The Murder Map Read online

  PC Mills responded to his superiors in the familiar yellow Metro with a two-fingered salute.

  The car radio crackled into life just as Frost’s pager bleeped. It was DC Susan Clarke. Frost reflected on his earlier excuse to extricate himself from Shirley’s grasp. A dead body. Be careful what you wish for, he thought.

  ‘No, please no! Ivan!’

  ‘Could you take Mrs Fielding out of the room?’ demanded DC Clarke, turning sharply to face the man who was holding back the near-hysterical estranged wife of the deceased.

  ‘Yes, sorry, sorry about that.’

  Stephen Parker, a tall willowy man in his forties, with an intelligent face under soft collar-length greying hair, held the sobbing Vanessa Fielding gently. She stood frozen just inside the doorway, eyes rounded in shock at what she saw, hands covering her mouth as if to stop a scream. He guided her out of the room, leaving Clarke alone with Dr Maltby.

  ‘Yes, keep the family out, this next bit could be very messy,’ said Maltby, returning his attention to the body. Maltby was always meticulous before signing the necessary documentation that consigned a corpse to the land of the not-living. Most of CID had heard Maltby’s anecdotes about cadavers suddenly springing back to life just as the pathologist is about to crack open their chest for a closer look. Some of the younger lads even believed him.

  DC Clarke had her head turned towards the door and was listening intently to what was going on in the hall outside. It was more of an effort at distraction, as Maltby had his latex-sheathed hand down the corpse’s throat and was scooping out congealed vomit that was heavily marbled with blood. It sounded like sobbing Vanessa Fielding and soothing Stephen Parker had been joined by two others, Sally, the Fieldings’ grown-up daughter, and PC David Simms, whose voice rose above the melee to try to take control of the obviously very emotional situation. She then heard footsteps exiting the house. Followed by a knock on the living-room door as Simms poked his head around.

  ‘Sorry, DC Clarke, I didn’t see them come in. I’ve got a statement from Sally Fielding, and I suggested they take Mrs Fielding home.’

  Clarke watched as Simms pulled a grimace whilst the good doctor scooped a particularly vile-looking substance into a cone-shaped cardboard receptacle; it really did look like some grossly unpleasant raspberry ripple.

  ‘Do you need me for anything?’ asked Simms, swallowing hard.

  Clarke gestured for him to wait outside and he closed the door behind him. She then marshalled all her attention back into the large living room and focused it on the body slumped on the Regency-style claw-footed couch, which looked like it belonged in an even grander house than the already rather grand one it stood in now.

  Maltby surmised that Ivan Fielding had been dead for at least twenty-four hours, but not longer than forty-eight. Looking at the corpse, Clarke thought it must be longer. And Fielding certainly appeared a lot older than his purported sixty years.

  She heard a car pull up outside with a screech. It was a familiar-sounding screech – like that of a yellow Metro narrowly avoiding the ambulance and other cars parked in the driveway.

  More voices entered the house and the living-room door sprang open.

  ‘Afternoon, Susan.’

  ‘Guv.’ Clarke smiled at John Waters, surprised to see him accompanying DI Frost. ‘Hey, John, what brings you here on a Sunday?’

  Waters tilted his head towards Frost. ‘His nibs here. I just happened to be in the car when the call came through.’ The DS raised his arms in a gesture of ‘I’m hands off’. ‘I’m strictly a passenger, forget I’m here.’

  ‘You’re my hero, mate, how can I ever forget you?’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ said Waters, dryly. He’d been getting a lot of that since the fire. It was something he almost wanted to forget – but with the commendation ceremony only a week away, his colleagues at Eagle Lane wouldn’t let him. After taking a peek at the body and greeting Dr Maltby, Waters took himself out of the way and stood by the long mullioned window.

  The house, large and old, was in Bolsyn, a sparse little village north of Denton, where the postbox was the only centre of activity.

  ‘How are you, Jack?’ asked Maltby, stripping his hands of the latex gloves and throwing them in a bag.

  ‘Thirsty, looking at this lot. I take it this is what killed him,’ said Frost, gesturing at the burr-walnut coffee table that held a drained full-size bottle of Beefeater gin, and two half-bottles – another of gin and one of Smirnoff vodka. There was also a crystal tumbler and an ashtray brimming with cigarette butts.

