Trave followed Quaid back down the corridor to the living room. The inspector was right. Books were everywhere, lined up horizontal and vertical on overloaded shelves or piled in precarious leaning towers on tables and chairs. From a side table over by the window, Trave picked up a copy of Hitlers Mein Kampf in the original German that had been heavily annotated in blue ink; lying underneath it was a copy of The Communist Manifesto, this time in translation.
There were papers too, all covered with the same distinctive spidery handwriting, and yellowing articles cut out of newspapers. There didnt seem to be any surface in the flat that wasnt covered in some way.
Christ, hes got more books than the bloody public library, said Quaid, whistling through his teeth. Youd need a compass to find your way round here.
No, I think that he knew where everything was. Or almost everything, Trave said meditatively. It was almost as if he were speaking to himself.
So you think theres method in the madness, eh, William? Quaid observed, eyeing his assistant with interest and glancing back round the jam-packed room.
I had an uncle who lost one of his legs in the last war, said Trave. He didnt do anything except read.
Like you, said Quaid with a smile.
Worse. His house was just like this, and yet when he wanted to show me something in one of his books, he could lay his hands on it in a minute.
Well, good for him, said Quaid. But why did you say almost everything? What was that about?
Im not sure. Maybe its nothing. Its just these papers on the floor here, theyre different somehow, said Trave, pointing to a small heap of documents near his feet that were lying on the carpet in the space between the desk and the fireplace.
In what way different?
They look like theyve been thrown there, maybe from off the desk. Theyre not stacked up like the other papers.
Yes, maybe youre right, said Quaid, looking down. Good work, William. Youll make a decent detective yet. Okay, leave everything where it is for now. We need to get back downstairs. We can bring the daughter up here when shes back on her feet see what she says; see if anythings missing. You can carry her if you like, he added with a grin as he went out of the door.
Trave shook his head and gave a weary smile. Hed already picked up on his bosss irritation at the way hed helped the bereaved woman downstairs, but what was he supposed to do leave her to faint on top of her fathers corpse?
Carefully he replaced Mein Kampf on the table where hed found it and looked curiously around the room one last time before he followed his boss down the stairs. Strange, he thought, how all the books seemed to be about different kinds of politics. Reference books, language primers, treatises but as far as he could see, there wasnt one novel in the whole damn place. But then fact, of course, could be a great deal stranger than fiction.
Downstairs, Trave went to check on the dead mans daughter and was pleased to see that shed recovered her senses while hed been away. She was sitting up on the sofa where he had laid her before he went upstairs, sipping from a glass of brandy that the old lady must have given her. There was even some colour in her pale cheeks.
Reassured, Trave returned to the hall, where Quaid was standing by the remains of the womans father.
Theres no point waiting for a doctor, said Quaid, sounding typically decisive. We know hes dead and we know what killed him, so wed better get on with finding out who did it.
Trave knew in the immediate sense that we meant him. It was his job, not Quaids, to handle the dead and go through their possessions. So he took out his evidence gloves, pulled them carefully over his hands, and began methodically to go through the dead mans pockets, doing his best to keep his eyes averted from the mess of shattered bone and blood that had once been a human face.
Whatve you got there? asked Quaid, watching at the side.
A wallet, said Trave, holding up a battered leather notecase that hed extracted from inside the dead mans jacket. He took out his torch to shine a brighter light on the contents. Theres an ID card in the name of Albert Morrison, aged sixty-eight; address 7 Gloucester Mansions, Prince of Wales Drive, SW11, he went on. Plus three pounds ten shillings in banknotes, a ration card, and two ticket stubs. Oh, and a piece of paper same inside pocket, but not in the wallet, folded into four. Theres a bit of blood on it, but you can read what it says: Provide detailed written report. What are the chances of success? C. And theres a name written underneath with a question mark Hayrich or Hayrick, maybe.
Never heard of him, said Quaid.
I think its all the same handwriting same as on the papers upstairs, said Trave, peering closely, but the names a bit of a scrawl, like its been written in a hurry, sometime after the sentence, Id say.
All right, bag it. Is there anything else?
