Megan doesn’t flinch. ‘He shot himself with a small hand gun.’ She can’t help but add the details: ‘A Webley Mark IV, a First World War pistol.’
‘I didn’t know he even owned a gun.’
‘It was registered in his name. He’d fired it several times at a local range.’
His shock deepens.
She moves on to the more difficult bit. ‘You can see him, if you like. We’ve had official identification from his cleaner, the lady who discovered him, so there’s no need, but if you want to, I can fix it.’
He’s not sure what to say. He certainly does not want to see what remains of his father after he put a bullet through his head. But he feels obliged to. Wouldn’t it be wrong not to? Isn’t it expected?
The DI pushes her chair back and stands. If she doesn’t take the initiative, the dead guy’s son will still have her sitting here at midnight. ‘I’m sorry, we really have to wind this up now.’
‘Forgive me. I know it’s late.’ He picks up the letter, folds it and slides it back into the spattered envelope. ‘Is it all right to take this?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
He places it gently inside his jacket. ‘Thank you. And thank you for staying so late.’
‘No problem.’ Megan produces a card with her details on it. ‘Call me in the morning. We can fix a time then.’
He takes it and follows her out of the room. She guides him through the security-locked doors and out into the dark cold of the night and now-empty streets.
As the door clacks shut behind them, Gideon feels numb.
He unlocks the old Audi and sits frozen in the driver’s seat, keys shaking in his hand.
8
The estate is set in a singularly beautiful, historic chalk plateau straddling Dorset, Hampshire and Wiltshire — not far from the palatial retreat that Guy Ritchie and Madonna once shared.
Gideon has never been here before and trying to find it in the dark has taken more than an hour and proved exhaustingly difficult. He wishes he’d thought things through a little more — booked into a hotel or asked the police to find him somewhere. Now he’s faced with nowhere to sleep unless he breaks into the house.
The fruits of his dead parent’s dubious labour are impressive. The mansion must be worth ten million pounds, maybe more. Perhaps his father’s ‘trade’ — grave-robbing, as Gideon had often called it — was one of the reasons why he had taken his life.
Gideon drives through tall metal gates into a darkened garden as foreboding as a cemetery. The driveway winds on for nearly half a mile before it sweeps around a marble centrepiece with an elaborate fountain that’s lit but not working. Soft, yellow garden lights cast a jaundiced glow through the leaves of ancient trees. He kills the engine and sits for a minute looking at the old house. It’s a shell — empty of life.
He gets out and walks a flagged path around the east wing. While he has no keys, he reasons that he’s unlikely to get into trouble for breaking into a property that’s just been left to him.
He trips another set of security lights and the intense burst of white forces him to blink. There’s a scurry of activity in hedges and undergrowth not far from the house — foxes or rabbits, he guesses.
A security box on a far off wall catches his eye. It probably isn’t primed. If you commit suicide, you don’t set the alarm. And given that the police were sloppy enough not to padlock the front gates, it’s unlikely that they’ve already phoned the company for the key code and appointed someone custodian.
He peers through the panes of a quaint orangery attached to the side of the building and can’t quite bring himself to break in. A little further down he looks inside a laundry-cum-storage room. The door is modern. Less expensive to replace than anything else he’s seen so far.
A good whack with the heel of his boot should do it. A solid boot somewhere around the lock. He takes a closer look. Best to get things right before you go hoofing away.
The door jamb around the handle looks already splintered.
He gives it a push and it opens.
‘Damn.’ Gideon curses the police. Unlocked gates and now a damaged door that should have been secured.
The air inside the house is stale and dry. Was this how the police entered? A crazy kick and rush by local plods after a call from a hysterical housekeeper?
He switches the light on and realises his last thought didn’t make sense. The cleaner who found his father most probably had a key. There would have been no reason for them to break in.
The place must have been burgled.
Or worse still — is in the process of being burgled.
9
Musca has found nothing.
He has ransacked the lounge, searched all eight bedrooms, several bathrooms and two reception rooms and so far he’s found nothing of any value to him. Sure, the old guy’s house is stacked full of fabulously expensive stuff. No doubt a regular burglar would be swinging a full swag bag over his shoulder and whistling a merry little tune as he strolled down the plush halls, but luxury goods are not what Musca came for.
Books, diaries, documentation, photographs, computer files and any form of tape recordings are what he’s hunting in the treasure hunter’s lair.
He’s already wrecked the library. Yanked down, opened up and shaken loose hundreds upon hundreds of old books. Now he’s heading into the study — the place he’s told the professor killed himself.
He walks over to the casement window and closes the thick red curtain. He shines his torch on to the desk, finds an antique brass lamp and flicks it on. In the mellow light, his eyes fall first on the revolving walnut chair, then the Victorian desk and the large dark-red map of blood spread across the cream blotter.
He shivers. The darkness of the house seems to close in on him. Tower above him.
Click.
Musca whirls towards the door. Just natural noises of an old building?
Crack.
He lunges for the lamp switch. Eases away from the desk and slides back towards the door. Leaning against the wall, he wills his heart to slow down.
All is silent.
Then again the soft creak of wood.
He knows now exactly where the sound is coming from. The rear of the house is full of old wooden floorboards, many warped and loose. As he discovered when he came in. He slips his kit bag off his shoulder and dips a hand inside. His fingers close around a small iron crowbar. Perfect for busting open a flimsy back door or a skull.
A moment passes.
Then another.
And another.
He starts to wonder if he’s alone or not. Whether someone’s come in and spotted him. Maybe even called the cops. Musca can’t stand the waiting any longer. He rummages in his trouser pockets and finds his cigarette lighter. If he can’t find anything incriminating, then the least he can do is ensure no one else does.
He pads back to the desk, gingerly slides open a drawer and finds a pack of A4 printer paper. Perfect. He tears open the cover wrapping and holds the flame to a wad of paper until it starts to smoke and catches ablaze. He carries the burning bundle to the curtains, flames flailing into the darkness, and holds the blaze beside the long cloths until they ignite.
The curtains create a roaring column of fire, a furious wash of orange and black. Musca retreats two steps. A tide of smoke rises around him.