  ‘I’d have thought it would put you off the wretched stuff.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, keep forgetting you’re teetotal now. Which is rare for a doctor.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘My last medical, I told the doc I thought I had a drinking problem; he said if I drank more than him I had a problem. After he told me what he put away each night I went straight to the pub to celebrate my new clean bill of health.’

  Maltby met Frost’s grin with a cold hard fact: ‘A myocardial infarction was the cause of death.’

  ‘In layman’s terms, his pump packed in?’

  ‘Exactly. What brought it on will be determined by the PM. But without making any moral judgements, this little collection on the table certainly didn’t help his situation. He was on all sorts of medication for his heart, according to his daughter.’

  Frost studied the figure on the couch; he seemed vaguely familiar. He was wearing a worn-looking tweed suit that could once have been expensive, DAKS or some other quality outfitters, maybe even bespoke. A blue silk polka-dot cravat smartly did its job of covering a neck that was, from what he could see, scrawny with pouches of wrinkled loose skin. The suit jacket was undone, and the shirt neatly and tightly tucked in.

  Fielding was cue-ball bald, and almost as white, apart from the brown spots clustered on the edges of his forehead, to match the liver spots on his hands. His half-moon spectacles were still perfectly positioned on his nose. He was clean-shaven, freshly so in fact, as just above the cravat there was a little patch of tissue with dried blood on it where he had nicked himself with the razor.

  It seemed to the detective inspector that the heart attack hadn’t done much attacking, and had instead ended this life quickly and without much fuss. He instructed that some photos be taken of Fielding on the couch before his body was lifted on to a gurney and conveyed to its next destination – the County morgue. Dr Maltby accompanied it.

  Once the room was clear of all but his colleagues, Frost turned to Clarke.

  ‘A heart attack brought on by too much of the mother’s ruin, by the looks of it. Why am I here? Am I missing something, Susan?’

  ‘That’s what I thought, and initially I wouldn’t have called you,’ said Clarke. ‘But PC Simms found something. With his magnifying glass, no less.’

  Frost and Waters exchanged archly impressed looks at this. Rare was the copper who still carried one of these; that was now the preserve of Forensics.

  The three detectives followed PC Simms, who was on probation for his ‘step up’ to DC, down some ancient-looking stone stairs and through to the kitchen and scullery area at the back of the house. Like the rest of the place, it seemed to have stopped acquiring new furnishings and equipment somewhere around the late 1940s. There was no washing machine, and even the green bulbous fridge was a survivor from the past. The kitchen table could have served as an Anderson shelter.

  Simms led them over to a window that looked out on to the overgrown back garden, which was even more neglected than the front lawn and appeared to just meld in with the woods that lay beyond. The windowpane was broken but still in place, and the cracks in the glass formed an almost perfect square shape just above the latch.

  Frost said, ‘OK, Simms, so what does this tell you?’

  ‘Well, guv, if you look carefully, you’ll see that there’s a gummy substance on the other side of the glass. I reckon it’s from some gaffer tape, and it’s been used to remove
the glass.’

  Simms handed Frost his magnifying glass. It was the classic round variety with an amber-coloured handle.

  ‘What are you doing with one of these?’

  ‘My auntie got it for me. Birthday present.’

  ‘You must have been chuffed,’ said Waters.

  ‘I wanted a Scalextric set.’

  Clarke said, ‘Oh, she got it for you when you were a kid?’

  ‘No, last month.’

  Frost stopped peering through the magnifying glass. He was impressed, liked what he was hearing, but itched for more from the young PC. ‘So the glass was broken, in an unusually neat shape, and there’s some gunk on the other side. Though how you get to gaffer tape is beyond me.’

  Simms bent down.

  ‘What now, Sherlock?’ said Frost, crouching down to join him. ‘Some cigar ash that you can tell by the striations is a brand that can only be purchased from Dunhill of London?’

  ‘Even better.’ Simms pointed.

  Frost caught the glint of glass slivers on the black and white tiled floor.

