No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 19
If the killer wants it to look like Eddie shot himself, the gun’s in the wrong hand.
Then I see my wife.
Forty-Three
The screen on the wall broadcasts an image of my naked wife, posing provocatively, her lips pouting, her dark eyes begging me to make love to her. She’s younger, her bleached blonde hair long and cascading over smooth, bare shoulders.
I should leave the room and ring Ashley, but I need to find Gemma. Covering my nose and mouth with a handkerchief, I look around, taking in the bar in the corner, complete with stools and a wine fridge. More seating lines the adjoining wall.
My gaze returns to the screen. On the table in front of Marshall, I spot a DVD cover, which reveals more intimate photographs of my wife.
The Complete Gorgeous Gemma.
Her sexiest photos and videos together in this connoisseur’s collection.
I can’t leave the DVD here for the police to find.
Neither can I remove evidence from a crime scene I’ve already contaminated.
I back out into the foyer. The door to my left opens into a studio, complete with spotlights, a stage with a white backdrop, and enough cameras to satisfy the fussiest photographer. To the left, there’s a rail of dresses and swimwear. Adjacent shelves contain lingerie. I skim past the shelves with sex toys, heading for the door at the back. It leads to a small shower room and toilet. Another small room next door is a dressing room with a large top lit mirror.
Returning to the viewing room, I ignore the smell and take photos with my phone, making sure the DVD cover and TV aren’t in the pictures. Then I leave the room and hurry outside, gulping in fresh air before I ring Ashley. I want her to arrange the response, not the police control room.
She answers on the fourth ring, her voice low and angry. “I’m in the middle of a briefing.”
“Eddie Marshall’s dead in his studio. He’s been shot in the head.”
“What are you doing there? We’re making plans to raid the place.” The voices in the background fall silent. “How did you know where to...? Are you sure it’s Edward Marshall?”
“Yes. It’s his studio, his house near Ditchling.”
“Get out now, Kent. We’ll have officers there in ten minutes to secure the scene. Don’t go anywhere. We need to interview you.”
“You haven’t asked about Gemma.”
“Oh shit! Is she hurt?”
“She’s not in the studio where I found Eddie. It’s in a barn at the back of the garden. I haven’t checked the house yet.”
“Don’t! Leave it to us.”
“And if she’s injured or dying?”
I cut the call and hurry across to the house, skirting around the abandoned swimming pool, filled only with a veneer of rain and algae. The dark, grumbling clouds above me unleash heavy raindrops that sting my face and penetrate my clothes in seconds. At least they wash away the smell of death that clings to me. Inside the conservatory, the sound of the rain, drumming on the plastic roof is deafening. Almost tripping over a cane table, I head into an open plan dining room, kitchen, lounge, which looks like it was lifted from a TV makeover programme.
Only I don’t remember seeing so many empty wine bottles on TV.
But I’m not interested in soft close drawers, oven doors that convert to TV screens, or any of the fancy gadgets that pose on the worktops. I’m looking for my wife. I call out to her as I wrench open a door to a utility room that’s as big as a garage.
The long hall to the front door has two more reception rooms on either side. An elegant steel staircase leads to the first floor. Calling out once more, I hurry into a library cum office, complete with modern steel shelves and a matching desk. I bend to look under the desk and check behind the full length curtains, coating myself with dust.
The room opposite is a viewing room. One wall is dominated by a screen, with sofas facing it. Another wall is filled with electronic equipment and speakers, all with small red lights glowing. Giant speakers sit in every corner. Heavy drapes connected to a motor, wait to slide noiselessly across a sturdy steel rail.
I charge up the stairs and along the landing, racing past walls lined with photographs of glamour models. It doesn’t take long to check the five bedrooms, three with en-suite bathrooms, two with walk-in wardrobes, one set up as a studio with lighting, camera rigs and blackout screens on the window, a mirror on the ceiling. It’s clear that only the main bedroom, filled with more electronic gadgetry, is being used. Dust and cobwebs line the other rooms. As I exit the smallest bedroom, I become aware of the stale, musty odour of neglect. The smell seems more intense up here, suggesting Marshall spends his time downstairs, sleeping on one of the many sofas he owns.
As my breathing slows to normal, I look out of the window at the large, overgrown garden. Is Gemma buried out there?
“The garage!”
I race downstairs, almost losing my footing, and burst out through the heavy-duty front door into the blinding rain. I run across to the detached double garage, hoping it’s not locked. Guarded by wooden doors, not steel, they creak and resist at first, but finally yield to reveal a bright red E Type jaguar with no wheels, mounted on four jacks. The registration plate tells me it’s old.
I peer inside the car, but there’s nothing to see other than faded and worn seats and an overflowing ashtray.
As I didn’t smell tobacco or cigarettes in the studio or the house, I’m wondering when Marshall last used the car.
The tracks I saw earlier must have come from the van that visited early on Saturday morning.
Was that when Marshall was killed?
I need to ask Trudi if the light was switched on that evening. The answer might help to narrow the time of death.
I close the garage door, thinking back to the studio. I was too frantic to take in all the details. I didn’t look too closely at the body. The stench of death seems strong enough for the time frame, but I’m neither a pathologist nor a crime scene investigator.
