Stephen Leather - Take Two

‘I was joking,’ said Marriott.

‘You’re sure?’

Marriott nodded. ‘I’m sure.’

A SOCO technician in white overalls was picking up pieces of glass with a pair of tweezers and putting them in a clear evidence bag. He was a short man, almost as wide as he was tall, with a greasy comb-over. Biddulph recognised him. John Yates, a SOCO veteran of more than thirty years. Yates grinned when he saw Biddulph. ‘Hello, Mark. Not often I see you outside of office hours.’ He straightened up and nodded at Marriott. ‘How’s it going, Kim?’

‘I could have done without a Thursday night murder, that’s for sure,’ said Marriott.

‘I think you’ll find it was a morning murder,’ said Yates. ‘Time of death probably eleven, maybe twelve. Knife wound to the throat. Left to right so the killer’s right-handed.’

‘From behind? Left to right?’

‘That’s what it looks like. Something wrong with that?’

‘Burglars don’t tend to cut throats from behind, do they? They tend to stab or slash.’

‘Burglars tend to just run when they’re disturbed,’ said Yates. ‘They only get violent if their escape route is blocked.’

‘He definitely died in the front room?’

‘That’s where the blood is.’

‘No sign of the knife?’

Yates shook his head. ‘Probably took it with him.’

‘Probably brought it with him is more to the point,’ said Biddulph. He smiled thinly. ‘No pun intended.’

‘What pun?’ asked Yates.

‘Knife. Point.’

‘That’s not really a pun,’ said Yates. ‘More of a juxtaposition of bladed terms.’

Biddulph looked over at Marriott but she raised her hands. ‘Don’t involve me,’ she said. ‘I’m still trying to work out what’s funny about Little Britain.’

Biddulph walked over to a knife block. There were slots for four knives and all the knives were in place. He pulled open a drawer and looked down at a breadknife and a large carving knife.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Marriott.

Biddulph sighed. ‘I don’t know.’ He closed the drawer and walked back to the sitting room. Marriott followed him. The uniformed sergeant had gone, probably pleased to have washed his hands of the crime scene.

They stood at the body’s feet. Biddulph pointed at the pool of dried blood around the head. ‘He died in this room, that’s for sure. But, like John said, burglars usually only attack when they’re trapped. The first thing a professional housebreaker does is make sure he’s got an avenue of escape. He’ll unlock a door, open a window, he’ll have some way of making a quick exit. And at the first sign they’ve been rumbled, they’re off.’

‘Unless they’re high on drugs.’

‘This happened in the morning and most druggies don’t get up before midday.’

Biddulph walked around the room and went to stand at the head of the body, with his back to the window. ‘The victim was in this room. The burglar broke in through the kitchen. So how does the killing happen here?’

‘Dunbar doesn’t hear the burglar break in. Maybe he’s out at the shops. The burglar is in here. Dunbar comes home. Walks in here and the burglar is trapped.’

Biddulph nodded. ‘Nice,’ he said.

‘You think that’s what happened?’

‘No. But it’s a nice theory.’

‘So where am I wrong?’

‘I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just think it’s unlikely. There’s nowhere in here to hide so I don’t see the burglar can have come up behind him.’

‘Behind the door? Then he grabs Dunbar from behind. Cuts his throat. Then turns as he struggles and dies.’

Biddulph smiled. ‘You really like the disturbed burglar theory, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one. That’s what you always tell me.’

‘Yes. And usually I’m right. But Dunbar worked from home. Any burglar worth his salt would have known that and moved on to easier pickings.’ He held up a hand. ‘And before you say that the burglar could have waited until Dunbar left the house, he was wearing slippers and no coat and no sign he’d brought anything in from the shops.’

‘The burglar could have been drugged up? Not thinking clearly.’

‘Clear enough to kill with one cut? The average druggie tends to lash out a bit more. And other than the broken window, it’s all a bit clean and clinical, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Marriott. ‘Where does that leave us?’

‘With a dead body and a broken window,’ said Biddulph. ‘You might be right. It might be an opportunistic druggie who lost the plot, but let’s have a good look around, shall we?’

Carolyn looked at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to five and there were still two scenes to be shot. It was Friday and the following week was already choc-a-bloc so she knew she wouldn’t be leaving until they had finished. Tracey was working on her hair, putting it up because the next scene was a cocktail party and the director wanted her looking glamorous. Glamorous was all well and good but it meant an hour in make-up and doing the scene in high heels which would play havoc with her ankles all weekend.

A runner popped her head around the door. It was a girl with cropped hair and a nose ring, a new face to Carolyn. ‘Miss Castle? Mr Day wants to see you in his office.’

‘Now?’ said Tracey, two hairpins between her lips. ‘I’m halfway through this.’

‘He said it was important,’ said the runner.

Tracey grunted in annoyance and stepped back from the chair. She took the two pins from her mouth and tossed them into a plastic container in front of the mirror. ‘They think we can just throw your hair together, clearly,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, Tracey. I’ll be right back.’ Carolyn took the blue sheet from around her neck as she stood up, and draped it over the chair. She grimaced at the reflection in the mirror. ‘I look like I’ve just walked through a wind tunnel’.

Tracey handed her a scarf. ‘Wear that,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anyone thinking I did that to your hair.’

Carolyn laughed and put the scarf on the chair. ‘I’ll explain to everyone,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, your reputation is secure.’

Carolyn headed down the corridor to Day’s office, wondering what it was he wanted. It could only be bad news, she was certain of that, and the only bad news she could think of involved her future on the show. Sinead had been optimistic but things could change quickly in TV–Land.

Laura looked up from her computer and frowned when she saw the state of Carolyn’s hair. ‘It’s a work in progress,’ said Carolyn. ‘Paul wants to see me. Is it bad news?’

‘There are two detectives in with him but I don’t know what it’s about,’ she said. She stood up, knocked on Day’s door, and opened it.

Day was sitting on one of his sofas and there was a middle-aged man and a blonde woman on the sofa facing him. Day stood up and hugged her. ‘A couple of policemen want to talk to you, darling,’ he said. ‘Takes me back to my days on The Bill.’ He waved a hand at the two visitors. ‘Inspector Marriott and Sergeant Biddulph.’

‘It’s the other way around, actually,’ said the man standing up. He flashed a warrant card. ‘Inspector Biddulph. My colleague is Sergeant Marriott.’

Carolyn’s heart raced and she felt light-headed. ‘Has something happened to Robbie?’

‘Robbie?’ repeated the detective, frowning.

‘My son. Robbie. Is he okay?’

‘We’re not here about your son, Mrs Castle,’ said Marriott.

Carolyn put her hand over her heart. ‘Thank God for that. You scared the life out of me.’

Biddulph waved at the sofa next to Day. ‘Please just have a seat while we ask you a few questions.’