A few coins in the right trouser pocket; a couple of keys on a ring. Thats it.
Okay. Lets go talk to the daughter, see if she knows something. Theres no point standing around doing nothing, waiting for the death wagon to get here.
Are we still taking her upstairs? asked Trave.
Yes, why not?
I just dont want her to see her father again, thats all. I dont think she can take much more.
Fine, said Quaid impatiently. Get a sheet or something. The old woman must have one spare.
Left on his own in the hall, Quaid scratched his head absent-mindedly as he looked down at the smashed-up corpse that had less than an hour before been a sixty-year-old man called Albert Morrison. The sight didnt upset him. In the last three months hed seen far worse soldiers at bomb sites picking up bits of arms and legs and putting them in potato sacks as if they were working in a harvest field; blast victims fused into the walls of their homes; even once a severed head staring down at him from an oak tree that had been stripped of all its leaves by a land mine explosion.
No, the dead man was a puzzle. That was all. And solving the puzzle shouldnt be too difficult once all the clues were assembled. For now, Quaid had to be content with speculation. What had happened upstairs? he wondered. Had the old man come home and surprised a burglar, whod pushed him down the stairs? The answer to that was almost certainly no Quaid thought Trave was most likely right that the killer hadnt come in through the fire escape door, and from what hed been able to see when he was upstairs, there were no signs of forced entry on the entrance door to the flat. And given that the front door of the building appeared unscathed as well, the likely explanation was that someone had let the killer in. All the tenants in the building would have to be questioned, obviously, but Quaids intuition told him that it was Morrison who had opened the door. Perhaps the killer had followed Morrison home or perhaps he had been waiting at the door. Either way, he had targeted the old man. Why? To steal from him? The daughter would be able to tell them if anything significant was missing, but as far as Quaid had been able to see from a cursory inspection, there hadnt been any items of obvious great value in the flat a lorryload of boring academic books, certainly, but in Quaids experience people didnt get killed for their books. So if it wasnt to steal, why had the killer come? Perhaps to talk about some matter of mutual interest. According to statistics, most murderers knew their victims, and Quaid had a great deal of faith in statistics. Perhaps the professor and his guest had got into an argument and the argument had got out of hand. Throwing your victim over the banister was certainly an unlikely method for premeditated murder. So much could go wrong in a struggle even with a weak opponent one false move and the would-be murderer could easily end up falling down the stairs himself.
The professor! Quaid realized that hed already unconsciously given the victim a nickname. It was a habit hed developed with all his cases, and then afterwards when they were solved, the names became a filing system in his mind useful in its way. The sailor for the man whod drowned under Lambeth Bridge, held down under the water by his brothers boat hook; the nun for the pious lady in Clerkenwell murdered for her savings by the drug-addicted lodger who lived in her attic; the prime minister for the man who looked like an oversize version of Churchill, dispatched by his wife with a bread knife one evening because she couldnt stand to listen to him barking orders at her any more. And now the professor killed by one of his students, perhaps, or an academic rival.
A loud knocking at the front door recalled the inspector from his reverie. Trave had still not returned, so Quaid walked over to the door and opened it, and then had to step back quickly as an overweight man in a green tweed suit almost fell past him into the hall, coming to a halt in front of the still-uncovered dead man on the floor. The newcomer was red in the face and breathing heavily, but it was hard to say whether that was from the shock of what he was now seeing or from the haste of his arrival.
Oh, God, he said, stepping back. Thats Albert.
How do you know? asked Quaid, sounding surprised. His face is smashed beyond recognition.
Because of his clothes. What the hell has happened here?
And who might you be, if you dont mind me asking? asked Quaid, ignoring the newcomers question.
Dr Brive, Bertram Brive Im his son-in-law.
And what brings you here, Doctor? Nobodys called for medical assistance as far as I know.
I was worried about my wife. I called home when I heard the siren and she didnt answer, so naturally I assumed she was over here.
Where were you?
At work. My surgerys near here in Battersea High Street. Why are you asking me all these questions?
Because Im a police officer investigating a murder. Its my job to ask them.
A murder! Why do you say that? asked Brive. He sounded panicked suddenly, and his hands had begun to shake.
