Murder House

By Simon Beaufort

When PC Helen Anderson takes the files for a forthcoming court case to study over the weekend, she commits a cardinal error. For those files are not supposed to leave the police station - and the moment they fall into the wrong hands, Helen's ordinary, uneventful life begins to spiral out of control. For one small lie will lead to another, then another - culminating in a rendezvous in an ordinary suburban house in an ordinary Bristol street ... the scene of a gruesome and extraordinary murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Dec 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781780104638

Simon Beaufort

Simon Beaufort is a pseudonym for a pair of academics formerly at the University of Cambridge, both now full-time writers. One is an award-winning historian, the other a successful crime writer under the name Susanna Gregory.

Book preview

ONE

My name is Helen Anderson, and I’m a murderer. This is my story. It isn’t a confession, as those tend not to make very interesting reading. It’s my story – how I came to do the things I did, and why. For all their diligence, I don’t think the police fully understand what happened, and this is my chance to explain – for myself, as much as for anyone who happens to read it.

It won’t be easy to write, given that I’ve learned things that no one should ever have to know: how to kill, how to conceal it, and how to lie to protect myself. There was a stage when I exulted in the power that brought – to offer a hint and watch the police doggedly follow the road I had selected, knowing their efforts would be wasted. But mostly, I was just scared and confused.

I suppose I should start at the beginning. It sounds trite put like that – all stories should start at the beginning. But when did mine start? The first time I met James Paxton? Our single, fumbling, sordid date years later? The point when he realized that a friend in the police might be good for more than a few cheap jokes about handcuffs? I think I shall go back to the very beginning, when we were still young, although even then there was a sharp distinction between his world and mine.

The distinction became clearer as we grew older, and perhaps that’s where the problems started – my ridiculous gratitude at being noticed by the bright star that was James; my pathetic pleasure at being invited into his exclusive world. But, of course, that was before I learned that all that glitters isn’t gold.

James and I were at school together in Bristol – or rather, we were in the same school at the same time. He came late, when we were fifteen, but he made his uniform look as if it had been styled in Savile Row, and he quickly became the school pin-up. All the girls were aware of him, whether with the usual adoration for the exotic and handsome, or a sort of fascinated unease, where we pretended not to notice him but were nonetheless flattered when he smiled in our direction.

James quickly became Redlands School’s star pupil. He passed his GCSEs with flying colours, was Head Boy, captain of the cricket team, took the leading role in all the plays, and had a set of friends who basked in his reflected glory.

Meanwhile, I worked hard and made respectable grades. I was an average athlete, and a reliable backstop on the rounders team. I took care with my appearance, although photographs show me with no sense of style, and a thatch of fairish hair that would have looked better short. My parents owned a shop. They were good people, who were proud when I scraped through enough A-levels to win a place at a provincial university.

James had a mother with Thatcher hair and the confident attitude of someone used to getting her own way. His father was apparently dead, but he never talked about it. I suppose bad things happen even to boys like James, who had everything he could want and a good deal more besides. He caught the bus to school with the rest of us in the mornings, but sometimes a man would collect him in his mother’s Mercedes. We joked that the driver was his mother’s lover, and sniggered at the thought of that stiff, uncompromising lady rolling around with the monkey-faced, unshaven fellow in the car.

So, that was James. Destined to go to Oxford, where he continued to excel, while I studied psychology in Newcastle.

One day, when I was in the university careers service – I was there because I didn’t have the faintest idea what I wanted to do with my degree – my advisor ran late. To pass the time, I filled in an application for the police. When a letter came inviting me for an interview with the Avon and Somerset Constabulary, I was stunned – I hadn’t imagined they’d reply. I went along, and the next thing I knew I’d been accepted and was due to start training. So I became a police constable. I bought a terraced house in the Hotwells district of Bristol and prepared for my new life.

At first, I was assigned to pleasantly rural Midsomer Norton, where we dealt with minor thefts, the odd case of incest, and the kind of vandalism that always happens when bored teenagers have nothing else to do. But the uniform still meant something to the people of that nice country town, and getting the job done wasn’t difficult. For the next three and a half years, I was happy.

Then the force decided that more officers were needed in urban areas, so I was re-assigned to the Bristol West district, which covered the main shopping areas, the harbour, and much of the ‘inner city’. Bristol West HQ, known as New Bridewell, was a nasty, multi-storeyed affair with grime-encrusted windows set in grey concrete, which had not been updated for years. Home Office reviews, stupid legislation and constant public criticism had demoralized and embittered the people who worked there, and I disliked it from my first day. Time did nothing to make it any better.

