. For once the word pretentious didn't spring to mind.
Most of the parking places were empty, apart from a couple of small but ne wish cars and a Suzuki four- wheel drive with silly coloured splashes on the sides. The front door of the flats was made of wood but free from the jemmy marks and metal plates screwed next to the lock that you always see on the council-owned blocks. To one side was the communications system, with a button for each of the eight apartments and a digital display; to the other was a bank of mail boxes. I put the appropriate key in the lock and turned it.
The central hallway reached the full height of the building. Once, bales of wool or finished cloth would have been swung and raised and lowered here. Labourers would have manhandled them, clerks in stiff collars registered them and bowler-hatted buyers cast knowledgeable eyes over them. This had been Heckley's gateway to the world Now it housed the staircase and the lift shaft. The floor was quarry-tiled and there were framed prints by a failed impressionist on the walls. In the middle of the floor was a water feature whose photograph had probably graced the cover of the brochure, with a small fountain but no fish.
The first door on the left was number one. I'd half expected it to bear a plaque saying 'D. Buxton, Branch Manager, Homes 4U but it didn't. He had the good sense to realise that anonymity is sometimes preferable to advertising. It all depends on the line of work you are in. I ignored the open lift door and attacked the stairs.
The rooms must have had high ceilings, for I was puffing by the second floor. There was one flat amp;n each side of the stairwell, eight in all.
The doctor had what the agent no doubt called the penthouse. I gathered my breath as I examined his door. It told me nothing, so I went in.
It was love at first sight. The doc had furnished the place from scratch with a generous budget, whereas I'd inherited my house and its contents from my parents. His tastes were not exactly mine, but his mark, his stamp, had been on it from day one. My house is slowly evolving to something more my style. Meanwhile, it looks as if it were furnished by a committee.
I'd have gone for something more up-to-date. This was strictly art deco, which looked dated, in my opinion, and conflicted with the building as a whole, but he'd done a good job. The kitchen was custom made with neatly integrated New appliances and the carpets were off-white throughout. In his sitting room I flicked a row of switches just inside the door and several wrought iron standard lamps came on but did little to dispel the gloom. Romantic but impractical. A thin coating of aluminium powder on everything, left by the SO COs reminded me that this was a murder scene. The pool of congealed blood, defiling the centre of the carpet like a stigmata, confirmed it.
All his Christmas cards had been gathered up and left in a pile. I read through them although I'd seen a list of the senders in the reports. He'd received about five times as many as me. From patients, I told myself. Our clients rarely send us greetings cards. It was a small consolation.
The pictures on his walls were black and white prints of film stars.
Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, squinting through wreaths of smoke.
Greta Garbo. Dorothy Lamour. Not my taste at all. I love the cinema, but not the people in it. Bogie is held up as an icon of the twentieth century. For what? About ten hours' work and an ability to talk without moving his lips while blowing smoke down his nose.
I didn't stay long. I knew before I came that there was nothing useful for me to see it was just a starting point. To find the person who killed him I first needed to know the man. I studied the view from his windows, across the town with the hills looming up like a wall across the valley, and wondered how much the flat would sell for. Probably more than I'd want to pay, unless they had to bring the price down because of its recent history. Then I remembered the neighbours and decided that it wasn't for me, after all. Who wants to live next door to someone who drives a Suzuki with red and yellow splatters on the sides?
I was on my way out when I saw it, on the work top in the kitchen.
Tucked in a corner, next to his electric kettle, was a plastic container about six inches high, like a miniature swing bing Exactly what I wanted for putting used tea bags in, I thought. I pushed the top open with a finger and saw that it contained… tea bags Great minds, and all that.
I considered stealing it, but its presence would have been recorded on the video of the crime scene, and besides, I'm supposed to be fighting that sort of thing. I'd look out for one in the shops, and one for Gilbert, too. Anything to please the cleaning ladies. After a last lingering look at the place where the doctor's life had leaked away I switched off all the lights and carefully locked the door behind me.
Outside, I emptied his mailbox and took the contents back to the station.
My mobile rang as I pulled into the station car park. 'It's me, Charlie,' Sparky said. 'Do you want some fish and chips bringing in?'
'Ooh, yes please. What about Nigel?'
'He's here with me. 'Bout fifteen minutes.'
'I'll put the kettle on.'
I had a quick look through the thick pile of mail I'd brought in. The only proper letter was from someone called George, probably an old college friend. It was a resume of the past year, as if they kept their friendship alive with an annual report but rarely met. There was a bank statement, the usual quota of junk, and reminders that the
