‘So we have yet another victim.’
‘Could be a copycat,’ suggested the second detective.
‘Don’t be bloody daft, Coates,’ Sadler said crossly. ‘Actual cause of death is not public knowledge.’
Coates’s face reddened. ‘Yes, Sir.’
I looked up and stared at them all, almost but not quite shaken out of my torpor. What did he mean, ‘Actual cause of death is not public knowledge’? I was confused for a moment, but then it began to come together. The tall man had asked if it – it being me, my stone-dead corpse – was another one, obviously meaning another victim. And one of the detectives, the one called Coates, had suggested it could be a copycat murder implying I was one of a series. I might be dead, but I was still alert.
What was it that the public didn’t know, though? I began to pay even more attention.
‘It’s there all right.’ It was the police surgeon, Breen, who spoke up.
All eyes, including mine, turned towards him.
‘Hole through the heart?’ said Sadler.
A grave nod of the doctor’s head. ‘Yes. Underneath the left side of the ribcage and straight up. As in all the other cases. Hard to find at first, with all the blood. But the flat end of the needle is there all right.’
I remembered the blood-covered bump I’d noticed earlier.
‘And that’s what killed him?’
‘Well, I hope the mutilation came afterwards, for the victim’s sake, but I don’t think so. The pathologist will let you know for sure. If already dead, the blood flow would have been heavy, but not as fierce as it would have been if the victim were still alive.
‘Look.’ He pointed with his pen. ‘The thigh’s femoral artery has been cut through. If the victim had still been alive at the time, the blood would have escaped in a spurt that might even have reached the ceiling.’ The three men looked up: the high ceiling was pure white. ‘But, as you can see, it gushed in a great arc that reached well beyond the bed, almost as far as the wall, which suggests to me the victim’s face was cleaved first, killing him instantly, the other weapon used afterwards. The main flows have soaked the carpet, and there are splatters everywhere, some quite a distance from the general spillage, although they were probably caused by the action of the first weapon itself, sinking into the body and jerked out again with considerable force. Looks to me as if the instrument used, by the way, was a butcher’s chopper, or something similar. I’ve seen their kind of deep wounds before. Forensics will let you know for sure.’
‘Whoever did this must also be covered in blood. Surely someone on the staff had to see the killer leave.’
Simmons shook his head resignedly. ‘Night porter and the lobby reception guy, who were still on duty, spent most of the time in the office behind the counter, saw no one suspicious and certainly no one with blood on their clothes. In fact, not one guest arrived or left.’
Coates spoke up. ‘There is a back entrance to the place. For staff and workmen, small deliveries, that kind of thing.’
‘Unattended?’ snapped Sadler.
‘’Fraid so,’ Coates told him. ‘At least, some of the time. There is night security, an open cubicle near the door, but the guard on duty frequently leaves it to do his rounds.’
‘Wasn’t the door locked?’
‘No, Sir,’ Simmons replied. ‘Night staff and early morning cleaners are using it all the time.’
‘There has to be a bigger delivery area.’
‘It’s in the basement. Heavy vehicles get to it by a ramp leading from the road outside.’
‘Locked though, Sir,’ added Coates. ‘It’s a big roll-up door and it was closed for the night. No deliveries were expected.’
Sadler considered all he had been told for a few moments, then: ‘Right, I want you to interview every person who was on duty during the night and early hours. No doubt the manager or the under-manager will supply a list of personnel. Question the night porter and the receptionist again. They may remember something they’ve forgotten. Oh, and the security man also. Prompt him – he might just come up with something useful.’
There were raised voices in the next-door room, the lounge area, and I thought I recognized one of them. Hurried footsteps, the rustle of my layouts from yesterday being trampled on, a sharp, ‘You can’t go in there,’ followed by scuffling noises, and then Oliver was in the bedroom doorway.
‘Oh . . .’ is all he said, but it was an agonized sound, a soul-wrenching sound. Horror, shock, disbelief whitened his face and highlighted the few faint scattered freckles on either side of his nose. He stared at my blood-drenched remains on the bed.
