Love Lies Bleeding Read online

  Derwent appeared in the doorway while I was working my way through the wardrobe. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘A lot of suits. What about you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He moved around the room, restless. ‘Neat, isn’t it? No dirty clothes lying around. No clutter. Even the bins are empty.’

  ‘She was very organised.’ I shrugged. ‘If I had a flat like this, even I might manage to keep it tidy. Do the washing up, take out the bins, that sort of thing. Not like now.’

  Derwent whipped around, stiff with outrage. ‘Kerrigan, if you turn my place into a shithole I’ll—’ He broke off when he saw I was laughing. ‘Oh, very funny.’

  ‘Call it payback for humping me on the doorstep.’

  ‘There was no humping.’ He smirked. ‘The humping was all in your mind.’

  And I had given myself away, I realised too late. I cleared my throat. ‘It’s very neat and tidy but I assume she had a cleaner.’

  ‘Not every day. Not every morning.’

  ‘Maybe she was obsessive about tidiness. So are you. Do you know what else I haven’t found?’ I crossed to the bedside table and started going through the drawers. ‘Any trace of Stephen Hawkson. Not even a toothbrush.’

  ‘Do you think he was lying about them being in a relationship?’

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘Attention? Or maybe it was always his fantasy and now he’s convinced himself it really happened. She’s not around to contradict it.’

  ‘We should be able to find out if they really went to Paris.’

  Derwent nodded. ‘I’ll put it on the list. He didn’t have an alibi either.’

  ‘No. The murder happened between 11.23 and 11.27 and he was out of the meeting from about ten past eleven. If he managed to get in and out of the building unobserved, he could have done it.’

  Derwent sat on the bed and pulled open the drawer of the other table. ‘This place is weird. It’s nicely put together but there’s nothing personal. No photographs, no letters. No sense of the victim’s private life. It’s like her office. Like anyone could walk through here and learn nothing about her.’

  ‘Maybe that was just how she was.’

  ‘Everyone has a private life,’ Derwent said. ‘Everyone has things they want to keep to themselves.’

  Before I could answer there was a creak from the hall. I looked at Derwent. ‘Did you shut the front door?’

  He shook his head. I stepped softly across to the bedroom door and peered around it.

  ‘I’m calling the police.’ The voice was loud, male and outraged. I lowered my threat level and my shoulders, which had been around my ears.

  ‘We are the police.’ I stepped into the hall, holding up my warrant card so he could see it.

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s different.’ He was a large man in a headache-inducing blue-and-orange striped silk shirt. It was unbuttoned far enough that I could see rather a lot of silver chest hair. He looked sleek and expensive and very concerned. ‘But what are you doing here? Has there been another burglary?’

  ‘Another?’ I noticed the poker he was holding. ‘Could you put that down please?’

  ‘Darling Diana was burgled last month.’ He propped the poker up beside the front door. ‘She was so upset about it.’

  Derwent spoke from behind me. ‘Was anything taken?’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ The man beamed at him. ‘Are you a policeman too?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Josh Derwent.’

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Josh. I’m Michael. Michael Fry. I live just upstairs.’ Michael Fry was staring at him as if he wanted to lick him, something that wouldn’t bother Derwent at all. For someone so determinedly heterosexual, he took male admiration in his stride. It was all ego-fodder, I reflected, and resigned myself to being ignored.

  ‘Thanks for coming down, Michael,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Not if you’re doing the asking was heavily implied in Michael’s tone. ‘But if it wasn’t a burglary, what are you doing here? Is Diana here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s probably at work. She works so hard. Of course, that’s why I was so pleased when she said she was going to quit.’

  ‘When did she say that?’

  ‘She’s been saying it since the burglary. Life is too short to be miserable, that’s what she says.’

  ‘I was under the impression she loves her job,’ I said.

  ‘She used to. She lived for it. But then she stopped enjoying it. She’s very discreet, Diana, but she did say it was a personality problem and it wasn’t going to be resolved easily. She’s rather excited at the thought of leaving. She says it will be wonderful to be free.’ He sighed. ‘Listen to me going on. You can just ask her about it.’

  The deafening silence from behind me told me that Derwent wasn’t going to break the news to Mr Fry. I did it as gently as I could, and steered him to an armchair when he needed to sit down and sob.

  Once he had recovered, he told us everything he knew about his neighbour with very little prompting. After half an hour, I excused myself to make some phone calls from the privacy of the car. Derwent let himself out of the building just as I finished.

  ‘Well?’ I asked.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Did you make it out unscathed?’

  ‘Of course. And if I ever want financial advice, Michael’s going to sort me out. What did you find out?’

  ‘I spoke to the officer who investigated the burglary. Diana was really shaken by it. The intruder didn’t take anything – at least, nothing of value. He left cash, a computer, an expensive camera, some jewellery. The officer asked her if it could be someone she knew and she burst into tears.’

  ‘That doesn’t fit in with her image.’

  ‘Indeed not.’