Your father-in-law was pushed. It was your wife who saw it happen, as a matter of fact.
Did she see who did it?
No, mores the pity. It was too dark, apparently, but well find the person responsible. You can count on that. The urgency with which Brive had asked his last question hadnt escaped Quaids attention.
Im glad to hear it, said Brive, sounding anything but glad. Wheres my wife? Is she still here?
Yes, in there, said Quaid, pointing to the open door of the ground-floor flat through which Trave was just now emerging with a sheet to cover up the corpse. We were just going to ask her to go upstairs and see if anythings missing. Perhaps youd like to come too. It was framed as an invitation, but Quaid made it sound more like an order.
But it evidently wasnt one that the doctor was reluctant to obey. Instead of going to find his wife, he started up the stairs until Quaid barked at him to stop. Trave went back to fetch the dead mans daughter.
Brive took a step towards his wife when she came out into the hall, then stopped abruptly, reacting to the way she seemed instinctively to draw back away from him.
Ava, he said, clasping his hands in front of his chest as if he were about to make a speech. Im very sorry about whats happened here. Do you have any idea who might have done this terrible thing?
Ava shook her head, staring mutely at her husband with a half-sullen, half-defiant expression that Quaid couldnt quite decipher, but he was even more struck by the stilted, almost formal way the doctor spoke to his wife. He would have liked to see more of the interaction or lack of it between them, but Brive turned away and began to go up the stairs.
CHAPTER 3
Quaid followed the doctor up the stairs, with Trave and Ava bringing up the rear. Brive climbed quickly, taking the stairs two at a time, and when the two policemen arrived in Albert Morrisons book-lined sitting room a minute later, they found the doctor on his hands and knees, picking up the papers that were strewn across the floor the same heap of documents that Trave had drawn Quaids attention to earlier.
What the hell do you think youre doing? Quaid demanded, taking hold of Brives arm with one hand and removing the papers that the doctor was holding with the other.
What do you think? Im clearing up the mess, said Brive, pulling away.
No, youre bloody well not. Youre interfering with the evidence. Thats what youre doing. And if you carry on, Ill put you in handcuffs. Do you hear me?
Brive didnt answer but instead turned away with a surly expression on his face, nursing his arm as his wife came past him into the room. Quaid kept his eyes on Brive, noting how he kept shifting from one foot to the other, unable to keep still, and how he couldnt stop nervously rubbing his hands together all the time, as if he were unconsciously trying to wash away the evidence of some recent transgression, while his eyes kept darting back towards the documents on the floor as if he were considering another move in their direction.
Quaid prided himself on being able to tell if a man was lying or hiding something from him, and this medicine man with the funny foreign-sounding name was doing both. Quaid was sure of it. From the moment hed clapped eyes on him, the inspector had taken an instant dislike to the victims son-in-law. He distrusted the fussy triple knot in Brives navy-blue bow tie, and it worried him that half of what the doctor said just didnt add up. Brive said hed come over because he was concerned about his wifes safety during the air raid, but then hed shown no interest in going to her side when hed discovered that shed been a witness to her fathers murder. Instead his priority had been to get up the stairs and start interfering with the evidence. And then there was the way that Brive had shown up at the crime scene minutes after the police, even though by his own admission no one had telephoned him or asked for his assistance. He said he was looking for his wife, but why had he been so certain that she was going to be at her fathers?
It was a damned shame that the dead mans daughter hadnt got a look at the man whod pushed her father too dark, apparently, like everything else in the damned blackout.
You say your father was saying no. Is that all? Did you hear anything else? Quaid asked, turning to the dead mans daughter. Ava, she was called a pretty woman with a pretty name. God knows how shed ended up married to this creepy doctor, Quaid thought, shaking his head.
He said: No; no, I wont. No, I tell you. I could tell he was frightened he kept saying No. And there was someone else saying something, but his voice was soft. I couldnt hear any of the words.
His so it was a man?
I dont know. I assume so, she said, turning away. He could see that shed started crying again. Perhaps he shouldnt have started out with asking her about the murder, but where the hell else was he supposed to start?