‘Jim . . .?’ I heard him say in a breathless whisper.
I realized he could only assume it was me lying there.
‘Who are you?’ Sadler barked at him.
Another uniformed policeman was behind Oliver, holding his arm to drag him away. ‘I couldn’t stop him, Sir,’ the annoyed policeman grumbled. ‘He pushed past me.’
‘Leave it for a moment,’ his superior ordered. The PC released his grip.
‘What . . . what’s happened?’ Oliver’s voice was hoarse now, strained, as if he could barely force the question.
One of the detectives moved towards him to block his view.
‘It’s all right, Simmons,’ said the chief. ‘Let’s hear what he’s got to say.’ He addressed Oliver directly. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Sadler from New Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Simmons and Detective Constable Coates. Now will you please tell me your name?’
Oliver raised both hands to his face to block out the sight on the bed. Somehow he couldn’t quite cover his eyes, though, and he continued to stare over Simmons’s shoulder through slightly spread fingers at my blood-covered carcass.
‘Okay, get him back into the other room,’ Sadler ordered, striding towards my distraught friend.
The uniformed policeman took him by the arm again and Simmons gently guided Oliver backwards. Sadler disappeared next door with them and I followed.
My campaign layouts, scuffed and in disarray, lay on the thick-carpeted floor and Oliver was led through them towards an armchair; he was carefully helped to sit.
‘Will you tell me your name, Sir?’ repeated Sadler, his voice less harsh this time, but still authoritative.
‘What?’ was all Oliver could utter. He was staring back at the doorway to the bedroom, but his eyes were unfocused.
‘Your name,’ Sadler said again.
I settled in a corner by one of the long windows as if to be unobtrusive.
‘Oliver Guinane,’ my copywriter managed to say.
‘And do you know who the dead person in the other room is?’ he was asked.
No doubt the detective superintendent knew my name already. They would have been told who occupied the suite by the management and, as Oliver was sitting in front of him, it was a fairly safe bet to assume the corpse was James True. Nevertheless he watched Oliver closely.
‘It’s Jim . . . James True. He . . . he was my partner.’
‘Life partner or business partner?’
Ollie’s attention was finally distracted from the open doorway and he peered up at Sadler, incomprehension masking the shock for a moment.
‘Did you work together or did you live together?’ the senior policeman asked patiently.
‘We worked together.’ Ollie was too dazed to be offended. ‘He was my art director. We have our own advertising agency, gtp – Guinane, True, Presswell.’ He looked at the faces around him as if expecting them to know of our company. Nobody said a word, but I did notice one of the detectives, the one called Coates, give Ollie an odd look.
‘We hired the suite so we could spend the weekend working on a pitch for a new client without being interrupted. We do that now and again, you know, when it’s important.’
Now he was gabbling too much. Still in shock, I assumed.
Sadler cut through it. ‘How do you know it’s James True lying there. The face is u
nrecognizable.’
Oliver cringed; the image of the chopped heap next door had almost overwhelmed him once more.
‘I . . .’ He paused, gathering himself. ‘It has to be Jim. It’s his room. And the clothes . . .’
‘They’re shredded and bloodstained.’
‘The shoes. Jim always wears . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, always wore old Nikes when we brainstormed; they were comfortable, familiar. Jim said he’d had his best ideas wearing them and it was true. They’re old and worn, but they were a good-luck kind of thing to him.’
‘Despite the mess the body’s in, you managed to notice the shoes?’ It was Simmons who asked the question.
‘Yes. Yes. They were the only part of him that wasn’t covered in blood.’
‘When did you last see Mr True?’ It seemed Sadler was satisfied with the identification.
‘Uh . . .’ Oliver blinked at the senior officer. ‘Uh, late last night. We . . .’ He stopped mid-sentence as if suddenly aware of the implication.
‘One of the hotel staff heard loud shouts coming from this room last night,’ said the detective called Coates.
‘Uh, yeah. Yes, that was us.’ Ollie returned his attention to the superintendent. ‘We had a bit of an argument. Nothing serious,’ he quickly added. ‘Just a normal disagreement about work. Happens all the time.’