  ‘These are fresh splinters from where the glass has been cut and pushed through earlier. Before I called DC Clarke, I put on my gloves, opened the window and tested the glass. It just popped out. It’s been removed, then put back in place. I can show you if you like—’

  ‘No, I believe you,’ said Frost, getting to his feet. Simms followed suit. ‘Let’s get Forensics in here. But I’ve got a feeling they won’t find any dabs. You can guarantee that whoever uses a diamond glass cutter, and not a brick, and bothers to put the glass back, will have been wearing gloves.’

  The DI looked at the pane again. The cut-out square was big enough for a hand to be slipped through to release the latch. Once the window was open, the burglar climbed in and carefully replaced the square of glass. All of which might have been viewed as quite unnecessary, unless you were a stone-cold professional and it was second nature to you. Real professionals had a habit of tidying up after themselves, carefully and methodically going about their work so as not to leave any clues. It was cowboys who ransacked the place.

  ‘Good work, Simms, good work.’ Frost turned to Clarke. ‘Remind me what Ivan Fielding did again?’

  ‘He was a retired antiques dealer.’

  Frost smiled. ‘Well, this may be where they got in, but it wasn’t their final destination.’

  They all headed back upstairs to the living room, apart from Simms, who was sent back to Eagle Lane to find out what else he could about Ivan Fielding.

  ‘I thought it looked wrong. The body. The way it was positioned, all wrong,’ announced Frost after looking intently at the striped settee that Ivan Fielding had been discovered on. ‘Sat bolt upright like that; you normally make yourself comfortable when settling in for a night like this.’ He nodded towards the debris on the coffee table. ‘And from the amount he drank, you’re very unlikely to be sitting at all. Yet there he was, looking all prim and proper and perched on the couch. Not looking remotely pissed.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Clarke.

  ‘The jolt from the heart attack, that could make you sit up,’ offered John Waters, playing devil’s advocate.

  ‘No, not like that – you can see the shock on their faces, their limbs are askew. Ivan Fielding looked like he was having tea with the Queen. Who found the body?’

  ‘The daughter, Sally,’ said Clarke.

  ‘Did she touch it, move it, try and resuscitate him in any way?’

  ‘I asked her the same thing when I got here. She said not. Said she knew he was dead the minute she clapped eyes on him; there were no signs of breathing, so she called 999.’

  Frost began to pace around the room and gave some thoughtful clucking noises that were loud enough and long enough to make Clarke and Waters fix each other with looks to see who would laugh first.

  ‘Nice place he’s got here, or at least it was nice at one time. An antiques dealer, you say?’

  ‘Mainly an art dealer, paintings, according to the family.’

  ‘Yeah, you don’t pick up classy gear like this at the local department store,’ said Frost, tapping a knuckle on a rosewood side table adorned with silver candlesticks. Their quality forced Frost to take in the other items on display. Whilst the room was hardly cluttered, what there was on offer spoke of the man’s previous profession. There were murky Dutch old masters up on one wall, and a huge gilt-framed mirror above a neoclassical fireplace that held a French ormolu mantle clock. In a display cabinet there was a collection of tortoiseshell and silver snuff boxes, and darkly patinated bronzes of reclining nudes and pouncing panthers graced the bookcase. He saw that every available flat surface seemed to hold something of beauty and no doubt value. But it was the paintings on the walls that really drew the eye, both classical and modern; there was obviously a refined and educated taste at work in this small collection. Frost, spellbound, looked up at a fleshy nude with some well-placed fruit barely covering her modesty.

  ‘I know some of the dealers in the area, never heard of Ivan Fielding,’ offered Waters.

  ‘If you mean Del “The Knocker” Norris and that lot at the local boot fair, I think our Mr Fielding is in another class. He’s Division One. Those other mugs are kicking about in the Alliance Premier.’

  Clarke referred to her notes. ‘Ivan used to have a shop in London, but he retired almost twenty years ago, in the late ’60s, said his daughter.’

  Frost tore his eyes away from the nude. ‘Who was the attractive older lady?’

  Waters shook his head and stifled a laugh. Frost and Clarke exchanged quick-fire looks before Sue asked, ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Jack’s developed a thing for older women. According to his neighbour.’