I’m the one who contaminated the scene – several scenes if you include the house and garage.
I close the front door and trot around the house, trying to work out what happened here.
If Trudi didn’t hear the shot, either she wasn’t at home or the studio is sound proofed.
When I enter, I check the walls. They’re lined, but not thick enough to absorb the sound of a gunshot. Then again, noise was never my best subject at university, or at work. Too many complaints reflected the growing intolerance of people, not the noise their neighbours created.
I stand in the doorway, handkerchief over my nose and mouth, staring at the image of Gemma on the screen. As I look around the room, I notice the wall to ceiling cupboard to my right. I was too distracted to notice it earlier. I raise the roller shutter door to reveal several shelves of computers and what look like DVD burners. The heat feels intense on my face as I look closer. While I’m no expert, this must be where Halliday produced his pirate discs.
A door to the side of the cupboard opens into a small storeroom, which contains boxes of DVD covers, spindles of blank discs and an industrial laser printer against the wall.
Halliday and Marshall had everything to film or photograph models and put the results onto DVD for their subscribers.
But Trudi said Marshall stopped having women round two years ago.
Hearing sirens, I know uniformed officers will be here any minute to secure the scene, including the DVD of Gemma. I stare at the cover, then the DVD player, knowing I should leave them there.
If I remove the DVD, I’ll end up with a criminal record. It’s hardly the best endorsement for a private investigator or head of a trusted charity.
If I leave the DVD, the police will know what Gemma did when she was younger.
They could gather round and watch it later.
How long will it take for word to get out?
If they find the killer, Marshall’s life and business will be dissected during the interviews and any subsequent court case. Reporters will swarm like flies, eager to feed on the salacious details.
If I don’t remove the evidence, Foster and Penn will believe Gemma had a strong motive for killing Marshall.
Forty-Four
The sound of sirens encourages me to move. Behind the bar, I find a couple of cleaning cloths. I use one to keep my fingerprints off the DVD player’s eject button. With a cloth in each hand, I place the DVD in its case and snap it shut. Next, I close the DVD drawer and turn off the screen. After a quick look around, I wrap the cloths around the DVD, shove the bundle under my polo shirt and head back into the rain.
While I trot back along Trudi’s garden, I hear doors slamming and police officers calling to each other. She spots me and opens the conservatory door, waving me inside. Columbo’s delighted to see me, leaping up to place his muddy paws on my legs. Hendrix also walks up, sniffing at me. Hopefully, I smell of woodland and undergrowth rather than death. His little tail wags when I stroke him.
Trudi hands me a fluffy towel. She looks into my eyes and squeezes my arm. “Any sign of Gemma?”
I shake my head. “I found this though.”
I remove the DVD from under my sodden polo shirt. “Don’t remove the cloth. You don’t want your fingerprints on what’s inside.”
“Is it evidence?” Her eyes twinkle, like she’s going to take a peek. Then she changes her mind and places the DVD on the small table between two chairs. “Do you want me to put it somewhere safe? As you removed it from the studio, I’m guessing you don’t want the police to see it.”
While I don’t want Trudi to become an accessory, something tells me she doesn’t care.
“Eddie Marshall’s dead.” I pause to assess her reaction before continuing. “He has a bullet in his head and a gun in his hand. Do you remember hearing a shot? Or something that sounded like a shot?”
“I’ve heard him clay pigeon shooting. I know what a shot sounds like.”
She returns to the kitchen. As I dry my hair, I wonder if I’ve insulted her. The thought passes as I watch the garden, waiting for uniformed officers to push through the hedge. There are several voices now, one issuing instructions to secure everything until the crime scene investigators arrive.
Foster and Penn will be on their way. Will Ashley come too?
Trudi returns with two large mugs of tea. I remove the DVD from the table so she can set them down.
She tells me a car has stopped outside the front gate. “A man and a woman, who look like detectives, were staring at your car. This is a bit of a shot in the dark, but I think they know you’re here. When they buzz, what do you want me to say?”
I hear a long buzz somewhere at the front of the bungalow. She holds out her hand. “Do you want me to put this somewhere safe?”
“It was paused on a screen when I found Marshall.” I peel back the cloth to reveal the cover. She looks, showing no emotion. “Is this your wife, when she was younger?”
The buzzer sounds again, more insistent this time.
“Leave it with me.” She takes the DVD and goes into the house. I walk over to the kitchen door to listen.
“Yes, Mr Fisher’s waiting for you. Okay, I’ll tell him.” She returns, the DVD still in her hand. “They’ll be round to talk to you shortly, so you can enjoy your tea. You should also get out of those soaking clothes.”
“I’m not sure DC Foster will want to interview me naked.”
“No, I imagine she’ll want to keep her clothes on.” She chuckles and beckons me into the house. Columbo and Hendrix follow, no doubt hoping for treats. “I burned my husband’s clothes in a ceremonial bonfire when I discovered his affair, so I’m short on male attire. I have a cassock left over from a fancy dress party, where I went as the Vicar of Dibley. It comes with a dog collar too. Perfect for confession,” she says, treating me to a grin.