‘Does it really?’ Sadler remarked drily.
‘Yes, yes it does. It’s never serious.’
‘Is that why you left the hotel? I’m informed that you were both guests here.’
‘That’s right. If we hadn’t had a row I’d have just gone off to my own bedroom. Things would have been resolved more easily after a good night’s sleep. We were both incredibly tired, we’d been working non-stop since Friday.’
‘You said your argument wasn’t serious, yet you stormed out of the hotel. You didn’t just go to bed.’
They all watched him silently.
‘Look, if you’re implying . . .’ Some of the old Oliver was finally breaking through. He was getting angry.
‘I’m not implying anything, Mr Guinane. I’m merely trying to establish the facts. You left the hotel, so where did you go?’
There was just a beat before Oliver replied. ‘I went home, of course. I’d had enough. I was exhausted, stressed – I had to have a break.’
‘Did your . . .’ Sadler considered for a moment, ‘words with Mr True lead to violence?’
‘Good God, no! Jim and I are friends. We’re friends. There was nothing serious in what we said to each other.’
‘The porter collecting breakfast cards outside another door claims the argument he heard sounded violent.’
‘He’s exaggerating. Jim and I would never come to blows. God, we’ve known one another for years.’ He looked up appealingly at the tall policeman. ‘I would never hurt Jim.’
Sadler gave a slight nod of his head as if absorbing all he’d heard. He turned away from Oliver and went to the window where he nudged back one side of the lace curtains to study the street below. He was only a couple of feet away from me and I could tell there was a lot more deliberation going on beyond those cold blue eyes.
‘Tell me precisely what the argument was about,’ he said, still looking through the glass.
Ollie shook his head in frustration. ‘It’s complicated. Primarily it was about the creative work for a prospective client, but it went on from there.’
‘Oh?’ Sadler turned back to Oliver and I caught the other detectives glancing at each other.
‘Another company, a big agency, wanted to merge with us.’
‘Swallow us up, Ollie!’ I wanted to shout.
‘Jim was against it, I was for. But look, it wasn’t serious enough to kill him over. It would have been resolved, just as all our little spats are.’
‘So you often argued, then,’ said Simmons.
‘God, no.’ Oliver shook his head vehemently. ‘That is, yes, but it was never serious, it was always over small things.’
‘Merging with another company?’ said Simmons with scorn in his voice. ‘Sounds serious enough to me.’
‘That’ll do, Simmons,’ Sadler said curtly. He looked as if he had other things on his mind now. ‘Mr Guinane, we could take your home address and phone number from the hotel register, but I’d appreciate it if you gave it to one of my officers before you leave.’
Oliver nodded anxiously, as though he were eager to please. You’d have thought he had something to feel guilty about.
‘Also, before you go,’ Sadler added, ‘can you tell me a little more about James True?’
‘You’re certain it is him, then?’ Oliver almost looked hopeful that there might be some mistake. ‘I mean, his face . . .’
‘You assured us it was a few moments ago. Why would you think otherwise now?’
‘I don’t.’ Oliver lowered his head into his hands and his voice was muffled. ‘It was just . . . just . . .’
‘I know it’s hard to accept, but we have no reason to believe the body belongs to anyone else but James True. His name was in the hotel register, along with yours. Despite the facial damage, his dental records will confirm his ID because the lower jaw is almost intact. I’d imagine some reconstruction work could be done on the upper jaw without too much trouble. What I’d like you to tell me is, what kind of man was he? You must have known him very well.’
Oliver lifted his head again and his hands flapped limply over his knees. ‘He was a good friend. He was just, you know, a regular guy. A bit self-contained, I suppose, he never really gave much of himself away. But he had a good sense of humour and, of course, he was very talented.’
‘A very successful man, I would expect,’ surmised Sadler while one of his officers made notes.
‘Yes, very. Together we were a great team. Although I’m the copywriter and Jim is . . . Jim was the art director, we interchanged a lot. Generally we both came up with ideas, but sometimes he thought up good copy lines while I had layout ideas. Our track record speaks for itself.’