In the country, I’d shown an aptitude for handling frustrated farmers and angry motorists, and I’d even demonstrated a modest talent for dealing with bewildered livestock. At New Bridewell, I was lost. I had no ‘feel’ for the criminal side of the job and found it hard to tell the difference between strange truths and accomplished lies. Moreover, I disliked the confrontational encounters with the rough, violent, persistent offenders who were regular faces at the station.

There was another problem, too. I found myself landed with more boring traffic duty than was fair, given my age and experience – Britain’s police forces may have policies on sexism, but that means nothing when there are officers like Sergeant Barry Wright in positions of authority. Wright was what my colleagues generally – and usually admiringly – called ‘an old-style policeman’. To me, he was a bigot.

If work was dismal, so too was my social life. Shifts and unscheduled overtime play havoc with relationships, a problem compounded by the fact that not everyone wants a police officer as a friend. It isn’t just that we make unreliable acquaintances, who often cancel long-standing arrangements at the last minute, but there seems to be a belief among the public that off-duty officers have nothing better to do than catch them breaking the law.

I had no real friends at New Bridewell, although I always joined the post-shift drinks in a local pub. The men were either married or on the prowl – or both – while the women were either struggling to juggle the job with home life and children, or wanted to party hard. I was at a particularly low point in my life when I stopped James for running a red light.

I’d had a really bad day. I was on an early shift, which meant getting up before four a.m., and my in-tray was full of petty burglaries and thefts to ‘investigate’. Cars were in short supply, so I’d had to walk, and I was hot, tired and irritable. I was trudging back to the station in a foul frame of mind when a black BMW shot through a busy exchange after the lights had changed. I leapt off the pavement, arm raised in an imperious gesture for the driver to stop.

I confess I was flattered when James declared himself delighted to see me. He took the ticket I wrote with good grace, then told me about himself. Needless to say, he was successful. He’d left Oxford with a First in law, and a number of high-paying firms had offered him a position. He’d chosen Urvine and Brotherton, where he specialized in criminal law. They had offices in Queen Square, one of Bristol’s loveliest areas.

Then he told me he was meeting some old Redlandians at a harbour-side cafe that Saturday. He mentioned several names I recognized – Colin Fairhurst, Gary Sheldick, Frances Moorfield – and suggested I join them. I smiled politely and told him I’d try, in the way people do when they have no intention of trying at all. Such exulted company wasn’t for the likes of me.

Yet when Saturday came, and I was settling down for a night of mediocre telly with a bag of Thornton’s ‘continentals’, I realized there was no reason why I shouldn’t meet up with them. The harbour wasn’t far; I could walk there in less than half an hour. So I went, nervously fiddling with my keys as I approached their table, but relaxing when I sensed that they were genuinely pleased to see an old schoolmate, even if it was only one of the ‘average girls’.

I was relieved to find that the youthful arrogance had gone from Gary, Frances and Colin – they were normal people, who talked about mortgages, ageing parents and where to go on holiday. Colin was a computer programmer, while Frances and Gary worked for an insurance company. I didn’t feel overawed or bedazzled by them, as I had at school.

I met them several times after that, becoming particularly good friends with Frances and Gary. They’d been a couple at school, and had kept their relationship going through different universities and demanding jobs. James, meanwhile, was always charming and attentive, and I was foolishly flattered that a good-looking man seemed interested in me. When he suggested a date at a wine bar on Park Street, I accepted, although there was a part of me that wondered, even then, why an ambitious lawyer would want to go out with a plain police constable with scant chance of promotion.

Our date was a disaster. Without the relaxed bonhomie of the others, our conversation was stilted. James took me back to his designer-furnished flat, where our sex was no more satisfactory than our discussions about wine, politics and work, and left us both uncomfortable. I slipped away while he was still asleep, and walked for two hours in the dark to get home. He didn’t call me, and I avoided the Saturday night gatherings for several months, opting instead to see Frances and Gary during the week.

And that was that. When I finally returned to the old Redlandians’ fold months later, James wasn’t there, and enquiries revealed that he’d slipped out of the habit at about the same time as me. The story of my association with James Paxton should have ended there. I wish to God it had.

TWO

Detective Inspector Neel Oakley was used to people misspelling his name. It had been chosen by his Indian mother because she thought it would fit nicely into the two cultures that comprised his heritage. Oakley had never visited India, and with his mother dead and contact long since lost with her family, nor was he likely to. The only reminders of his ethnic background were an olive complexion, dark eyes and a fondness for curry. And the name, of course, which often caused confusion. One such occasion was currently in progress, as he stood in the witness box at Bristol Crown Court to give evidence against one Andrew Brown.