  ‘And two-hundred-year-old nudes by the looks of it,’ said Clarke, gesturing to the painting he’d been staring at.

  ‘I was admiring the brushwork. So who is she?’

  ‘Venus?’

  ‘Not her, the tall woman in tears.’

  ‘The tall woman in tears is Mrs Vanessa Fielding, Ivan’s wife. But they’ve been separated for five years,’ said Clarke. ‘He lived here on his own.’

  ‘Art dealer living out here on his own with all this, surprised the place hasn’t been burgled sooner.’

  All three of them considered this for a moment, before Frost added, ‘So if Simms is right, what did they take?’

  ‘And why would you leave all of this?’ asked John Waters.

  ‘Because you were disturbed?’ suggested Clarke.

  ‘Or you got what you were after, and it was worth more than all this put together?’ Waters mused.

  Frost fixed his two colleagues with a look that suggested he was happy to be in the room with them, at a potential crime scene, asking all the right questions, and not sat at home for a long, dull day, thumbing through the papers, watching Ski Sunday, or worse, waiting for that ominous knock on the door from that ‘older woman’ Waters had mentioned. It was a while since the three of them had been in the same room working a case together.

  ‘Where to now? Ivan’s wife and daughter?’ asked Clarke.

  ‘I’m going to the station, see if Simms has got anything on Ivan Fielding, then I want to see what Dr Death has to say. I’ll need you to wait for Forensics.’

  DC Clarke nodded.

  Waters checked his watch. ‘I best be getting back.’

  ‘I’ll drop you at home on the way,’ said Frost. ‘Sorry about that drink. Another time.’

  Sunday (3)

  It was of course a solemn occasion. We come into the world alone, and leave it alone. But this funeral seemed even more lonely than most. Gathered on a patch of land in the corner of Longthorn Hospital known as the Peaceful Place Garden were the hospital chaplain, the chief medical officer, and the young art therapist who had worked with the deceased. No friends or family, just employees of the institution where his life had ended.

  But Clive Banes, watching the scene at a distance through his high-power
ed binoculars, had expected to see one particular person there: Kevin Wheaton – a friend and confidant of the old man, probably his only one. Kevin was a young ex-con who used to visit him regularly. His absence was a surprise to Banes. And more importantly, it didn’t fit in with his plans. In fact, he viewed Kevin’s absence as a setback. If anyone knew the old thief’s secret, it was Kevin. Where the hell was he? ‘Where the bloody hell is he?’ he mumbled to himself repeatedly like a mantra, hoping the answer would come. When it didn’t, he took aim with his binoculars again and adjusted the focus on the zoom to get a clearer look.

  A few words were being said by the chaplain, and the ashes were being scattered over a flower bed. A bed that was usually well tended and rich with colour. But in January, surely a contender for the real ‘cruellest month’, the flower bed was just soil. The only things growing there were the hardy and thorny stems of the red roses – their shrivelled heads the colour of congealed blood. As Banes watched the service come to an end, he wondered how many people would be at his own funeral.

  He lowered his binoculars and again pondered where Kevin was. He knew he had to find him, before … before it was too late. He was sure Kevin wouldn’t be that hard to locate. He knew the ex-con lived with his mother somewhere in south London. And he knew that Kevin was a repeat offender with a record as long as his arm, so there would be plenty of information on him.

  ‘Clive? Clive, is that you?’

  Banes turned sharply to see … Pete. He’d forgotten his surname. But he was pretty sure he’d never bothered to learn it in the first place. He knew that Pete was what they called a ‘Longthorn Lifer’, meaning he’d worked at the place longer than his probationary period, which was usually three months. Although, with the staff turnover at the hospital as it was, everyone joked they were lowering it to three weeks, three days, hours, minutes. Once he knew he’d been well and truly clocked, and there was no getting out of it, he smiled and said, ‘Hello, Pete.’

  Pete was as bubbly as his permed hair, which he wore gelled for that wet look. Or, he’s as wet as his permed hair, thought Banes as he considered the man, who worked mainly down in the canteen. He’d obviously just come off shift, though what he was doing wandering along this road—