'Maybe he just sneaked in and helped himself,' Richard suggested.
'No, he didn't have a key. Someone let him in, but I couldn't see who. I'm convinced Lomax cleared the files out, without Cheetham's co-operation.'
'Why?' Richard asked.
'Because if Cheetham had simply been trying to get incriminating evidence off the premises, he'd only have dumped discs with data on. He wouldn't have ditched the discs with the software programs, because he'd have known enough to realize that a computer with no discs at all is a hell of a lot more suspicious than one with only software and no data,' I explained. Richard nodded in agreement.
'Also, the bedding was clean. It had been changed since the last time the bed had been slept in or bonked on. And there was no bedding in the linen basket or the washing machine or the tumble drier either. So where are the dirty sheets? Now if Cheetham and Nell had been having a cuddle, or whatever it is that transvestite sado-masochists do in bed, there would be forensic traces of her on the bedding. These days, every television viewer knows about things like that. So if she and Lomax had actually killed Cheetham and wanted to make it look like an accidental death during some bizarre sexual fantasy, they'd have to make it look like he'd been alone with his dirty magazine. And that's the only explanation I can find.'
'Maybe he's got a cleaner who comes in and takes his washing home with her,' Richard suggested, sharing his own fantasy.
“Maybe, but I don't think so. The linen basket in the bedroom had dirty clothes in it. Then there's another point about the computers. Whoever cleared out the office safe and took the discs from there, it wasn't Cheetham himself.'
'What makes you say that?' Richard asked. 'I mean, if he was starting to get a bit unnerved by you poking around, wouldn't he try to get rid of anything incriminating?'
'You'd think so. But it was his computer. Whoever did the clearing up of evidence, it was someone who didn't understand that the discs were just the back-up copies of whatever was on the hard disc. They didn't understand about the hard disc, because they left the data on it.'
Richard shook his head. 'I don't know, Brannigan. It's all a bit thin. I mean, ever since you solved Moira's murder back in the spring, you keep seeing suspicious deaths everywhere. Look at the way you got all wound up about that client who died after he changed his will, and it turned out he'd had a heart condition for years, nothing iffy about it.'
'But this is suspicious, even you've got to admit that,' I protested.
'I could give you an explanation that would cover the facts,' Richard said, helping himself to the last of the prawn wontons.
'Go on then,' I challenged, convinced I could unravel any theory his twisted mind could come up with.
Richard swallowed his mouthful, leaned back in his seat and polished his glasses in a parody of the learned academics who pontificate on TV. 'OK. He's had this showdown with you then he's rushed off to meet Lomax. As a result of all this, he's really wound up, but he thinks he's handled it beautifully and he deserves a treat. So he arranges that what's-her-name, the girlfriend, is going to come around for a bit of afternoon delight. Now, from what you've told me about his little treasure trove, who knows what that pair get up to when they're getting their rocks off? Just supposing he's staged this tableau to get her going – he's all done up in his drag and tied up and pretending to hang himself when she arrives. Only it gets out of hand and he snuffs it. OK so far?'
I nodded, reluctantly. Certainly, Cheetham had had enough time alone in the house for that scenario to be feasible. 'OK,' I sighed.
'So what would your reaction be if you arrived at your boyfriend's house to find him hanging dead from the banisters in a frock? Especially if you knew he was into some hooky business that was going to come on top now he's popped his clogs? Remember, for all you know, the lovely lady could be right up to her eyeballs in his little schemes. You'd want to cover your back, wouldn't you?' He gave me that smile of his, the one that got me in this mess in the first place.
'You would indeed,' I conceded.
'So Lomax turns up like a bat out of hell and the pair of them clear out everything that might be remotely connected to Cheetham's little rackets. Lomax takes off with all the incriminating documents and what's-her-name…?' He gave me an inquiring look.
'Nell,' I prompted him.
“Yeah, Little Nell, how could I forget?'
This is no time for obscene rugby songs,' I said.
'Wrong sport, Brannigan. You'll Never Walk Alone is more my speed than The Ball of Kirriemuir. Anyway, as you so correctly pointed out, any fool knows these days that forensic science could place Little Nell not just at the scene of the crime but in the bed if they'd bonked in it since the last time the sheets were changed. She does nothing more than take off the dirty linen so she can wash it in private. Meanwhile, Lomax goes down Cheetham's office and clears out the safe and has it away on his toes with the computer discs in the office. Pick the holes in that.” he ended triumphantly.
I thought about it for a moment, then I jumped to my feet. 'Hold everything,' I said on my way through to my spare room, which doubles as study and computer room. I pulled out a book on forensic medicine written for the popular market that Richard had bought me for my birthday as a kind of joke. I ran my finger down the index and turned to the section on body temperature. 'Got it!' I shouted. Richard appeared in the doorway, looking crestfallen. I pointed to the relevant sentence, "The rule of thumb applied by pathologists is that a clothed body will cool in air at between two and five degrees Fahrenheit per hour", it says here,' I said. 'And, when I touched him, he was the same temperature as I was, near as dammit. No way was he between four and ten degrees colder than me, which he should have been if he'd died when you suggested.'
Richard took the book from me and read the relevant section. As usual, the journalist in him took over and he found all sorts of fascinating things he simply had to read about. Leaving him to it, I started to clear up the debris of dinner. I'd just dumped the tinfoil containers in the bin when he reappeared, brandishing the book with a look of pure triumph.
'You should have kept reading,' he said sanctimoniously. That way, you wouldn't have given me half a tale. Look,' he added, pointing to a paragraph on the following page.
"Typically, death by asphyxiation raises the body temperature. This must be taken into account in estimates of the time of death, and is known to have caused confusion in some historical cases,'" I read. 'Bollocks,' I said. 'OK, you win,' I sighed. 'I'm letting my imagination run away with me.'
'So you accept my theory?' Richard asked, a look of total disbelief on his face.
'I guess so,' I admitted.
There's one good thing about it,' he said. 'I mean, I know I've just deprived you of all the excitement of chasing a murderer, but look on the bright side. It puts Alexis in the clear.'
'I never thought for a moment she wasn't in the clear,' I lied frostily.
'Course you didn't,' Richard said, with a broad wink. 'Anyway, now I've saved you all the work of a murder hunt, do I get a reward?'
I checked my body out for bruises and stiffness. I was beginning to heal, no doubt about it. I leaned into Richard's warmth and murmured, 'Your place or mine?'
19
The bulging eyes stared fixedly at me, the blue lips twitching some message I could neither hear nor read. I moved back, but the face kept following me. I shouted at it, and the sound of my voice woke me up with the kind of staring-eyed shock that sets the adrenalin racing through the veins. The clock said six, Richard was lying on his stomach, breathing not quite heavily enough to be called snoring, and I was wide awake with Martin Cheetham's face accusing me.