Instead of parking at the station, the detectives carry on for another hundred yards and turn right before pulling up outside a Chinese restaurant where denuded ducks are hanging in the window.
“Why are we here?”
“Guv has invited you to lunch.”
Upstairs in a private dining room, a dozen detectives are seated around a large circular banqueting table. The food carousel is laden with steaming plates of pork, seafood, noodles and vegetables.
The man in charge has a napkin tucked into his shirt and is opening a crab claw with a silver pincer. He sucks out the flesh and picks up another claw. Even seated, he gives the impression of being large. Mid-forties. Fast- tracked through the ranks. He has a shock of dark hair and razor burns on his face. I notice his wedding ring and his unironed shirt. He hasn’t been home for a couple of days, but has managed to shower and shave.
Beyond the circular table, a series of whiteboards have been set up to display photographs and a timeline of events. The victims’ names are written across the top. The restaurant has become an incident room.
DCI Drury tugs his napkin from his collar and tosses it onto the table. It’s a signal. Waiters converge and carry away the leftovers. Pushing back from the table, Drury rises with all the grace and coordination of a deck chair.
“Professor O’Loughlin, thanks for joining us.”
“I wasn’t given a great deal of choice.”
“Good.”
He belches and pushes his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
I look at Charlie. She’s starving.
“Excellent,” says Drury. “Grievous, get her a menu.” He leans closer. “That’s not his real name, Miss. His initials are GBH. Do you know what they stand for?”
Charlie shakes her head.
“Grievous Bodily Harm.” The DCI laughs. “Don’t worry, he’s too wet behind the ears to be dangerous.” He turns to me. “How do you like my incident room, Professor?”
“It’s unconventional.”
“I encourage people to feel like part of a team. We drink together. We eat together. Everyone is free to give an opinion. Admit their mistakes. Express their doubts. My department has the best clean-up rate in the county.”
Your mothers must be very proud, I think, rapidly forming a negative opinion of the DCI because of his cockiness and sense of entitlement.
He picks up a toothpick and cleans his teeth. “You were recommended to me.”
“By whom?”
“A mutual friend. I was told you might not come.”
“You were well informed.”
He smiles. “My apologies if we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start again. I’m Stephen Drury.”
He shakes my hand, holding it a second longer than necessary.
“I have a double homicide, which looks like a home invasion. The husband had his skull caved in. His wife was tied to a bed, possibly raped, and set on fire.”
The words are whispered. I glance across the room to Charlie, who is spooning fried rice onto a plate.
“When?”
“Three nights ago.”
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
