invested in infra-red activated security lights, as recommended by Mortensen and Brannigan.
The back garden was enclosed by a seven foot fence, and the gloom was compounded by thick shrubs that cast strange shadows across a paved area which featured the inevitable brick-built barbecue. There was no sign of light through the pair of patio doors that led into the garden so I cautiously turned on my torch. I peered in at a dining room with a strangely old-fashioned air.
I switched the torch off and moved cautiously across the patio to the kitchen door. It was the solid, heavy door of someone who takes their security precautions seriously. So I was rather surprised to see the top section of the kitchen window ajar. I carried on past the door and glanced up at the window. It was open a couple of notches, and although it was too small to allow anyone to enter, it offered possibilities.
I shone my torch through the window, revealing an unadventurous pine kitchen, cluttered with appliances, a bowl of fruit, a rack of vegetables, a draining board full of dry dishes, a shelf of cookery books, a knife block and an assortment of jars and bottles. It looked more like a table at a car boot sale than a kitchen.
The door leading from the kitchen to the hall was ajar, and I shifted slightly to let the beam from my torch play across the room. Caught between the beam of my torch and the gleam of the street light out front, I could see the body of a woman twisting slowly round and round, round and round.
17
Next thing I knew, I was crouched down on the patio, my back pressed against the wall so hard I could feel the texture of the brickwork against my scalp. I didn't know how I'd got there. My torch was turned off, but the sight of the dangling corpse still filled my vision. I squeezed my eyes closed, but the image of the body hanging in mid-air was still vividly there. It sounds callous, but I felt outraged. I don't do bodies. I do industrial espionage, fraud and white-collar theft. The desire to curl up in a tight little ball was almost overwhelming. I knew I ought to get the hell out of there and call the police, but I couldn't get my limbs to move.
It looked like an open and shut case. The woman called Nell had arrived earlier in the afternoon; now there was a woman's corpse in the house, and her car was missing. What it meant to me was that Cheetham would be facing a murder charge rather than one of fraud. Either way, he wouldn't be practising as a solicitor again in a hurry. But Lomax, on the other hand, would almost certainly live to defraud another day. All he had to do was deny everything and blame it all on Cheetham.
I struggled to my feet. I wished Richard was with me. Not because he'd be any practical use, but because he'd be talking me out of what I was about to do. I knew it was crazy, knew I was taking the kind of stupid chance that Bill would seriously fall out with me over. But I'd come this far, and I couldn't stop now. If there was any proof of what had been going on, I wanted to have a good look at it before the police sequestrated it. As Richard has pointed out on several occasions, I subscribe to the irregular verb theory of language; I am a trained investigator, you have a healthy curiosity, she/he is a nosy-parker.
I took a deep breath and studied the kitchen window, carefully averting my eyes from the doorway leading into the hall. If I could get up to it, I thought I might be able to reach through the open window and slip open the catch on the side section, which would be big enough to let me climb in. Unfortunately, the sill wasn't wide enough to stand on, and there was no conveniently placed ladder. The only things that were remotely portable were the carefully arranged bricks of the circular barbecue. They weren't mortared together, merely assembled like a child's building bricks.
With a sigh, I started shifting the bricks to build a platform beneath the window. I was grateful for the latex gloves; without them, my hands would have been in shreds. It didn't take long to construct a makeshift set of steps that brought me high enough to slide my arm inside the unfastened window. My fingertips could barely brush the top of the window catch. I withdrew and opened the blade of my Swiss Army knife that looks as if its only purpose is to remove Boy Scouts from horses' hoofs. It has a sort of hooked bit on the end and almost certainly has some quaint name like 'cordwangler's grommet disengager'.
With the blade extended, I was able to flick the catch upwards. I pushed the window towards me, and it swung open. I stepped into the kitchen sink and closed both windows behind me. I searched the draining board for a cloth then carefully wiped the sill and the sink to remove any obvious traces of my entry. The last thing I wanted was to be lifted for murder. What I was really doing was putting off the moment when I'd have to confront Nell's dangling body. She must be suspended from the banister, I realized as I braced myself to go through the doorway.
