Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

Dave dropped me at the end of road and I waited until he’d gone before wrapping myself in concealment and making my way to the back of the flats. I could have tried the front, but I already knew the door was warded with the horseshoe I had come to collect. If, on the other hand, it was a crime scene, then I didn’t want to be going through the front anyway. The back entrance I had used before would serve me better in either case.

Even so, I waited some time in the shadows across from the fire escape, looking for signs of movement or people showing an interest in the flat. When I was sure it was quiet I began drawing power from the surroundings. Lights flickered in the flats in the row, and a chill wind blew down the alley. As the world faded to parchment thinness, I stepped through the intervening space and was on the balcony. I waited again, hearing the normal sounds return. The flats above me were both occupied, but this time no one crossed the fire escape between them offering candles. Perhaps the hint had been taken.

I waited still, partly out of caution and partly out from the dread of seeing the flat again, knowing this time that Claire was really dead. I steeled myself and tried the door slowly, finding it reassuringly locked. It was a moment’s work to trip the lock, step inside and close the door behind me. Light filtering in from outside cast soft shadows into the hall from behind me. Faint noises from neighbours filtered through into the flat, but it was otherwise silent. It was so quiet, I could hear myself breathing. It was then that I realised what was missing.

I stepped forward and clicked on the light. The glow reflected from the white walls and illuminated the passage between kitchen and sitting room. Instead of the smell of dried blood and rotting food, there was the faint aroma of emulsion paint and the smell of bleach. In the kitchen there was washing up dry on the drainer. The sink was empty, the bowl dry. There were no rotting peppers, no half cooked meal. It looked how Claire might have left it if she’d gone to work, or had a weekend away. In the sitting room there was no sign of the blood-spattered walls and mirror, or the hacked up furniture. Instead the mirror reflected back a pleasant living space, with straightened rugs, carefully arranged lamps and strategically placed nick-nacks. The sofa had been replaced with a similar but subtly different one, slightly worn, with cushions plumped up and resting in the corners. The bathroom was similarly clean, and smelled mildly of bleach. The carpets, the walls, even the lampshades had been cleaned.

My first thought was that the landlord had cleaned up ready for another tenant, but it was surely too soon for that. Looking around I came to the conclusion that this wasn’t for the tenants or the landlord. This had been done for the investigation. Someone had cleaned up, setting everything just so before the police got here. Given the timing, it may be that the police hadn’t even been to the flat yet — they had no reason to link the murder with her home, though they would probably check here eventually, perhaps once they had informed the next of kin.

Checking the front door, I found that the horseshoe that warded it had also gone, which raised a second question. Who would remove a horseshoe from a door? Where would they take it? Why would they take it? The front door was locked and the lock was deadlocked from the inside. What did that tell me?

I went back through the flat slowly, comparing my memory of what had been here with what I could now see. If I hadn’t seen it for myself I would not have believed it. It didn’t even smell of paint very much. Yes, there was a vague aroma, but nothing that would prompt you to think it had been recently redecorated. Who had the resources to do that before the police got here, and why would they deploy those resources to cover up the state of Claire’s flat? She hadn’t even died here. The only blood here, as far as I knew, was from her attacker.

And perhaps there was the clue. The one thing that had been here that should not have been here was the blood. It wasn’t even human blood. Was that why it had been cleaned, so that no one would take samples and start analysing it for matches, running its DNA through databases and poking into things which they would rather leave undisturbed?

I stood in the flat and turned slowly, coming gradually to the conclusion that there was nothing for me here. What I had come for had been taken, and the flat had been wiped to remove any trace of me or anyone else. Once again I wiped the light switches, removing any trace of where I had touched. I turned off the lights and opened the door to the fire escape, standing in the open doorway. I couldn’t help the nagging feeling that I had missed something. I closed the door and turned the lights back on using the hem of my jacket sleeve, and walked slowly around the flat again. I went into the kitchen and turned around slowly. That was when I saw it. On the fridge was a note attached by a magnet.

Meet Niall on Paddington Green 19/10.

There were no other magnets on the fridge, which was what had been nagging at me. Normally people who put magnets on fridges had loads of them, reminders, mementos, little heart-warming messages, but this was one alone. There was no sign of any other magnets and a quick look around revealed no other notes or reminders. I tried to remember if it had been there when I last came to the flat, but with all the blood and the mess I might easily have missed something that mundane.

There’d been no arrangement between Claire and I to meet in October, assuming that 19/10 was meant to indicate the nineteenth. Paddington Green was an area behind Paddington Station, not far from Edgware Road. It had improved since the modernisation of the station — that whole area had used to be a haven for muggers and low-life. Even now, it wasn’t an area a woman alone would care to linger. So why would Claire arrange to meet there? Was she meeting shady characters for some reason connected to her role as clerk? That didn’t seem likely, and if she didn’t normally leave notes on the fridge, why leave one that was months out of date? Was it there as reminder of something, or did I have a namesake she’d met in October?

But what if the note wasn’t left by Claire? What if it had been put there after she’d been murdered by whoever had cleaned up the flat? If so, why did it have my name on it? Was it meant to implicate me? I tried to remember where I’d been on 19 thOctober, but that was months ago. Was there something special about that day? If it was meant as a clue, it was a particularly obscure one. It was odd. There wasn’t enough information there, and anyone else finding it might be intrigued by the incongruity of it but they would be hard-pressed to make anything out of it.

Unless that was its purpose. A note left that only the person it was intended for would find or be able to make anything of. Everyone else would walk past it, but the person whose name was on it would look twice. Was it meant for me? If that was the case then it must have been left by someone who knew there was a connection between us. Still, there was no point in leaving a note for me that was months out of date.

So if 19/10 wasn’t a date, what was it? A meeting needed a date, a time and a place. It had a place, and it had a date, but no time. What if 19/10 wasn’t a date, but a time? What if it was 19:10? If that was true then we had a time but no date. What kind of meeting didn’t need a date? Only a meeting that was today. Taking the note carefully from under the magnet, I pocketed it.

I would get Big Dave to drop me at Paddington Green, and this time I would be taking my sword.

As soon as the hand released her, Alex drew a breath to yell for help. The hand clamped back over her mouth. “Mmmmmmm!” she squealed through the hand.