Simon Kernick - The Murder Exchange

‘Stay back!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t touch anything! This is a murder scene!’

Then I looked across at Berrin, whose hair was now standing on end. His face was as white as a ghost’s and he was staring off into space. ‘Oh my God,’ he kept saying, over and over again.

I looked down at the blank dead eyes gazing up at me, then at the familiar tattoos on the upper and lower arms. A Chinese dragon on the left, a military emblem on the right. ‘Shit,’ I said as I stared down at the corpse of Craig McBride and wondered why on earth he should be lying dead in the apartment of a woman he was not even meant to know.

I called Capper from the Lackers’ apartment, where Mr Lacker was mopping Mrs Lacker’s brow with a damp cloth, while Berrin sat bolt upright in his original chair, sipping the tea Mrs Lacker had poured him five minutes and one cuddle from a corpse ago. He didn’t look too good, which was hardly surprising.

Capper answered on about the tenth ring and I told him what had happened. ‘What the hell was McBride doing in her flat?’ he demanded, as if it was somehow my fault.

‘I don’t know.’

‘And there’s no sign of her anywhere?’

‘Nothing that I can see.’

‘Have you touched anything in there?’

‘No, we’ve secured the scene, but you’re the first person I’ve called.’

‘Any indication how he died?’

‘Well, there was no blood but I didn’t really look too closely. Put it this way, he was all right this time yesterday so, whatever it is, I wouldn’t think it’s natural causes.’

‘All right, wait where you are and make sure no one contaminates the scene. What’s the address?’

I gave it to him, said my goodbyes, and put down the phone. I looked over at the Lackers. Mrs Lacker appeared to be coming back to earth. ‘It was horrible,’ she said as her husband continued to dab her brow. ‘Something like that in a respectable neighbourhood like this.’

‘I know this is a difficult question, but did you happen to recognize the deceased? Is he someone you’ve seen here before?’

Mrs Lacker gasped melodramatically as if I’d just asked for her bust measurements. ‘I don’t know, I didn’t see. All I remember was him falling into the doorway and then … And then, that’s it.’ She finished the sentence with another gasp and her head fell back on the seat.

‘Mr Lacker,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t see either. I was too busy looking after Margaret.’

‘That wasn’t what I was going to ask. I know it’s not going to be easy but I’d appreciate it if you could come in with me, view the deceased, and let me know whether you’ve ever seen him here before. It could prove very helpful.’

‘What do you think’s happened to Jean?’ asked Mrs Lacker worriedly.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, thinking that I wouldn’t mind an answer to that question as well. ‘Mr Lacker?’ He nodded and stood up. ‘Dave, you stay here and look after Mrs Lacker. OK?’

Berrin nodded, beginning to look slightly healthier now. ‘Sure.’

I led Mr Lacker back into Jean’s apartment, again reminding him not to touch anything, and walked back through the darkened hallway to where the body lay. Mr Lacker paused a few feet behind me, and put his hand against the wall to steady himself. ‘It’s so stifling in here, isn’t it?’ he said, sounding breathless. ‘I don’t know how you can do this sort of thing every day, I really don’t. I’ve got nothing but admiration for you.’

‘It’s not an everyday occurrence, thank goodness,’ I told him, thinking that it was a rare day anyone said they were full of admiration for me. ‘If it was, I don’t think I’d be able to handle it.’ And I wasn’t sure if I would have been. The longer you’re in the job, the more you become hardened to the horrors around you, but the sight of Craig McBride’s stiff, lifeless body, sucked dry of personality, of everything, depressed me in a way I find difficult to describe. Particularly as the previous day I’d been holding a conversation with him. It might not have been a very pleasant one, but that was hardly the point. He’d been alive, now he was gone. Permanently.

I stepped out of the way so Mr Lacker could see Craig’s face. He looked quickly, then looked away, still standing a few feet back. ‘Take your time,’ I told him. ‘There’s no hurry.’

He stayed where he was for a couple of seconds, then steeled himself, took a couple of steps forward, and looked again. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him before,’ he said, turning away. ‘On two or three occasions.’

‘Thank you for that,’ I said, leading him back towards the front door.

At that moment, there was a commotion from outside, the front door opened, and a giant of a man about ten years my senior, dressed in an illfitting black suit, stepped inside. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he barked. ‘This is a crime scene. Who are you?’

‘I’m DS John Gallan,’ I said, stopping in front of him. ‘And this is Peter Lacker, the neighbour.’

‘Well, I’m DI Burley and I’m taking over from here. And you two are contaminating a crime scene. Have you touched anything?’

‘No.’

‘Well, get out then. SOCO are going to be here in a few minutes and we’ve got to seal everything off.’

He motioned bluntly towards the door with his head, and we stepped past him into the hall where several uniformed officers were standing. Burley followed us out. After I’d led Mr Lacker back into his own flat, he put a large, hairy hand on my shoulder and half-pushed me over to the top of the stairs. I was going to tell him that as far as I was aware we were on the same side, so he could ease up if he liked on the tough-guy routine, but I never got the chance. He was talking before my lips even parted.

‘What were you doing back in there with the neighbour? Seeing if you could fuck up the crime scene as much as possible? Have you forgotten what the procedures are, or did you just never bother to learn them?’

‘Did you get out of bed the wrong side or are you always this charming?’

I thought he was going to pick me up then and chuck me down the stairs. I’m not a small bloke — I’m close to six feet tall — but there was no questioning the fact that he could have managed it. His sharp little eyes, by far the daintiest features on his long, heavy-jawed face, blazed angrily. ‘That’s another thing you obviously haven’t learnt then, that a DI’s a superior officer to a DS and therefore a DS should speak to a DI with a measure of fucking respect, and address him as sir. And apologize when he fucking forgets that.’ His words were spoken in a loud hiss through teeth that looked like they usually spent their time gritted, and whether I liked it or not (and I didn’t, I can assure you), what he was saying was correct. I took solace in the fact that a man as rude, angry and clearly stressed as DI Burley was not going to live to a ripe old age, surrounded by loving relatives hanging on to his every word of wisdom.

‘I was just doing my job, sir,’ I told him, emphasizing the sir. I held his gaze, knowing that the only way a person gets intimidated is if he lets himself. I’d done way too many miles for that to happen.

‘Well, you’re not doing very fucking well. So, I understand you know who the corpse is, is that right?’

‘That’s right. His name’s Craig McBride. We spoke to him yesterday in connection with a murder.’

‘But he doesn’t live here?’

‘No, the apartment belongs to a Jean Tanner. We came here to see her, but she wasn’t here. He was.’

‘What were you interested in her for?’

I explained what we knew in short, sullen sentences, giving him more of an overview of the Matthews case than the bastard deserved. As I was finishing, Berrin came over to join us. Burley turned round and saw him. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ he said. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Not used to stiffs, then?’