Robert Parker - Snow Storm

It was like the setting for Cludeo. Only he didn’t think it was Professor Plumb in the drawing room with the lead pipe on this occasion, more likely some rocket with a Kalashnikov and most definitely in the hallway going on the amount of airborne claret.

He realised he’d never seen anything like it, outside the realm of horror films and possibly even then not so much. How could a human being even contain that much blood?

What looked to be some serious money’s worth of artwork had been splattered with a combination of different tissue types and some pricey looking china had been shredded along with half the wood panelling that made up the lower walls and the side of a grand staircase that you wouldn’t want to walk on now for fear of getting some nasty looking skelves through your best brogues.

He presumed the vase had once sat on top of the granite plinth that now rested against the mashed remains of the space between the deceased’s ears. A chandelier lay across his back, having plummeted from its original mooring in the ceiling, probably after being cut out by a hail of bullets, judging by the circle of tell-tale holes. He wondered what all if this was worth, the usual trinkets the rich liked to surround themselves with, a Rolex Oyster here, a Tiffany lamp there. It all mounted up. There was no limit to what you could spend if you wanted to. They said that lottery winners were generally quite happy until they moved to a smarter area and then resumed the game of keeping up with the Joneses, just at a higher level.

“So did he grab the plinth as he fell or do you think he had it pushed onto his head after the fall?” he finally asked; as Dr Brown’s beefy head moved around in shock, closely followed by his substantial jowls.

“Jim, you need to watch that,” he replied. “My ticker’s not what it was and no offence but I don’t much fancy getting mouth to mouth from you.”

“None taken,” Burke laughed “And likewise if I’m honest. I’ve considered having DNR tattooed on my forehead for that very reason.”

“You might want to be careful though some of these places don’t have the best record on infection control,” the doctor replied without a trace of irony.

“Well, what do you think did for this one?”

“Oh I’d say Mr Kalashnikov,” Brown said, looking tired. “Either that or Mr Uzi.”

“Was there a Mr Uzi?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“Something to google when I get home.”

“Indeed.”

“Anything standing out?”

“Other than the fact that our killer or indeed killers over egged the pudding somewhat?” “Subtlety is a lost art.”

“It is. They meant it though, that’s a certainty. You don’t manage to spray that amount of lead about the place without having to stop to reload a good few times.”

“Good point.”

“And they don’t seem to have been shy about finishing the job. I’d say they knocked over the plinth. The cursory look I’ve been able to get at what is left of his head indicates there isn’t much of a face left, which seeing as the plinth as at the rear of the skull indicates it has been rather shot up.”

“So he wouldn’t have been able to grab it, that being the case?”

“Well there is always the possibility. That’s why some marksmen, notably the SAS have a tendency to go for the mouth shot. Obviously part bravado, partly the fact it encumbers the primitive part of the brain and stops any twitching movements, shooting the hostage in the head as you laugh your last, that sort of thing. I’d say our boy here was a bit past trying to balance on a plinth though. We’re dusting the whole place for prints, naturally.”

Burke made his way through the entrance porch back to the driveway and out onto the street where he found Campbell and Jones looking decidedly non-plussed.

“Well what have you got for me?” he asked expectantly.

“Not a sausage boss,” Campbell said rubbing his eyes like it had been a rough day, seemingly oblivious to the fact it was only half past ten.

Jones shook her head, “Nobody saw or heard anything.”

“I don’t actually understand it,” Campbell exclaimed. “It’s not like you can just rock up to a place like this, armed to the teeth like some kind of conspiracy nut, pummel the shit out of a house and its owner and go unnoticed. They must have made some noise, even with silencers, or at least been quite visible. I mean the guy had electric gates. You don’t just shin over them with half a ton of metal over your shoulder and not create a ruckus.”

“Suggests he knew whoever it was doesn’t it?” Jones volunteered.

“Not as well as he thought.” Campbell replied.

“Who did you actually speak to?” Burke asked.

“Aye well that’s the thing Sir. We spoke to the au pair on this side.” Campbell pointed to the left hand side of the house. Owners are a couple of lawyers but she said she was on all night and she never heard a peep. She sleeps on the side next to the victims house, says her employers didn’t mention anything at breakfast.”

“What about the other side?”

“Stay at home mum. How do people afford these places? Anyway she never heard a thing, sleeps on the other side of the building though. Kids aren’t old enough to be interviewed or at least make sense,” Jones said.

“Maternal instinct’s strong with this one boss,” Campbell added looking at Jones, who frowned in response.

“Over the road?” Burke asked, ignoring the pantomime act.

“Couple of pensioners. Both seemed a bit doddery, possibly hard of hearing, saw nothing, they were busy watching a documentary on the Discovery Channel most of the night, that one about dolphins, classic, anyway the old boy fell asleep in his chair and woke up about one a.m. stumbled upstairs but saw nothing. His wife was out like a light already, she’d gone after the ten o’clock news. Didn’t feel up to Newsnight. Rock and Roll eh?” Campbell looked around for approval at this and finding no real interest moved on. “Next one along was another au pair. She wasn’t home but her employers were, so I’ll check back with them later, as well as with the other ones on the left hand side.”

“Good stuff,” Burke replied. “Keep it up. You never know what you’ll turf up.”

They both looked at him and nodded as he gestured for them to continue.

He wandered back inside, past the accumulation of gore and through to the rooms beyond. To the left there was a fairly formal living area which seemed to double as an office. A large imposing desk sat at the far end of the room. It would have completely swamped most rooms but not this one with its high ceilings and imposing woodwork. The empty base of a think pad sat in the middle of the desk. He hoped Scene of Crime had that.

To the side there were some brown chesterfields congregated round a granite fireplace, above which, there hung a flat screen looking more than a little incongruous. The previous day’s papers were scattered on the coffee table and various empty cups gathered dust as they waited to be cleared.

Burke didn’t need to look much further to know Karpov was a single man.

On the other side of the hallway stood a more formal living room, clearly never used, not a sign of a screen in there.

To the rear there was a kitchen which had not as yet been anointed with the status they generally were these days, especially in this area. It was bereft of a glass extension. There was no AGA or even fitted units to speak of, just a tiled floor, some old cupboards and an overhanging washing pulley that had doubtless seen the smalls of generations. The empty food cartons told a story. This was a takeaway plating-up room. Nothing more. Clearly the maid had quite an uphill battle every morning. He wondered if she could be in the frame. Had he perhaps made her clean that chandelier too many times?