I emerged into the hall, gritted my teeth and switched on my torch. The body was still twisting languorously in some faint draught. Steeling myself, I started at the floor and worked upwards. A brown court shoe like the one I'd seen emerging from the Golf a couple of hours ago lay on its side on the plain oatmeal Berber carpet, as if it had been idly kicked off. Its partner was on the left foot of the body. The ankles were lashed together with an incongruous Liberty silk scarf. The scarf was tied in a slip knot that had tightened to cut into the flesh above the ankle bones. She wore sheer dark-tan stockings. They looked like silk to me. I caught a glimpse of suspenders under the full, swirling skirt. I couldn't see the underwear. The smell made me glad of that. My eyes travelled upwards, over a silk tunic cinched in at the waist by a woven leather belt with gilt studs, like a stylized leather queen's. The shapely legs were bent at the knees, held in place by another scarf that was tied to the belt.
The wrists were tied together in front of the body with another scarf, clasped like an innocent Doris Day in a nineteen-fifties film. Again, a slip knot had been used. It looked like a bizarre sexual fantasy, the stuff of snuff movies. I tried not to look too closely at the ligature, but it was obvious that the woman had been hanged by a rope of silk scarves. I closed my eyes, swallowed hard and made myself look at the face.
It wasn't Nell.
Not by any stretch of the imagination was that swollen, engorged face the same one I'd seen in Buxton and later in Cheetham's office. From below, it was hard to say more than that, but the hair looked strangely asymmetrical. The one ear I could see was an ominous bluish purple, and the skin of the face was an odd colour. Horrified but oddly fascinated, I skirted the body to climb the stairs for a better vantage point. Five steps from the top of the flight, I was almost level with the staring eyes. Dots of blood peppered the whites of the eyes. I tried not to think of this as a human being, but simply as a piece of evidence. Close to, it was clear that the brown hair was a wig. What was also clear, in spite of the hideous distortion of the features and the heavy make-up, was the identity of the corpse. That was when I lost it.
I splashed cold water over my face, drawing my breath in sharply as it hit. I dried myself on toilet paper, then flushed it down the loo. Then I flushed the loo again, the sixth time since I'd lost my lunch. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean the forensic scientists aren't out to get you. I gave the toilet bowl a last wipe down, then flushed again, praying the U-bend was now free from any traces of my reaction to discovering Martin Cheetham hanging from a banister dressed in women's clothing.
I closed the toilet lid and sat down on it. It was only my second corpse ever, and the discovery seemed to be taking a bit of getting used to. The voice of wisdom and self-preservation was telling me to get out of there as fast as possible and wait till I was in another county before calling the police. The bloody-minded voice from the other side of my brain reminded me that I'd never get another chance like this to get to the bottom of whatever had brought matters to this pass. I couldn't believe Cheetham had killed himself because he thought I'd uncovered his dishonesty in the land sale. There had to be more.
I forced myself out of the bathroom and back on to the landing. 'It's not a person,' I kept saying out loud to myself, as if that could convince me. I stood on the landing, above the banister where Cheetham's body was suspended by the rope of silk scarves. From here, it didn't look quite so terrible, though at this angle I could see what had been obscured from below, that he had an erection. I forced myself to reach down and touch the skin of the face. There was no perceptible difference in temperature between my hand and the corpse. I didn't know enough about forensic medicine to understand the significance of that.
I turned my back on the body and started my search. The first room I entered was obviously the spare room. It was lit dimly by the glow of the street lamps. The room was clean and neat, but again, curiously old fashioned, like a room in my parents' house. The wardrobe was empty except for a white tuxedo, dress trousers and a couple of frilly evening shirts. The chest of drawers was empty except for towels in the bottom drawer. On the off- chance, I lifted an insipid watercolour of the Lake District away from the wall. I couldn't think of any reason for
