‘What do you think?’ said Newport.
Shielding his eyes against the sun, York scanned the building’s fascia.
‘On a beautiful day like today, too,’ Newport replied, as if that were somehow relevant.
A nicotine-laced voice intruded. ‘You the police?’
Despite the simple black shirt and black trousers, the bunch of keys swinging from his belt loop gave the newcomer away as the caretaker.
York abandoned the intercom. 'Malcolm?’
‘Uh-huh.’
The caretaker led the way into the foyer, patently sidestepping York's extended hand.
‘You probably hear this all the time,’ said York, ‘but you look just like –’
‘Morgan Freeman, yeah I know,’ said Malcolm, dead-panning the comment.
Newport grinned. ‘Did you know Michael or Harriet?’
Heading up the steps, Malcolm’s keys jangled against his hip. ‘As well as anyone. So no, not really. I knew them in passing. Them and their little girl.’
Halting mid-step, Newport said, ‘Wait, what little girl?’
‘The Fullers!’ Malcolm stopped and turned on the steps. ‘They have a little girl. You’re the police, aren’t you supposed to know stuff like that?’
The caretaker huffed as if pleased and continued on up the stairs.
No one had mentioned a little girl.
‘What they done anyway?’ said Malcolm.
‘We’re not at liberty to discuss that, sir,’ Newport replied.
Bringing up the rear, York smiled. What Newport meant was we didn't have the first bloody idea.
‘Here it is,’ Malcolm grumbled as they reached the third and topmost floor of the building. The caretaker perused his loop of keys and pushed open the door to the Fullers’ apartment, releasing the pungent aroma of class. Intensely modern, the plan opened up into a large living area with huge panel windows showing off a sun-dappled panorama of Hyde Park. The enormous home cinema, the frenzy of artwork, the plush carpets and leather sofas, all spoke lavish.
York whistled in awe. ‘How much do these apartments go for?’
Malcolm shrugged. ‘one-point-five mil without breaking a sweat. No appeal, you ask me. No personality to them. Only good people live here, though. Everyone trusts everyone. Most of them don’t even lock their doors in the day.’
‘Have you ever seen anyone coming or going from the building who didn’t belong?’
‘What do you mean, like one of them Asian types?’
‘No, Malcolm. Take a look at this picture.’ He plucked the mugshot of Liam Grayson from his jacket pocket. ‘You know this guy?’
‘Never seen him. Looks like one of them fagg –’
‘Thank you, Malcolm, you’ve been a great help. We can see ourselves out from here.’
Newport walked Malcolm to the door who seemed only too glad to oblige. ‘I’ll be waiting downstairs,’ the caretaker called back. ‘And hurry up, I got shit to do.’
From an outsider’s perspective the apartment looked like any other, despite the obvious “out of most people’s price range” mod-cons. The place was neat and kempt, visibly clean, and smelled of pine. From a detective’s viewpoint, the flat was a little too immaculate.
Flipping off his hat York stepped into the large, almost clinical kitchen. More pine, this time infused with some kind of cleaning agent. Directly in front of him the refrigerator stared him down. It was a simple household fridge like any other, only this one was bleeding. ‘Newport, get in here!’
His partner appeared in the doorway, scepticism splashed across her pixiesque face. ‘What is it?’
‘Got some gloves?’ He pointed out the small patch of cloying blood at the foot of the fridge.
Without trace of hesitation, she fished a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and snapped them on.
‘You've got the honours,’ he announced.
Newport stepped forward and straddled the dark red pool. Gripping the fridge handle, the door swung coldly outwards. Both detectives stood and eyed the two items sitting gorily on the central shelf atop a large oval meat platter.
Silence ruled for a moment.
‘I think we’ve found what remains of Michael and Harriet,’ she uttered.
York nodded thoughtfully. The two human hearts stared at them mockingly.
This is a game to him, and we’re inferior players.
York’s own words came thundering back. He realised he’d never been so right. He should have felt sick but he didn’t. Not even mildly. Breaking the spell, he called the station from a phone mounted on the kitchen wall. Will Graham was going to have a field day here.
‘What now?’ Newport asked.
York checked his watch. ‘I reckon we have about twenty minutes until Graham and his team show up, so let’s keep looking. Got to be something here to uproot this fucker.’
Newport turned to York and began following him from the kitchen, their step faltering as a jarring thud reverberated through the laminate flooring. Newport glanced at her superior who was standing motionless, head cocked.
‘Malcolm?’ she suggested.
York moved to the kitchen window and peered down at the street. Without a word he gestured Newport join him. The caretaker was smoking a cigarette out on the pavement.
‘Not Malcolm,’ he uttered.
Staying tight, the detectives moved stealthily through the kitchen and into the living room. Perfect rectangular slabs of daylight beamed through the panoramic panes filling the large room with natural light.
Another thud, this time from the direction of the bedrooms.
Edging further in, York found himself in the corridor off the main living area, Newport firmly at his back. He directed her to the first bedroom and stepped into the second: damp and fusty, as if the room didn’t see much use. The big space was well lit, two large windows jostled into the wall. King-sized bed, walk-in closet, massive vanity unit and mirror; all in immaculate upkeep.
He halted, waiting for another sound. An instant later, from the depths of some deep,