  ‘Did she mention anyone in particular who worried her?’

  ‘No. The officer went so far as to track down her ex-husband, Calvin Bexley. He denied all knowledge of it. They weren’t in touch, he said. She cut off contact with him after they divorced.’

  ‘Maybe she was hiding Stephen because her ex was paying her alimony.’

  ‘Nope. She didn’t look for it when they split up. She just wanted to get away from him. And it was after the split that she started studying law. She didn’t want any support from him and he didn’t earn any from her.’

  ‘Is he bitter?’

  ‘The officer said not. He has a wife, two kids. Diana left him in 1998. That’s a long time to hold a grudge.’

  ‘Another lifetime,’ Derwent said.

  ‘You’d think.’

  ‘Any history of domestic violence?’

  ‘None that I could find. But that might only mean it wasn’t reported.’

  Derwent chewed his lip. ‘Where does this dicksplash live now?’

  ‘Haringey. I’ve already asked if the locals can try to locate Mr Bexley. I’d be very interested to know where he was between nine and noon today.’

  As I said it, my phone rang.

  ‘DS Kerrigan.’ I listened for a minute. ‘Right. On our way.’

  ‘Haringey?’ Derwent was already starting the car.

  ‘No. Back to the crime scene. They’ve found a set of motorbike leathers in a bag a couple of streets away.’

  ‘DNA.’ Derwent whistled. ‘Happy days.’

  III

  Kev Cox’s van was parked in a narrow alleyway. We pulled in behind it and he raised his hand in a mournful salute.

  ‘What’s up with him? He should be celebrating,’ Derwent said.

  ‘Something’s wrong.’ I got out. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Smell that. Don’t get too close and don’t touch it.’ He stepped out of the way so I could see a sports bag on the ground, unzipped. A bitter chemical smell wafted out of it.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Sodium hydroxide, largely. This is drain cleaner, oven cleaner – something like that. Everything inside the bag wa
s saturated.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Derwent said. ‘What about the bag itself?’

  ‘Same story. We might get something off the outside but it’s brand new. If I had to guess it was wrapped in plastic until the killer used it.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Just beside those bins. I’ve been through them. Nothing of interest to us. Office rubbish.’

  ‘Where is the Mitchford Bexley office from here?’ I was scanning the buildings on either side of the alley. They were a jumble of windows and extensions, the untidy hinterland of the impeccable streets on the other side of the buildings. The walls of the alley were high and I couldn’t see any cameras. Terrible for witnesses; ideal for a murderer in a hurry.

  ‘That’s the back of it down there, with the metal fire escape. It’s about two minutes that way, if you’re strolling.’ Kev pointed. ‘Less if you’re running, obviously.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ I said. ‘Maybe he dropped something.’

  ‘I’ve got a team checking all the drains between here and there. We’re still looking for a knife, aren’t we? And the container for whatever he poured into the bag.’

  ‘Indeed we are.’ I set off and Derwent jogged after me.

  ‘Wait for me.’

  ‘Walk faster.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘Just an idea, that’s all.’ I was trying to keep my bearings, standing on tiptoe to see the back of the Mitchford Bexley building. I stopped suddenly enough that Derwent collided with me and stepped back with a growl. ‘This gate. This must lead in to the yard at the back of the building.’

  ‘So? Our guy went in and out of the front.’

  ‘Yeah. He did.’ I was looking up, at the fire escape. It was the fixed sort, spiral stairs rather than ladders, with a platform at each of the four floors.

  ‘Kerrigan, you know I hate it when you go monosyllabic.’

  ‘Did you meet Paul Mitchford?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  Derwent shrugged. ‘He was all right. A bit shaken. He told me how much he admired Diana Bexley.’

  ‘So it seemed. Anything else?’

  ‘He doesn’t wear a wedding ring.’

  ‘No. But he does wear a great big watch.’ I turned to Kev Cox, who had caught up with us. ‘What would happen if you got sodium hydroxide on your skin?’

  ‘Not much if you washed it off straightaway. Any prolonged contact would cause redness, blistering – a burn, basically.’

  ‘Got him,’ I said softly.

  ‘Go on.’ Derwent folded his arms; he was as hard to persuade as any juror.

  ‘I noticed Paul Mitchford had a mark under his watch. I thought it was because the metal was irritating his skin, but it could have been the chemicals, couldn’t it? If he got splashed and he didn’t notice or didn’t wash it off well enough because it was under the strap.’

  ‘Or it could be an allergy.’

  ‘I can swab his hands,’ Kev said. ‘And the watch. It’s metal, you said? We’ll get something from between the links if there’s anything to find.’

  ‘How did he get out of the office without being seen?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘The back way. The receptionist said the CCTV camera at the rear of the building was out of order. He’d shut himself away, as was his habit. He must have climbed out of the window to go down the back stairs. The receptionist said the yard was used for smoking but everyone apart from the partners was supposed to be in a meeting – there was no danger of him running into anyone except Diana, as far as he knew.’

