Robert Parker - Snow Storm

He tiptoed across the now sticky red hall and found a dining room to the other side, table set in anticipation of something, though the cutlery looked to have gathered some dust.

He carefully climbed the creaky oak staircase to the first floor and made his way into what must be the master bedroom. As in the case of the formal sitting room below, this sat on a rounded turret like section of the building, which faced south and got the best of the light owing to the vast semi panoramic window. This room seemed opulent in contrast to the others. A large amount of gold leaf and an almost over the top collection of neo-classical sculpture was on display, quite out of character with the rest of the house. An en-suite led off the bedroom. There were more flat screens in here. Burke found a remote by the four poster bed, switched the largest one on and was immediately accosted by the image of himself staring back from beside the bed. Interesting.

There seemed to be no way of playing anything back at hand, so he would leave it with the forensics guys on the way out.

The rest of the house again seemed fairly standard: another four bedrooms three of which had en-suites and all of which looked like they’d been decorated by someone looking to sell the place. There appeared to be an attic but no one had the key. He would see about getting hold of that along with the laptop later.

“Any sign of security cameras Doc?” He asked as he creaked downstairs.

“Give us time, Jim,” Brown replied.

He was now leaning over the recently de-chandeliered remains of what Burke realised was a red dragon-kimonoed victim, picking up what appeared to be fragments of shattered skull with a pair of tweezers and placing them on sample containers of some sort.

“I haven’t heard anything about any additional ones besides the ones on the front gate. That’s not to say they’re recording ones anyway, may just be a type of intercom with no storage.”

“Might not want to have a record of comings and goings.” Burke agreed.

“Didn’t matter in the long run I suppose.”

“No.”

“You might want to look at the hardware upstairs though.”

“Really, how so?”

“Well it seems our boy had his boudoir wired for playback. Couldn’t find any kind of storage though.”

“Kinky.” The good doctor replied scratching one of his many chins. “Might be with that laptop we’re missing.”

He called in at home on the way back to the station, hoping to cadge some kind of food now Rachel was up and about.

The letter had arrived this morning, amongst the usual flotsam and jetsam issued by the banks and everyone else that was encouraging him to spend money.

He left the bank statements in their envelopes as usual. And rifled through to the bottom of the pile. This one only caught his attention because of the fact it had nothing on it and must have been dropped off by hand, probably some kind of leaflet he thought. But the envelope seemed wrong, too expensive.

He tore it open and pulled a letter from inside; cheap printer paper, inkjet printer, times new roman font.

Dear Inspector Burke,

Sometimes it’s best just to bury the dead.

You might want to think about new arrivals instead of overdue departures.

Regards

A concerned observer

What the fuck? Who? How dare they? How could they?

“What’s up? Energy bill gone up again?” Rachel asked.

He hadn’t seen her. He wondered how much of his reaction she had seen. “Something like that,” he replied, pocketing the letter and the envelope, knowing it would be of practically no use. “I’m feeling the heat anyway.” He smiled, hoping that would suffice.

Rachel smiled back but with a questioning frown.

Everyone had inkjet printers these days and the thing about posh envelopes was that they didn’t require licking.

He locked himself in the bathroom and threw up as quietly as possible.

Giles Herriot-Watt stood on the harbour admiring the craft before him, like a man in his position may have admired the form of a fine thoroughbred steed in centuries gone by. She was something to behold; the Brentwood Viking, sleek, long, light and yet most importantly in possession of brutal power. Her red haunches shone in the winter sun as the gathered hack photographers and assorted slack jawed yokels took in her magnificence.

Drink it in his inner voice declared. It’s more than you’ll ever afford.

They lowered her down the slipway into the mouth of the cold river to much applause. She was suddenly alive, snorting fire, as the two man crew waved to their enthusiastic audience. The publicity was important of course. It was imperative they were seen to be doing such things, adding a touch of glamour to the area, giving them something they’d never see the likes of again.

He cracked a bottle of Moet & Chandon; hardly Crystal but what did it matter on such an occasion. Not like anyone here would know the difference. He preferred to keep the Crystal he had expense accounted and use it to impress the ladies; the ones who knew the difference, the ones who knew what clothes to wear and were seen at the right functions, the ones with the right breeding. Again his mind turned to thoroughbreds. He appreciated the equine form, knew one end of the animal from the other. He could happily watch a race or three given the right quantities of the bubbly stuff and possibly some of the old marching powder. And polo; that was fine and obviously a decent social lubricant, but the horses didn’t like him. That was for sure.

He charged the glasses of the local provost and a reporter from the Galloway Advertiser he might think about getting the number of later and smiled as he took it all in, this spectacle he’d created. Brentwood Viking roared to life on top of a foam pillow and her nose lifted as she powered along the side of the harbour. The crew waved at some local kids as they ran along the wooden walkways in pursuit. They tucked themselves down into their respective cockpits as she howled higher still and powered out into the bay for the nautical dressage display.

“It’s a real boon for the area,” he heard the provost say and turned to say something along the lines of the firm being delighted but instead he couldn’t resist simply saying yes. The provost looked slightly wrong footed which of course had been his intention and Giles set about reeling her back in.

At times he couldn’t resist saying such things just for the hell of it, just to screw around with people’s minds and challenge his manipulation skills. “As, of course is the area to us. I mean let’s face it where better to test in secret than a place such as this?”

“True,” the reporter replied.

“And as an added bonus I get to enjoy some of its,” he looked at the reporter, made a point of doing so, “more natural beauties.”

She giggled slightly, covering her mouth in a modest gesture he heartily approved of. He knew what he would be doing for the rest of the week.

“Of course it would be good if we didn’t go into too much detail, as we agreed. We don’t want everyone to know exactly what we are doing now do we?”

“No,” she agreed, as the provost suddenly found she had somewhere else to be and Giles congratulated himself on being such a skilled manipulator of the press.

John Campbell was in his element. The building he had entered felt as if it should be home. If cop shops looked like they did on CSI, this would be home.

He announced his arrival with the receptionist who looked pissed off in that way people did when they truthfully didn’t give a flying fuck but wanted the world and his wife to think they did because, what? It made them a better person somehow? Hell no. Better to be honest than dish out conciliatory smiles that you could tell weren’t real anyway. The delicate turning up of the corners of the lips said concern but the eyes said “anyway moving swiftly on.”