Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

“About what?”

“The happy birthday balloon.”

“I had to, now I had it in my hands. I thought perhaps it belonged to the people in the house, so I knocked on the door. They said it wasn’t theirs, but they’d noticed some yellow balloons a couple of days ago tied to the gatepost of a house in Steven Street.”

“Steven Street?” My interest quickened. “What number?”

“Can’t remember. These people — the people in Melrose with the willow tree — were a bit surprised because they thought the house belonged to an elderly couple. Old people don’t have balloons on their birthdays, do they?”

“So you tried the house in Steven Street,” I said, giving the narrative a strong shove.

“I did, and they were at home and really appreciated my thoughtfulness. All their other balloons had got loose and were blown away, so this was the only one left. I asked if the old lady was called Susie, thinking I’d wish her a happy birthday. She was not. She was called something totally unlike Susie. I think it was Agatha, or Augusta. Or it may have been Antonia.”

“Doesn’t matter, Nathan. Go on.”

“They invited me in to meet Susie. They said she’d just had her seventh birthday and — would you believe it? — she was a dog. One of the smallest I’ve ever seen, with large ears and big, bulgy eyes.”

“Chihuahua.”

“No, Susie. Definitely Susie. The surprising thing was that this tiny pooch had a room to herself, with scatter cushions and squeaky toys and a little television that was playing Lassie Come Home. But the minute she set eyes on me she started barking. Then she ran out, straight past me, fast as anything. The back door of the house was open and she got out. The old man panicked a bit and said Susie wasn’t allowed in the garden without her lead. She was so small that they were afraid of losing her through a gap in the fence. I felt responsible for frightening her, so I ran into the garden after her, trying to keep her in sight. I watched her dash away across the lawn. Unfortunately I didn’t notice there was a goldfish pond in my way. I stepped into it, slipped and landed face down in the water.”

“Things certainly happen to you, Nathan.”

He took this as a compliment and grinned. “The good thing was that Susie came running back to see what had happened and the old lady picked her up. I was soaking and covered in slime and duckweed, so they told me I couldn’t possibly walk through the streets like that. The old man found me a suit to wear. He said it didn’t fit him any more and I could keep it.”

“All right,” I said, seizing an opportunity to interrupt the flow. “You’ve answered my question. Now I know why you were wearing a suit the wrong size.”

He shrugged again. He seemed to have forgotten where this had started.

It was a good moment to stop the video and take a break.

Morgan the detective watched the interview on the screen in my office, making sounds of dissent at regular intervals. When it was over, he asked, “Did you believe a word of that? The guy’s a fantasist. He should be a writer.”

“Some of it fits the facts,” I pointed out. “I believe there was a circus here last weekend. And I know for certain that the cable-laying in the High Street caused some problems after it was done.”

“The fact I’m concerned about is the killing of the old couple at twenty-nine, Steven Street, at the approximate time this Nathan was supposed to be on his way to the post.”

“You made that clear to me yesterday,” I said. “I put it to him today and he denies all knowledge of it.”

“He’s lying. His story’s full of holes. You notice he ducked your question about having a letter in his hand?”

“Popping round to the post is only a form of words.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning he’s going out. He needs space. He doesn’t mean it literally.”

“I’d put a different interpretation on it. It’s his way of glossing over a double murder.”

“That’s a big assumption, isn’t it?”

“He admitted walking up the left side of Steven Street.”

“Well, he would. It’s on his way to the High Street.”

“You seem to be taking his side.”

“I’m trying to hold onto the truth. In my work as a therapist that’s essential.” I resisted the urge to point out that policemen should have a care for the truth as well.

“Are those his case notes on your desk?” Morgan said.

“Yes.”

“Any record of violence?”

“You heard him. He’s a softie.”

“Soft in the head. The murders seem to have been random and without motive. A sweet old couple who never caused anyone any grief. In a case like this we examine all the options, but I’d stake my reputation this was done by a nutter.”

“That’s not a term I use, Inspector.”

“Call him what you like, we both know what I mean. A sane man doesn’t go round cutting people’s throats for no obvious reason. Nothing was taken. They had valuable antiques in the house and over two hundred pounds in cash.”

“Would that have made it more acceptable in your eyes, murder in the course of theft?”

“I’d know where he was coming from, wouldn’t I?”

“What about the crime scene? Doesn’t that give you any information?”

“It’s a bloody mess, that’s for sure. All the forensic tests are being carried out. The best hope is that the killer picked up some blood that matches the old couple’s DNA. He couldn’t avoid getting some on him. If we had the clothes Nathan was wearing that afternoon, we’d know for sure. He seems to have destroyed everything. He’s not so daft as he makes out.”

“The suit he borrowed?”

“Went out with the rubbish collection, he says. It didn’t fit, so it was useless to him, and the old man didn’t want it back.”

“Makes sense.”

“Certainly does. We’re assuming the killer stripped and took a shower at the house after the murders and then bundled his own clothes into a plastic sack and put on a suit from the old man’s wardrobe. Very likely helped himself to some clean shoes as well.”

“I’m no forensic expert, but if he did all that, surely he must have left some DNA traces about the house?”

“We hope so. Then we’ll have him, and I look forward to telling you about it.”

“What about the other suspect?”

There was a stunned silence. Morgan folded his arms and glared at me, as if I was deliberately provoking him.

“Just in case,” I said, “you may find it helpful to watch the video of an interview I did later this morning with a man called Jon.”

I knew Jon from many hours of psychotherapy. He sat hunched, as always, hands clasped, eyes downturned, a deeply repressed, passive personality.

“Jon,” my unseen voice said, “how long have you lived in that flat at the end of Steven Street?”

He sighed. “Three years. Maybe longer.”

“That must be about right. I’ve been seeing you for more than two years. And you still live alone?”

A nod.

“You manage pretty well, shopping and cooking, and so on. It’s an achievement just surviving in this modern world. But I expect there’s some time left over. What do you enjoy doing most?”

“Don’t know.”

“Watching television?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t have a computer?”

He shook his head.

“Do you get out of the house, apart from shopping and coming here?”

“I suppose.”

“You go for walks?”

He frowned as if straining to hear some distant sound.

“Just to get fresh air and exercise,” I said. “You live in a nice area. The gardens are full of flowers in spring and summer. I think you do get out quite a bit.”