Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

They had dropped a shaken but still protesting Kath Warren at the station to give her statement, and Kincaid had called for uniformed backup to meet them at the council estate. If Kincaid was right and Jason Nesbitt had killed at least two people, he wasn’t going to take his team in unprotected.

They found the flat on the back side of the estate. The paint on the door was bubbled and flaking, and half the number hung askew. There was no bell.

“Definitely no urban regeneration going on here,” muttered Cullen, a sure sign that he was nervous.

Kincaid pounded on the door. He’d expected reluctance or refusal to answer at all, since Nesbitt had vanished from the shelter like a man with flight on his mind. He’d sent one of the uniformed officers round the back to cover the balcony and windows, and fully intended to wait at the front until they could get a warrant, if there was no response to his knocking, but the door swung open almost immediately.

Jason stared out at them, then gave a panicked glance towards the rear of the flat. His hair stood on end, his tie was loose, and the tail of his lilac shirt hung half out of his trousers. “Keep it down, will you? Me mum’s asleep in the back.” His carefully cultivated accent seemed to have slipped, as well as his tie. “Look, I’ve already told you everything I-”

“And you’ve been very helpful, so I’m sure you won’t mind if we come in and ask a few more questions,” Kincaid said.

“I’ve got to go. My auntie’s not well-” The blood ran from Jason’s face as he glimpsed the two uniformed officers behind Cullen and Bell. “What-”

“I don’t think you lads need come in quite yet,” Kincaid told the uniforms, then stepped neatly by Jason. When Cullen and Bell followed, Jason retreated to the center of the room.

The place was a tip, and stunk of alcohol, old cigarettes, and unwashed flesh. Not Jason, Kincaid thought, as the young man had always appeared scrupulously clean at work. At the back of the room an open suitcase lay on the floor, half filled, not with clothes, but with expensive electronics.

“Taking the telly, too, are you, Jason?” Kincaid asked conversationally.

Maura looked round the room appraisingly. “I’m surprised someone hasn’t relieved you of this stuff, in this neighborhood. Or of your car.” They’d spotted his new-model Renault, reluctantly described by Kath Warren, on the side street nearest the flat.

“Is this what you normally pack for a visit to your sick auntie?” Kincaid poked about in the suitcase. “Kent, I think Kath said? And you drove to Kent on Saturday as well. You’re a very conscientious nephew.”

Jason swiveled another panicked glance at the front door, then the rear of the flat. “Look, tell me what you want, then bugger off, okay? I’ve got to go.”

“Were you in such a hurry on Saturday, too?” Kincaid asked mildly. “Friday must have been hard for you, waiting, with the police all over everything like flies. Where did you keep Laura’s clothes, in the boot of your car? And yours, too – you must have got blood all over one of your expensive shirts. A shame, that.” Kincaid felt his phone vibrate, an unwelcome distraction. He ignored it and let the call go to voice mail.

“Is there really an aunt in Kent?” asked Maura, taking the ball. “Or did you just drive outside London somewhere and chuck the things in a roadside bin? Only thing is, you’d be surprised at what people manage to find and turn in to the police. Nosy buggers, humans.”

A sheen of sweat had appeared on Jason’s brow, and his eyes rolled wildly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but his voice cracked.

“And then there’s the forensics,” Maura went on with a smile. “In spite of all the shows on the telly, people still underestimate the forensics. You will have left traces in your car, Jason, and we will find them. A smudge of Laura’s blood, a single hair. Oh, and we found a fingerprint in the blood on the board you used to bludgeon Laura – a good print, very clear.”

“And that’s not to mention Beverly Brown,” Kincaid added. “The pathologist found skin cells under her fingernails. That’s the problem with choking people, they do tend to struggle a bit. Did she see you arguing with Laura that night, from her window?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jason shouted at them, his voice rising into a sob.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, though. Why did you set the fire in the warehouse, when you’d already bashed Laura’s face in?”

“I didn’t set any fire,” said Jason, shaking his head, spittle forming on his lips. “You don’t understand. You have to let me – I have to go-”

The smell of urine reached Kincaid’s nose, and he looked away from the spreading stain on Jason’s trousers, feeling sick. “You don’t seem to understand, Jason. I doubt you’re going anywhere for a long time. We’re processing a warrant for your arrest for the murders of Laura Novak and Beverly Brown. We may be able to charge you as an accessory in the death of Clover Howes as well.

“What did Laura find out, Jason? Did one of the women’s husbands have an attack of conscience and talk to her? Or did she threaten to track them all down until one of them admitted the truth?”

Emotions flitted across Jason’s mobile face – fear, caution, then venom won out. “Laura was an interfering bitch who could never keep her nose out of things that didn’t concern her,” Jason spat at them, his face contorting with hatred. “She should have-”

“Jason!” The woman’s voice came from behind Kincaid. “Jason, I told you to keep yer bloody noise down, din’t I?”

Kincaid turned and stared, appalled. Past middle age, blowsy, the woman had a rat’s nest of peroxided hair and a mask of makeup that had slipped down her face as if she were melting. She was clad only in a stained wrapper that revealed far too much of her sagging breasts, and she reeked of gin, but not even the weight and the paint could completely disguise the resemblance to her son.

“Jason, did you get me ciggies, like I asked yer?” She looked round at the detectives blearily. “Who’re these wankers? Get ’em out of me frigging sitting room before I knock yer silly.”

“Shut up, Mum.” Jason looked at the others, and his mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “You self-righteous bastards,” he said, levelly now. He made a gesture encompassing the flat and his mother. “You fucking, self-righteous bastards. Why don’t you ask yourselves what you would do to get out of this?”

The window of the flat above the Indian takeaway was flung wide. A curtain at its edge moved lightly with the breeze, then hung still again. The sound of a radio could be heard, faintly, above the noise of the busy road.

Rose and Bill Farrell stood on the pavement, studying the place as unobtrusively as they could manage. They were both wearing civvies, and had left the FIT van a block away. They didn’t want to put the wind up Braidwood until they’d had a chance to talk to him.

“Someone’s living there,” said Farrell. “Let’s have a word in the takeaway.” They went in, assaulted by the smell of hot oil and spices, and Rose felt herself salivate from hunger while her stomach cramped with anxiety over what they might discover. She let Farrell go up to the counter.

“We wondered if you knew the guy who lives upstairs?” Farrell asked the dark-skinned Indian working the cash register. “We were looking for a Jimmy Braidwood.”

“Don’t know his name. Funny bloke. Never speaks. No hi, how are you, how’s the weather - you know what I mean?”

“No chitchat,” offered Rose, smiling, and the man smiled back.

“I have to remember that. Chitchat.” He looked at them more closely. “You official something? No badges, but you have that look.”