‘There appears to be a mistake,’ drawled James Paxton, the defending barrister. ‘One of the clerks has spelled Neil with two ‘e’s. That’s the disgrace of our education system, My Lord – it teaches people to spell phonetically.’

Patiently, Oakley explained the origin of his name. He disliked Paxton, having watched him in action before, belittling witnesses and using his sharp mind to confuse and undermine them. He knew the remark about his name was an effort to get under his skin, to annoy him and make him incautious.

Brown had already served time for burglary and, if there was any justice, was about to spend a fourth spell behind bars. He had snatched a bag from an old woman, clubbing her to the ground in the process. It had frightened the wits out of her – literally. Mrs Harris was now so confused that Oakley suspected her testimony was going to lose them the case. Paxton obviously thought so, too, because he was already gloating.

Paxton’s smirk faded to irritation when Oakley declined to be needled, but returned when Detective Sergeant Mark Butterworth took the stand – the younger man’s anger and indignation were palpable, and Paxton soon manipulated him into blurting that, yes, he would love to see Brown behind bars, and of course he would use all the methods at his disposal to see justice done.

‘We should have hired an actress to be Mrs Harris for the day,’ Butterworth muttered, as he and Oakley sat in the corridor, waiting for the verdict. He was from Yorkshire, a small, fair-haired man devoted to his job and his baby daughter in equal measure. ‘She was crap, which means Brown’s going to walk – Paxton’s going to get him off.’

‘Very possibly,’ sighed Oakley. ‘Just like he got Gordon Noble off last year.’

Butterworth glowered. ‘Noble! I spent weeks on that case, only to see the bastard go free. I still think Paxton nobbled the jury.’

Oakley didn’t. Paxton seemed altogether too sure of his own skills to resort to anything illegal. He had simply given the jury reasonable doubts about Noble’s guilt, and that was that.

‘Bloody Noble!’ muttered Butterworth. ‘Still, we’ll have him sooner or later. He won’t stay clean for long. Nor will Brown – because he is going to walk today.’

He was right: the jury returned a verdict of ‘not guilty’. With only circumstantial evidence placing Brown at the scene of the crime – and suspicions that Mrs Harris’ pension had been planted on Brown by overzealous police officers – the defendant was free.

‘Can’t win ’em all,’ taunted Paxton as he gathered up his folders. ‘Better luck next time.’

‘There ought to be a law against gloating,’ said Oakley to the prosecution barrister, Simon Ingram, as he watched Paxton strut away. He wondered how the man’s suit could look so elegant after a day in a humid, stuffy courtroom. Oakley himself felt sticky and soiled, although the sensation had as much to do with the proximity of Brown as it had the heat of the building.

‘What goes around, comes around,’ said Ingram, dislike clear in his voice. ‘Unfortunately, Paxton is blessed with the luck of the Devil. I haven’t seen him lose a case yet.’

‘What, never?’ asked Oakley.

‘No – and he’s had some tough ones.’ Ingram snapped his briefcase closed. ‘But no one wins forever. Good morning, gentlemen. The next time you bring me a villain, perhaps you would remember to provide some decent evidence as well.’

‘The evidence was good,’ muttered Butterworth resentfully. ‘Brown was in Dean Lane when the old lady was mugged, and her pension was in his pocket. What more does he want? Well, maybe Brown will mug Paxton’s mother next time. That’ll give the smarmy git something to think about!’

I first heard James’ name mentioned at New Bridewell when DI Oakley and DS Butterworth lost the Brown case. In the following months, many more villains were freed thanks to his quick brain and clever words, and although I was tempted to mention casually that he and I had been at school together, I had the good sense to hold my tongue. And thank God I did, considering the way things turned out.

October

New Bridewell’s CID had so much work that Oakley was often obliged to beg the uniform branch for help with routine surveillance. Overtime was inevitable rather than optional for his detectives, and the teacher who had been delighted to move in with him six months earlier had moved out, declaring she wanted a relationship with someone who would be home at least one evening a week. Oakley knew his life was a mess when he didn’t find her letter until three days after she’d gone.