  ‘That applies just as much to Stephen Hawkson.’

  ‘Yes, it does, but Mitchford—’

  ‘You just didn’t like him.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I said.

  ‘You liked Hawkson so you don’t want it to have been him, but it’s more likely to have been her lover than her business partner. Hawkson fits the bill. He was out of the meeting for long enough to do all this, if he didn’t really have the shits. He could have got out of the bathroom window, come down here, changed, re-entered the building in disguise, killed Diana, changed back and returned to the building in time to act stunned and appalled. He got there after Mitchford – remember, he said it was Mitchford who stopped him from going into the room. Cradling her in his arms would have been a good way of covering himself in blood and knackering the forensic evidence.’

  ‘But he didn’t get to do it.’

  ‘Only because Mitchford stopped him.’

  ‘Which ensured that everyone remembered Mitchford was there. He was one of the last people to arrive at the scene of the crime, though. He had been holed up in his office since nine – he had much more time to prepare for murder. In the chaos, maybe no one noticed he came up from outside, not down from his office.’

  ‘Okay. Either of them could have done it. But why would Mitchford kill her?’

  ‘Because he was in love with her. The first thing he said to me was that he was her business partner, but not her life partner. That’s not something most people would say, especially in the circumstances. Diana warned Stephen Hawkson not to talk about their relationship at work. She only let him kiss her in public in a foreign country, where she was suddenly relaxed and happy. She kept anything personal out of her flat – there wasn’t a trace of Stephen in the entire place. Someone burgled her flat and didn’t take anything of value – someone was watching her. She wanted to leave Mitchford Bexley – she hinted at that to Stephen and she told Michael Fry straight out that she’d had enough. It was a personality problem but one she couldn’t solve – so it had to be someone she couldn’t fire. The only person who was equal to her in status was Paul Mitchford. If she was bothered by Stephen, he’d never have kept his job.’

  ‘Or she couldn’t fire him because they’d had an ill-advised affair and he’d take her to an employment tribunal for unfair dismissal.’

  ‘She’d have found a way. Diana Bexley was intelligent and resourceful. If she’d been able to end this peacefully, she would have. Why would she willingly leave the business she founded? She was young enough that she hadn’t burned out. She was successful and well respected. It would be a huge sacrifice to walk away from it. But it makes sense if she needed to escape the obsessive attentions of her partner. They both worked hard on making the business a success but it was a trap and Diana only realised it too late.’

  ‘Do you think he broke in to her flat?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘It would make sense. It wasn’t a normal burglary. Maybe that was what made her decide she wanted to leave. And he wouldn’t let her go.’ I looked up at the windows of Paul Mitchford’s office. ‘She must have been so scared.’

  ‘Of someone. Someone who imagined they were in a relationship. Someone who had a detailed fantasy about the life they led together that no one else apparently knew about.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘Let’s take a closer look at Paul Mitchford and his arm.’

  We walked back into the building through the open front door, and as we entered a scream from upstairs made me stop dead.

  ‘Oh my God.’ The receptionist stood up so fast her chair tipped over. ‘What was that?’

  Another cry filled the building with jagged noise – a cry that had me scrabbling for my radio even as I sprinted after Derwent, who was taking the stairs three at a time. The first floor flashed past, and the second, where I ignored the figures that had gathered in the doorways there and on the third floor, until we reached the tiny hallway right at the top of the building where we could go no further. The single door was closed. Derwent rattled the handle and pounded on the wood.

  ‘Police. Open this door.’

  A groan sounded frighteningly close and loud.

  ‘Mitchford? Open up.’ Derwent took a step back, which was as far as he could get, and hit the door shoulder first with as much force as he could muster. It didn’t even rattle. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No,
I’m fucking not.’ He was clutching his shoulder. ‘It must be reinforced.’

  ‘Help me, please. I’m bleeding. Oh God, there’s so much blood.’ The voice was muffled through the wood.

  ‘That’s Stephen Hawkson,’ I said and Derwent nodded.

  ‘Hang on, mate.’ He knelt down beside the door. ‘We’re on our way. Just hold on for me.’

  I turned and ran down the stairs to the next floor. ‘Fire escape?’

  A girl in a cardigan pointed at the high window. I shoved the sash up and ducked out, looking up. A rattle from above echoed the noise I’d made.

  ‘Mr Mitchford? Stay where you are.’ I went up two steps, trying to see him. ‘Show me your hands, Mr Mitchford.’

  ‘I left the knife on my desk.’ His voice was remarkably matter-of-fact. Two bloody hands stuck out over the railing so I could see them. ‘You’re in no danger.’

  I went up another step. ‘Stay where you are,’ I said again.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ As his face came into view I saw that he was looking far too excited, his eyes wild. ‘I just killed someone.’

  Shit. With my luck he was going to confess to everything and none of it would be usable in court unless he was under caution. ‘Mr Mitchford, I am arresting you for the murder of Diana Bexley. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence—’