James Carol - The Quiet Man

The hall walls were white and completely bare. There were no photographs, no paintings, no mirrors. No personal touches whatsoever. Nothing that said ‘this is where I live’. The space was cold and unwelcoming. Given Gifford’s profession, Winter would have expected to see a photograph or two. He took a closer look at the nearest wall. There were patches where the paintwork was brighter. He ran his fingertips over the wall, felt the way the texture of the plaster changed. There had been picture hooks here once upon a time. Quite a few, by the looks of things. After they were removed, the holes had been plastered over and smoothed out and the affected areas repainted.

Out of habit Winter sniffed the air. No dead bodies. No smell at all, really. Which was almost as unusual as the lack of pictures. Most houses held the aroma of the last meal prepared there. Which meant that it had been a while since the kitchen had seen any cooking. Which made him wonder how long Gifford had been gone for. The old woman a couple of doors down would be able to answer that. She’d know everything that was happening around here.

The first door led to the living room. Like the hall, the walls were white and completely bare. There had been pictures here as well once upon a time, dozens of them. All of the hooks had been removed, the marks plastered and painted over. The TV had a layer of dust on the screen and didn’t look as though it had been used for a while. There were no cushions on the sofa and the bookcase was empty. The room had the temporary feel of Eric Kirchner’s apartment. Where it differed was that this furniture hadn’t been picked up cheap in a thrift store. Someone had gone to the trouble of co-ordinating this room. The drapes were a shade of pink that complemented the red sofa, and the furniture styles blended to create a pleasing whole.

‘This is weird,’ Anderton said. ‘So does he live here or not?’

‘I know what you mean.’

The next room gave an answer to Anderton’s question. It was half the size of the living room. At some point in time it might have been a study or a dining room. It was filled with Gifford’s photography gear. His lighting gear was stored neatly against the back wall. There were lights on tripods, umbrellas, diffusers and a small A-frame stepladder. A tall rack of steel shelves held everything else he might need. It was arranged methodically, a section for each item. Cameras, lenses, filters. The bags on the bottom shelf were grouped according to size. The largest on the left, the smallest on the right.

The window had a heavy wooden shutter that blocked all the light. A desk had been positioned beneath it. There was a computer tower underneath the desk and a large high-resolution monitor on top. Winter sat down and glanced over his shoulder. Anderton was busy examining the shelves, looking but not touching. He hit the on button and the computer buzzed and clicked through the first part of the booting procedure before grinding to a halt with a password popup in the middle of the screen. He hunted around for an adhesive note containing a scribbled password reminder. It was a long shot and it didn’t pay off. He tried the underside of the desk. Nothing stuck there, either.

For a moment he sat wondering what the password might be. The problem was that he’d only just made Gifford’s acquaintance. He typed in his name. No space, the ‘I’s in Billy and Gifford substituted with ones, the ‘O’ substituted with a zero. An incorrect password warning flashed up on the screen. He tried again, this time using William instead of Billy. Ones for the ‘I’s, a four for the ‘A’. Still no joy. He didn’t try a third time. They might only get three strikes. Having the hard drive wipe itself wouldn’t help anyone.

‘This is probably a job for the police’s department’s IT geniuses,’ Anderton said at his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, though, if they find anything, we’ll know about it.’

Winter rolled back from the desk and spun around to face her. ‘Yeah, but there’s nothing to beat seeing things first hand.’

The next door led to the kitchen. Like the hall and the living room the marks made by the picture hooks had been painted over, and there was no sense that Gifford actually lived here. Winter felt like he’d stepped into a show house. What was actually in here was almost as interesting as what wasn’t. There was a kettle and a toaster, but aside from that the work surfaces were clear. There was no microwave, no knife nest, no scales, no recipe books, no clutter anywhere. The sink was clear of dishes and gleaming. The stove was gleaming, too. The water in the kettle was cold, but it had been used at some point in time. The crumb tray in the toaster was clean, but there were a few stray crumbs, which indicated that this had been used at some point as well.

The first cupboard he opened was empty. The second had a single cup, bowl and plate, all lined up neatly on the lowest shelf. The third was filled with pots of Cup Noodles. The cutlery drawer contained one fork, one knife and one spoon. The drawer next to it contained a pile of dish towels, all white, all neatly folded. All the other drawers were empty. There wasn’t even a pair of scissors.

‘You’ve got to see this,’ Anderton called out.

She was over by the refrigerator. Both doors were open and she was peering into it. There was a dozen packets of ham on the middle shelf, all sealed and all within their sell-by date. The bottom shelf held four large tubs of margarine. No juice or milk in the door, no salad stuff in the drawer. She pulled open the top drawer of the freezer section. It was filled with loaves of bread.

‘The other two drawers are exactly the same.’

‘It looks like Gifford is existing on a diet of toast, ham sandwiches and instant noodles.’

‘Which is just plain weird.’

‘It’s also pragmatic. The less time he spends cooking, the more time he’s got to pursue his other interests.’

‘Like stalking his victims and watching the husbands,’ Anderton suggested.

‘Yeah, exactly like that.’

The window overlooked the small backyard. One third was decking and the remaining two-thirds was covered with an overgrown lawn. High fences shielded the yard from the neighbours. There was nothing on the decking. No chairs, no table, no barbecue, no planters. They left the kitchen and went upstairs. There were four doors leading off the landing, all closed. The first bedroom had empty closets, empty drawers and no linen on the bed. Ditto for the second.

The main bedroom was behind the third door. There was evidence that Gifford had been here at some point. The quilt was dumped in the middle of the bed and the pillows had been left at an angle. The top drawer of the bureau held his underwear. Boxer shorts folded neatly on the left, socks balled neatly on the right. All the other drawers were empty. His clothes were in the closet. Plain white button-down shirts hanging to the left, tan chinos hanging to the right. The shoe rack at the bottom of the closet held two pairs of brown loafers. The leather was shining.

Anderton appeared at his shoulder. ‘Looks like he’s as pragmatic with his clothes as he is with his eating habits.’

‘It certainly looks that way.’

‘Why?’

‘Because every life contains a finite amount of hours and minutes. Say you sleep eight hours a night, then that’s one third of your life taken up right there. So what are you going to do with the other two-thirds? If we asked Gifford that question he’d tell us that he wasn’t going to waste it deciding what to wear or eat.’

‘That’s pretty extreme.’

‘So is strapping a homemade bomb to someone’s chest.’

The fourth door opened on to the bathroom. There was a single towel on the rail and one toothbrush in the holder. This room told them as little as the preceding ones. Which, in its own strange way was telling. Anderton turned to face him.