The current reason for Oakley’s lack of a personal life was Gordon Noble, a vicious thug with fingers in many illegal pies. Noble had previous convictions for robbery and aggravated burglary – including a time when he had almost severed a security guard’s arm with a hatchet. During the previous decade he had eliminated his competitors to become a major player in Bristol’s criminal underworld. Although now wealthy, he refused to sit back and supervise his underlings, such as his two heavy-set ‘enforcers’ – Justin Castle and Mike Gray. Instead, he continued to lead his operation from the front, actively participating in a variety of crimes. Yet, despite being caught several times, he remained free, thanks to James Paxton’s courtroom skills.

For months, Oakley’s informants had been telling him that something was brewing at Noble’s dilapidated row of sheds near the marina. These were ostensibly used for storing engine parts, as Noble’s legal business was repairing outboard motors. But Oakley believed his sources, and was convinced something significant was about to happen there.

That ‘something’ was related to the kids hanging out near one of Noble’s all-night pizza joints. Oakley and his team watched money and small packets exchanging hands there on a regular basis and, although he could not prove it, Oakley was sure Noble was a key figure behind the flow of drugs to Bristol’s bored and sullen youth.

But Noble wasn’t Oakley’s only case, and it was a struggle to watch the sheds and investigate Bristol’s other crimes at the same time. Superintendent Taylor had been keen when Oakley had first gone to him with the rumour that ‘something big’ was brewing, but his enthusiasm had waned as days became weeks and nothing happened. Oakley refused to give up, though, and his patience paid off: word came that Noble was expecting a shipment of goods ‘one morning soon’. He detailed a young DC to watch the sheds each day, but Oakley was a meticulous, cautious man, and he wanted the place watched 24/7. As no one from CID was available at night, he was obliged to beg uniform’s help.

He approached Inspector Blake, whose shift was working nights that week. Blake was a genial but foolish man close to retirement, who was more interested in honing his computer skills than in actual police work. He approved Oakley’s request with a casual nod, and said Sergeant Wright would allocate an officer.

Oakley disliked Wright, mostly for the deplorable way he treated his female officers, particularly Helen Anderson. Oakley suspected that Wright was frightened of her, afraid she might use her sharper wits to expose him as a stupid, vain man without two brain cells to rub together. However, Oakley doubted Anderson would do any such thing: she was shy, and so desperate to be accepted by her colleagues that she ignored his brazen favouritism towards the men in his command.

When Oakley made his request, Wright leaned back in his chair and fixed him with rodent-like eyes. Oakley stared back, noting that Wright had plastered strands of hair across his greasy, balding pate and that his moustache was stained yellow with nicotine.

‘You can have Anderson,’ Wright said eventually. ‘She’s no good for anything anyway. Head too full of theories to get down to any real policing.’

‘Oh?’ asked Oakley mildly. ‘And what theories would those be?’

‘She’d rather ask a villain about his mother than knee him in the bollocks,’ sneered Wright. ‘Bloody women! They should stick to raising babies and having the tea on the table when we get home.’

‘Anderson will do nicely,’ said Oakley. Then he couldn’t resist adding: ‘I don’t want a truncheon-happy yob who assaults suspects and provides them with an excuse for charges to be dropped.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out, feeling Wright’s hostile gaze on his back as he went. He collected Anderson from the briefing room and told her what he wanted. She nodded agreeably, although he sensed she felt she had drawn the short straw. He sympathized, but he needed a body. She collected a radio, and he drove her to the derelict house CID was using for observations.

‘What made you join the force?’ he asked conversationally as they turned down a cobbled street from which SS Great Britain could be seen in the distance, its masts and spars a spiky mass against the orange sky. ‘The fabulous salary? The excellent working hours? The chance to meet charming people?’

‘Do you mean the villains or our colleagues?’ she asked, laughing.

‘Both. Look, I’m sorry about this. I know you’d rather be out with the lads, but I really need someone here tonight.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? Word is that if anything does happen, it will be during the day. We both know watching the place now is a waste of time.’

‘I disagree. A lot’s at stake here. Three teenagers have died from bad drugs this year, and more will follow unless Noble’s operation is stopped. It might not feel like it, but being here is probably the most important thing anyone on your shift will do tonight.’

‘Really?’ she asked coolly. ‘Then why aren’t you doing it yourself?’

He grimaced. ‘Point taken. But I’ll tell you what: if anything does go down, you’re the arresting officer. It’ll look good on your record, and it’ll annoy Wright.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘It’s not as bad as traffic duty. At least here some kind soul might bring me a flask of coffee later.’

‘Sugar?’ asked Oakley genially.

I’d been at New Bridewell about a year and a half when Wright assigned me to watch the sheds. It was a pain, and Wright said that if anyone other than DI Oakley was in charge, no one would have bothered to stake out the place at night. Oakley had a reputation for being thorough.