“This is no time for jokes, Trudi.”
“I’m deadly serious. But if you’d prefer something less ecclesiastical...” She leads me down the hall to a small bedroom with a single bed, fitted wardrobes and a dresser. “My younger brother pops over from California occasionally. He’s leaner than you, but prefers trousers with elasticated waists, so they should fit. Bring your wet clothes with you and I’ll run them through the tumble dryer.”
She opens the wardrobe and leaves me to it. A few moments later, she returns with a large bath towel. I’m standing there in my sodden underpants, checking a hand knitted sweater.
She looks me over and grins. “Unless you intend to go commando, I can loan you an old pair of knickers.”
“Silk, I hope.”
“Now who’s making jokes?” Her reprimand doesn’t diminish the twinkle in her eyes. “You’ll find some boxers in the dresser. Go for a t-shirt. Fair Isle won’t suit you.”
I follow her advice, selecting a grey polo shirt and a pair of black chinos with elasticated waist. My shoes are waterproof, so I don’t need to change my socks. Back in the kitchen, I ask for a carrier bag.
“The police will want to examine my clothes,” I say.
She retrieves a neatly folded Waitrose carrier bag from a drawer. “Did he shoot himself?”
I pause, wondering why the killer placed the gun in the wrong hand. Did he panic and make a mistake. Having clinically despatched Halliday in a similar fashion, I doubt it.
“No, I don’t think he took his own life.”
“Any sign of your wife?”
“Not in the house or garage, as far as I could tell.”
She gives me a sympathetic shrug. “I don’t know if it’s good news or not.”
“Me neither.”
I follow Trudi back into the conservatory, wondering where she’s hidden the DVD. She takes a seat and reaches for her tea. When Hendrix nudges her leg, she runs her fingers along his back. He arches and lets out a contented sigh.
“If Eddie was shot on Saturday, it was after I left for Nyman’s. It would explain why he didn’t switch on the lights in the studio.”
“Have they come on since?”
“I haven’t noticed, to be honest. My publisher’s on my back to finish editing my new book. I’ve been holed up in my den most evenings.” She gives me a worried frown. “Are you sure he was murdered?”
“We’ll have to wait for the post mortem, but I think he was, yes.”
“Do you think your wife was there when he was shot?” Trudi sighs and shakes her head as if she’s been a fool. “Of course she wasn’t. She wouldn’t have left the DVD behind.”
“She may not have had the chance to take it.”
“No, I guess not. Did you know about the DVD?”
She means, did I know about Gemma’s life as a glamour model, or whatever people call them. I shift in the chair, remembering how I froze when I saw her image on the screen.
“No, I had no idea.”
She leans back, sounding like a journalist. “How do you feel about your wife taking her clothes off for the camera?”
I’m not sure what bothers me – Gemma posing naked or the thought of others getting pleasure and gratification from staring at naked images of her.
“She was young,” I say, needing to explain, to understand. “Her father was dying. Money was tight. You can earn more posing for photographs than waiting tables.”
“You don’t need to defend her, Kent. She’s done nothing wrong. She wouldn’t have made the decision lightly.”
“Taking her clothes off is one thing,” I say, shifting again. “She was also an escort.”
“Ah, that’s what’s troubling you.” Trudi nods, as if she understands perfectly. “Before you married, did you sleep around? One night stands, moments of passion, gone by the morning?”
“I never paid for sex.”
“You didn’t need to. You met a woman, shared a mutual attraction, had sex and went your separate ways. Apart from the money, is it really any different?”
I don’t answer.
“When I started out as a rock journalist, I discovered a foolproof way to get the best stories. I also got to sleep with some of the most exciting and sexy men in rock music. No one paid me, Kent, but I sold myself for the excitement and some brilliant features. No one thought the worse of me.”
“Did you tell your husband?”
She laughs. “This happened before I was married, but no, I didn’t. His reaction would have been similar to yours.”
“Judgemental, you mean.”
“Stunned, confused, disbelieving.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and points into the garden. “I think someone wants to talk to you.”
Ashley marches up the lawn, a mutinous look on her face. At least the rain has stopped.
“Can you get the DVD, Trudi?”
“I thought you wanted to keep it from the police.”
“I don’t want police officers staring at my wife, knowing what she did. But you’re right, it doesn’t change who she is or how I feel about her.”
Trudi puts a reassuring hand on my arm. “You’re one of the good guys, Kent.”
“Somehow, I don’t think the police will share your enlightened view.”
Forty-Five
Columbo bounds across the conservatory to greet Ashley, looking puzzled when she ignores him. She stands there in her sodden grey trouser suit, her hair flat and lifeless, her fingers clenching and unclenching. The anger in her piercing grey eyes could cut through diamonds. She watches Trudi return to place the DVD, still wrapped in the cleaning cloth, on the table.
“I’m Trudi Blossom. Who are you? And what are you doing, strutting across my garden without permission?”
Ashley holds up her ID. “Detective Inspector Ashley Goodman.”
“In that case, would you like a tea or a coffee, Miss Goodman?”