Oliver paused, as if it were difficult to continue. He stared blankly at the carpet.
‘Was he married?’ Sadler persisted.
My friend nodded.
‘Did he have any children?’
At that, Oliver finally broke down and wept.
The chief superintendent stepped towards him and placed a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. ‘Please try and answer my questions, Mr Guinane. Then you’re free to go.’
‘Jim had a daughter. Primrose. She’s only seven years old.’ Now he really broke down. The two younger detectives seemed embarrassed by his sobs.
‘Just one more thing, Mr Guinane. One more question for now, and then it’s over. Try to answer me.’
‘Yeah . . . okay.’ Ollie found a handkerchief in his trouser pocket and dabbed at his eyes with it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘What did you want to know?’
‘Just one thing.’ Sadler’s sombre tone had all the quality of an undertaker’s. ‘Was James True a handsome man?’
17
It was a lousy day for me, as you’d expect.
I spent the best part of it chained to the hotel room, not because I wasn’t free to go, but because I didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t face going away from my body, bloody and cleaved though it might be.
I slunk into different corners whenever someone came near, generally just keeping out of the way. Silly, I know, but it was hard to come to terms with the phantom I’d become: I still imagined people would bump into me. Besides, I didn’t like that feeling I had when someone brushed through me, which they did twice when I went from the lounge into the bedroom, and vice versa. I got a weird sensation of assorted thoughts and feelings when it happened, a jumble of emotions that were entirely alien to me. A certain amount of chemical electricity was involved, much milder but similar to touching the wire of an exposed light switch. No more than a brief but uncomfortable buzz.
At one point in the proceedings, t
he bedroom telephone together with the one in the lounge rang and it was DC Coates who picked it up. He listened, then turned to his superior, who was watching.
‘Hotel switchboard, Sir,’ Coates said quietly, as if in deference to my corpse. ‘Mrs True is on the line, wants to speak to her husband.’
‘Tell them to say he can’t take the call right now,’ advised Sadler. ‘I’ll be leaving here soon to go to True’s home address. I want to break the bad news to his wife myself.’
I jumped to my feet and kind of glided across the room to reach the phone, but Coates had already given instructions and was replacing the receiver when I reached it. I had no idea what I’d have done if I’d got there in time. Andrea would have been unable to hear me and what would I have told her anyway? ‘Hey, honey, I’m a ghost.’ Non-existent heart twice as heavy, I slunk back into my corner.
More white-clad figures appeared, then left. More photos were taken, more video-filming done, including the lounge and Ollie’s bedroom. Blood splatters and even minute spots were measured in relation to my corpse. A Home Office pathologist arrived and, together with the superintendent, examined me more closely, their conversation kept to a low murmuring.
Finally, the pathologist, who was a woman, straightened and I heard her say, ‘The autopsy will tell us a whole lot more.’
Sadler said, ‘Make it priority,’ and the pathologist organized my body’s removal. A polythene body bag was brought in and I was carefully loaded into it. I admit, I turned away at that point, and I groaned with self-pity when the bag’s zipper was pulled up over my head so that my defiled carcass was completely hidden from view. The ratchet sound seemed so final. I only heard myself being carried from the bedroom because I refused to watch.
The police chief (I’d heard him referred to as SIO, which presumably means Senior Investigating Officer) conferred with his two detectives, then gave further instructions to the forensic team. Fibres from the bedroom’s carpet and the blood-soaked quilt were to be taken and a close inch-by-inch search of not just this room, but the lounge area and second bedroom, was to be undertaken. Of course blood samples would be used to ensure they all matched (the sick bastard who had even chopped off my genitals might have bled too if there had been a struggle, although the best guess was that my heart was pierced while I lay zonked out on the bed), and naturally everything was to be dusted for fingerprints (of which there would be many – mine, the maid’s, workmen’s, previous guests’ . . . the list would be extensive). Apparently satisfied, Sadler departed from the crime scene and I wondered if he would go straight to my home with the awful news.