Fletcher took in the room, with its Moulin Rouge colours and recycled Louis XIV-style furniture and fabrics: pop Victorian mixed with the taste of a French bordello. A knock-off Gustave Serrurier-Bovy armoire made of rich mahogany stood in a corner. He had seen the original, crafted in 1899 by the late Belgian architect, on display at Paris’s Musee d’Orsay.
Fletcher was more interested in the closet door. It was made of solid wood — the kind of door used primarily on the front or back of a house to prevent intrusion. What made the closet door even more peculiar was the mechanism used to secure it: an electronic lock that required a magnetic keycard.
Gary Corrigan wasn’t carrying a magnetic keycard.
Fletcher wondered if the closet contained its own separate security system. He took out his device resembling an ordinary smartphone and moved it around the edges of the closet and the brushed stainless-steel light switch overhead. The green light did not turn red. There was no electronic security. He tucked the device away and snapped open the tactical pouch containing his various lock-picking tools, selecting a heavy circular ring made of aluminium. It housed four powerful magnets that could bypass any electronic lock.
He slipped the ring over the door handle and then, slowly, turned it clockwise, waiting for the magnetic fields to find the metal parts residing inside the electronic lock… there. Now a quick twist counterclockwise and the lock clicked back. Fletcher flipped the light switch as he opened the door.
31
Here was a long walk-in closet of recessed lighting and custom-made white shelving, shoe racks and cabinetry. The back held a tall built-in bureau with six drawers. Beside it was another Louis XIV-designed chair, this one covered with ivory linen and with cabriole legs of distressed wood. An antique side table sat next to the chair, its top holding an empty highball glass and a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon.
Fletcher turned his attention to some plastic garment bags hanging from steel rods on either side of the closet. There were eleven bags, and the spaces between them were perfectly even. Each bag faced the aisle of light brown carpet, turned at a slight angle so it faced the chair.
He stepped inside. The air was stale and dust swarmed in the cones of light.
Within the clear-plastic bags were clothes belonging to both men and women — complete outfits, the clothing combinations artfully arranged on the hangers as though they were on display for purchase in a store. He found suit jackets draped over shirts with ties and silk scarves. Long-sleeves and short-sleeves and T-shirts paired with chinos and jeans. One bag contained a green hospital smock and scrubs.
The clothes were of various sizes. Sitting underneath each bag was an odd assortment of well-worn footwear- shoes, trainers, boots, even two worn white clogs. Two pairs of women’s shoes were missing heels.
Fletcher inspected a random garment bag. It held a wrinkled linen sports jacket draped over a wrinkled and torn pale blue Oxford-collared shirt. The garment bag next to it contained a pair of men’s jeans. The pocket was ripped, the fabric above the knees covered with grime and dried blood. The accompanying white T-shirt, dirty and mangled, had underarms marred with yellow perspiration stains.
He inspected the built-in bureau’s six drawers. Each one contained men’s and women’s jewellery, laid out on black velvet cushions. Some pieces were bent and broken. Others were scratched or missing a small diamond or stone.
Fletcher sat in the chair. The garment bags faced him.
Eleven bags containing mangled and bloody clothing. Eleven bags for eleven victims. The garments were killing souvenirs. Trophies. He looked at the highball glass. Its rim was smeared with red lipstick. The shooter, the woman in the fur coat, had used this glass. She had sat in this chair, sipped her bourbon and stared at the clothing of her victims.
And she had a male partner. She lived with and slept next to a man every day and every night. The man had to be her partner because there was no way she could hide this grisly tableau from him. Fletcher got to his feet, wondering if the pair had designed the killing museum together.
And how did Gary Corrigan fit into this? He wasn’t the woman’s partner, Fletcher was sure of it. The bedroom’s bureau drawers held XXL jockey vests and boxer shorts. Corrigan had been wearing a form-fitting tank-top vest and Calvin Klein briefs, both in a size large.
Fletcher removed Corrigan’s iPhone and then reached for the small, boxy forensic unit strapped to his tactical belt. He unspooled a cord and connected the end to the iPhone. The unit’s LCD panel came to life and then began the process of extracting the phone’s data.
All the clothes in here belonged to adult men and women. He looked at the sleeping figure on the bed.
Who are you? And why are you tied up to this bed?
It was time to speak with Gary Corrigan. Fletcher slid the highball glass inside an evidence bag, about to shut it when he noticed a faint black residue resting at the bottom, a small collection of particles resembling cigarette ashes.
Not cigarettes ashes, Fletcher thought, looking around the closet. The shelves above the hangers were bare. Kneeling, he searched the area behind the shoes. Behind each one he found a sealed plastic bag holding cremated remains. Human ashes.
The forensic unit vibrated against his belt, the signal that it had finished the download. Fletcher removed the cord and examined Corrigan’s iPhone as he left the closet.
32
Entering the dining room, Fletcher was pleased to find Gary Corrigan conscious. The man’s head bobbed and swayed from side to side, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to clear away the pain, tried to focus.
Fletcher picked up the small kitchen torch sitting in the centre of the table. A press of a button and the bright blue flame ignited, parting the gloom.
Corrigan sat up, his back ramrod-straight against the chair, his eyes as wide as the saucers decorating the splendid table.
‘ “By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,” ’ Fletcher said, lighting the first of four candles wedged in delicate crystal blocks. ‘ “Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.” ’
The man didn’t answer — couldn’t, even if he had been so inclined, due to the dishcloth stuffed in his mouth.
‘The last lines from William Cullen Bryant’s poem “Thantopsis”,’ Fletcher said. He lit the final candle and returned the torch to the table. ‘I doubt you’re praying to God right now, Mr Corrigan, but at the moment you may lack perspective.’
Corrigan’s licence picture showed an older man with a sagging chin and a bloated face. The man strapped to the chair had noticeably different features. In addition to a subtle facelift, he had gained muscle mass. In the flickering candlelight Fletcher could see the thick fibrous muscles flexing and moving beneath the pale skin. Show muscle. Lots of low reps with heavy weights, their bulk and definition aided by steroids. The diminutive size of the man’s testicles proved he had been on the juice for quite some time.
Sensing the man’s embarrassment at having his genitalia on display, Fletcher pushed the chair up against the table until the lip of the linen tablecloth covered his lap.
Fletcher took the chair next to Corrigan. ‘Do you own this house, Mr Corrigan?’
Vigorous shaking of the head: No, no, no, no.
‘I thought not.’ Fletcher picked up a coffee cup painstakingly decorated with hand-painted violets and vines and, turning it over, read the writing printed on the bottom: ‘Haviland Limoges. I’d compliment you on your excellent taste, but I suspect you had nothing to do with the purchase. A man who could afford Limoges china and the antique luxuries inside this house certainly wouldn’t scrimp on his clothing, would he? Your Hugo Boss suit and Hermes overcoat are clearly knock-offs. You can tell by the inferior stitching.’