Peter Lovesey
Beau Death
1
The kid was forever asking questions.
‘What are those people doing, Dad?’
‘I don’t know, son. Just looking.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why are they looking?’
‘It’s some kind of building site. The contractors put those high fences round for safety, but some people like to see what’s going on, so they make little windows in the panels.’
‘What’s a contractor, Dad?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Can I look through the little windows?’
‘Not now, son. We don’t have time.’
‘Please.’
‘No.’
The kid had been taught the basic courtesies and he was smart enough to use them to get his way. ‘Please, Dad. Please.’
‘Only for a moment, then.’
They crossed the road to the billboards and of course the observation window was too high for the kid, so the father had to lift him.
‘What’s that, Dad?’
‘I can’t see while I’m holding you.’
‘That big ball.’
‘What are you talking about? Let’s have a look.’ The father held the kid aside for a moment. ‘I see what you mean. That’s a wrecking ball, son. You don’t see them much these days. They’re demolishing some old houses.’ This, he now decided as a caring parent, was not such a waste of time, but should be part of the kid’s education. ‘It’s using what we call kinetic energy. The ball is solid steel, really heavy and hanging on a chain from the top of the crane high above the houses. The man in control pulls the ball back towards his cab with another chain and gives it a good swing at the building, like the conkers you and I played with last year. It smashes into the wall and knocks it down.’ He shouted, ‘Wow! Just like that.’
‘Can I see? Let me see, Dad.’
‘Yeah. I suppose.’ The destruction was so compelling that he’d forgotten the kid had his nose to the panel and couldn’t see a thing. He replaced him at the window.
‘Is it going to smash the house down?’
‘Not in one go. See if the ball is being hoisted back.’
‘It is, Dad.’
‘Good. Watch what happens, son.’ Shame the peephole wasn’t big enough for two to look through at the same time.
‘Crrrrrrrrash!’ yelled the kid. And then on a disappointed note, ‘It’s still there.’
‘I told you it takes several goes. Let’s see.’ The kid was thrust aside again. ‘Yes, he’s hauling it back for another try.’
‘Let me see.’
‘In a tick.’
‘Da-a-d.’
‘Hold on, son.’
The ball smacked into the top floor of the end house of the terrace and produced a cloud of dust. Destruction is appealing. All along the barrier, people at the observation windows gave cries of satisfaction.
‘Da-a-a-ad.’
Like everyone else, the father was waiting for the dust to disperse to see the hole in the masonry.
‘Nice one.’
Belatedly the kid was given his chance to check the damage.
‘Now you know what happens.’ The show wasn’t over, but the father had decided it was time to move on. He lowered the kid to the ground.
‘I didn’t see.’
‘Course you did.’
‘Give me another look. Please.’
It was true that the kid had missed the best action. The father peered through again to check that the secondary steel rope was taut in preparation for another smack at the building. ‘Last time, then.’ He lifted the kid again.
More shouts greeted another hit from the wrecking ball.
The kid said with delight, ‘Crrrrrrrrash!’
‘Impressive, eh? That’s enough, then. We’ve got to get on.’
‘Dad, what’s that man doing?’
‘What man?’
‘The man in the house.’
‘There’s nobody in the house, son. It’s empty. It’s being demolished.’
‘A man in funny clothes sitting in a chair. Look.’
‘I’ve told you before, you mustn’t make things up.’ He shifted the kid from the window and looked for himself. ‘Oh Christ.’
In the attic of the end house, now ripped open, was a crumpled figure in an armchair. The dust from the demolition had coated it liberally and it was a parody of the human form held together by what appeared to be long outmoded garments: olive green frock coat, cravat, grey breeches, wrinkled white stockings. The head, sunk grotesquely into the shoulder bones and partially covered by a long black wig, was a skull and the hands resting on the chair arms were skeletal.
‘Can you see the man now, Dad?’
‘I can.’
‘Is he dead?’
Spectacularly, irreversibly, abso-bloody-lutely dead, but you couldn’t say that to a small child. ‘Em, he could be just a dummy like you see in dress shop windows.’
‘I’ve never seen a dummy like that. Can I have another look?’
‘Definitely not. We’re leaving.’
In the next hour, the observation windows were more in use than ever on the demolition site in Twerton, the south-westerly suburb of Bath. People were waiting their turn for a look. All work had ceased. The foreman had called the police. A number of patrol cars and vans were lined up on what had once been a narrow road in front of the condemned terrace. But no one had yet started any kind of close examination of the occupant of the attic. Slumped in its chair, exposed to the daylight, the weather and the gaze of everyone, the skeleton was a treat for voyeurs and a rebuke for anyone who believed in respecting the dead. Normally a forensic tent would have been erected by now, giving the deceased some kind of privacy.
The difficulty was that the wrecking ball had rendered the building unsafe. The floor might well give way if anyone tried using a ladder to get near.
‘What we need,’ the senior police officer on the ground said, ‘is one of those basket cranes they use to inspect street lamps.’
‘Cherry picker,’ his assistant said.
‘Right. See if you can get one. If nothing else, we’ll get a closer look at the poor blighter.’
‘One is already on its way,’ someone else spoke up.
‘You mean I’m not the first to come up with this brilliant suggestion?’ Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond swung around to see who had spoken. ‘Oh, you,’ he said to Dr. Higgins, the police surgeon who routinely attended fatal incidents. ‘Should have guessed you’d be here chucking your weight about.’
‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ Higgins said, but with a grin. He was about half Diamond’s size. ‘It was my call, so it’s my cherry picker and my duty to inspect the corpse and decide whether life is extinct.’
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘It’s the law, Peter, and you know it.’
After making a show of another long look, Diamond said, ‘Unless my eyes are deceiving me, that thing up there is a skeleton. He’s been out of it a few years. A few hundred years, if his clothes are anything to go by. No one here is going to report you if you declare him dead without getting close up.’
‘Sorry. You’ll have to take your turn.’ The doctor meant business. He was already wearing a bright yellow hard hat.
Diamond turned back to his assistant, Keith Halliwell. ‘What’s his game?’
‘Dunno, guv. Does he want a ride in the cherry picker? Some people never grow up.’
‘Where’s the site manager?’
‘Gone. They all buggered off home.’
‘Do we know who owns these houses?’
‘Some private landlord. There was subsidence reported a couple of years ago and when the borough surveyor was called he declared the whole terrace unfit for habitation. The tenants had to leave and it was boarded up while the legal formalities were gone through.’
‘That figures,’ Diamond said. ‘There’s an appeal process.’