But at least Oakley was nice about it. He seemed genuinely sorry that I’d drawn the short straw, and spent a full thirty minutes pointing out various buildings in Noble’s domain, and explaining why it was important that Noble was caught. He was clearly determined to nail the man.

It was just a shame it wasn’t likely to happen while I was there.

Oakley took Anderson some coffee and a bag of chips just after midnight. The sheds were still and silent, and the derelict house bitterly cold. Oakley experienced a pang of guilt, but he wasn’t about to let her go early. He gave her his peace offerings, made sure her radio was working, and headed home. It was a little after two o’clock when he was woken by the crackle of the radio he had placed next to his bed.

‘Noble,’ Anderson whispered with barely suppressed excitement. ‘He’s just opened one of his sheds, and his two heavies are down by the waterfront. I think they’re waiting for someone.’

‘Don’t do anything, Helen,’ said Oakley, reaching for his clothes in the darkness. ‘Sit tight and wait.’

He called the station and, within minutes, a carefully formulated plan was swinging into action. Oakley ran down the stairs, pulling on his coat as he went. Remembering not to slam the car door or gun the engine – the neighbours had recently complained about his nocturnal habits – he drove quickly towards the docks.

Butterworth was already there, almost dancing with glee. ‘A boat’s making a delivery. Tony Johns can see it from the roof, and he’s getting it all on camera.’

‘Good,’ said Oakley. ‘Is everyone here?’

Butterworth nodded. ‘DI Davis is up with Anderson, and Wright’s got two traffic lads nearby, in case things go pear-shaped. Dogs are on standby, and Bristol East CID are listening in.’

Oakley slipped into the derelict building and went up the stairs to where two dark shapes were outlined at the window: Anderson and DI Clare Davis.

‘You were right, Neel.’ Davis sounded pleased. ‘The rumours about a daytime delivery were a blind, to make sure we knocked off at dusk. How did you know?’

‘I didn’t,’ admitted Oakley. He grinned at Anderson. ‘Looks like you’ll arrest one of the most dangerous villains in the West Country tonight.’

The operation went smoothly, and before dawn Noble and six accomplices were locked in New Bridewell’s cells and ten kilograms of heroin had been seized. The drug squad was delighted – especially when one suspect offered to give up even bigger fish in exchange for a lighter sentence.

True to his word, Oakley made sure the honour of arresting Noble went to Anderson, and he found himself doubly rewarded – by her pleasure and Wright’s fury that she should be the hero of the hour. A preliminary interview was arranged for the morning, so that Noble’s lawyer could not claim his client had been questioned late at night when he was tired.

Oakley reminded his team that everything needed to be done by the book, then told them to go home and snatch some sleep before the interviews and reports the following day. Mark Butterworth lingered, however, too wired by the night’s happenings to go home. After writing up his pocket book, he went to look at Noble through the grille on the cell door, enjoying the look of indignant rage on the man’s face.

Noble was wearing white overalls, as his clothes had been taken to see whether the white powder on them could be matched to the heroin that had been found on the smugglers’ boat.

‘You won’t get me,’ warned Noble, masking his temper when he saw he was being watched. ‘Not for smuggling. I might enjoy a bit of crack now and again, but I don’t get involved in dealing.’

‘The forensic boys will prove you do,’ taunted Butterworth. ‘They’ll find it on your clothes.’

‘Yeah, my personal stash,’ said Noble with a shrug. ‘It don’t prove I had anything to do with the boat. All I did was watch it arrive. I’m an innocent bystander.’

Butterworth closed the grille and went to the property book – a thick tome in which the contents of a prisoner’s pockets were recorded before being placed in a canvas bag and stored until the arrested person left the cells. The custody sergeant, Derek Jones, had gone to fetch someone a cup of water, so Butterworth unlocked the cupboard, found Noble’s bag, and emptied it on the counter. Sure enough, there was a packet containing white powder. He glanced at the property book and saw its presence was duly noted. The following day, when Noble’s lawyer was present, the packet would be sent to the Forensic Science Service, or FSS, for analysis.

Butterworth, tired and edgy, could see the case going up in smoke when the courts decided that any traces of heroin on Noble’s clothes originated from his personal supply, not the boat. Noble was right: he might walk free.

Butterworth looked quickly through the other entries and saw that Noble was not the only one with drugs: Mike Gray had had five tablets in a pouch – ecstasy or some similar party pill. Quickly, Butterworth changed the