Dead Man's Hand Page 2

  ‘Look closer.’

  Hal brought his head down closer to the wrapper. His eyes could just make out some sausage-shaped things hidden amongst the blood and gore.

  ‘It’s a hand.’

  ‘Yep. Left hand. Male Caucasian, I’d say at first glance, but I can’t be sure until I get it to the lab. Severed just below the wrist by the looks of it.’

  Hal straightened up. ‘What’s it doing here?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. That’s your job.’

  ‘Who was first on the scene?’

  ‘Locals sent a young bobby round to check,’ Singh interjected. ‘He’s in the hallway. He’s pretty shaken up.’

  ‘Milking it a little, if you ask me.’ The Good Professor was packing his camera away now. ‘Making the most of it by trying to wing the rest of the day off. My lad’s in there now trying to calm him down. He should be out here with me. That’s why I’m taking the shots.’

  ‘Is that digital? Or do you still use film?’ Hal’s mind slipped off on a tangent and pointed at the camera in its case.

  ‘We still tend to use film. Harder to fiddle with film. If you alter a digital photo it can look pretty convincing. If you alter a real photo, it’s usually quite easy to spot. Besides which there’s no fun in taking digital pictures. Anyone can do it.’

  ‘Who lives here?’ Hal asked turning to Singh.

  ‘Flats. Bedsits. Six or seven of them. Looks like only three or four are occupied. House is owned by a Mr Rabin – he’s in there now with the old lady. He’s divorced. Owns a couple of other houses in the area which he rents out. Drives a Mercedes.’ She pointed to a car parked further up the road. ‘Takes good care of his tenants according to the old lady. Doesn’t strike me as the sort of bloke to have too many enemies.’

  Singh was always very thorough. Very, very thorough. And very, very ambitious.

  ‘We’d better go up and have a word. See what this is all about. John …’ The Good Professor looked up momentarily. ‘This hand. The person who …’ he stumbled for the right word but settled on quite the wrong one instead, ‘… owned it. Dead or alive?’

  ‘Dead.’ His eyes didn’t even flicker away from the back of the camera case with which he was still fidgeting. ‘Unquestionably dead. Impossible to survive such an injury. Unless they were practically standing in the foyer of a hospital when it occurred and managed to get it dealt with straight away. But …’ his voice trailed away. ‘Not that I’m here to tell you your job – but I would have thought that the fact that it has been put on somebody’s doorstep, presumably by somebody else, means that you are looking at a murder enquiry here.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘I’ll get it packed away, whip it off to the lab and print it before I do anything else. Just in case some poor sod is suffering somewhere. But I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Hal and Singh went inside the house where Dr Good’s assistant (a ruddy-faced, ginger-haired boy called Spud or Sponge or something – Hal could never remember) was sat chatting to an even younger, uniformed officer. The copper looked wide-eyed and shaky.

  ‘Good work,’ acknowledged Hal as both he and Singh started climbing the stairs.

  ‘This is the man I was telling you about, Doris.’

  Singh’s voice seemed to get louder as she walked through the door to the flat. Actually, flat was far too generous a word. It was a fairly large single room with a tiny bed tucked to one side, a wardrobe, a table in front of a grimy window, and a small kitchen area with a cooker, fridge, and sink in the corner nearest the door. The walls were all painted a shiny off-white colour which appeared to be flaking off in places, revealing pink plasterwork underneath. The carpet was dark with dirt and had numerous threadbare patches. On a weedy-looking sofa with wooden armrests, an old woman and an olive-skinned man in his fifties were drinking cups of tea. The woman had a slight tremor to her hand as she lifted the cup to her lips. They both turned as Hal and Singh entered the room.

  ‘This is Inspector Luchewski. He’ll be in charge of the investigation. He’ll be the one trying to find out who left this thing on your doorstep.’ Then, to Hal, ‘This is Doris Thompson.’ A yap pricked at Hal’s ears and a dog ran out at him from under the bed. It was one of those miniature things, all fluff and noise. Hal didn’t know exactly what type of dog it was – he couldn’t understand dogs and cats. Didn’t know anything about them. Couldn’t bear pets of any variety, in fact. He’d had a Yorkshire terrier when he was a boy. Sammy. But it went and died on him, which rather put him off animals altogether. ‘And this is Archie.’ Hal twisted around to meet the man, but suddenly realised that Singh meant the dog. It yapped again and she crouched down on her knees to tickle it.

  ‘He loves strangers. He always gets excited whenever there’s anybody new around. You see, we don’t do much these days so if somebody new comes into the flat he’s all over them.’ Hal detected traces of an upper-class accent, gradually worn away by years of struggle and hardship. He also noticed that contrary to the volume level projected by Singh, the woman wasn’t as old as he’d previously imagined.

  ‘He gets very excitable.’

  Too excitable, thought Hal as he watched Singh desperately try to avoid getting her nose knocked by the bouncing canine, its tongue flicking saliva all over the place. Bloody thing should be put down.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ said Hal drily before turning his attention to Doris herself. ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Thompson? Must have been a bit of a shock finding that on your front doorstep.’

  ‘I tell you, Inspector, it wasn’t very nice. Not very nice at all. I’m glad that doesn’t happen very often. I mean, I trained as a nurse so I’m used to seeing blood and … other things. But to be caught off guard at six in the morning like that … Oh dear.’ She took a quick sip of her tea. ‘Would you like some tea, Inspector? This young lady didn’t want any but that young officer downstairs did. Poor boy. His face when he saw it.’

  ‘No. No tea, thank you, Mrs Thompson.’ Hal looked up and saw several photographs on the wall. A black and white wedding picture with a pretty girl and a tough-looking, bumpy-faced man arm in arm. Mr Thompson, no doubt. Another picture of the bumpy-faced man standing in a garden, resting his elbow on a water butt. In this one, the man was smiling and squinting slightly, as if the sun was shining directly into his eyes. Alongside this was a picture – colour this time – of a large detached house with a tree in the front garden.

  ‘Could you tell me exactly what happened this morning, Mrs Thompson? Go through it minute by minute if you like. Tell me what you did.’

  ‘Go on, Doris.’ The man sitting next to Doris Thompson spoke for the first time, and Hal took an immediate and irrational dislike to him. ‘Tell him everything.’

  ‘Well, it was like this.’ She set her tea on the floor by her feet and sat up straight. Hal knew that secretly she was loving the attention. She was revelling in the fuss and excitement that the day was bringing. This little incident would probably keep her going for months down at the Derby and Joan club. All the other old dears would be sick of it soon, but she’d keep banging on about it ad infinitum, winding them all up and exaggerating her role. Still. If it kept her going.

  ‘Go on,’ the little man piped in again. Shut up, thought Hal.

  ‘I always get up at 5.30. Have done for the last two years now, since my Pete died. I don’t really know why, but when I wake up and look at my clock it always says 5.29. Funny that. Regular thing the body, you know. Keeps time better than any clock. Anyway, Archie was in his basket. He was awake too. Or was he? Was that yesterday? No. No, he was definitely awake this morning. There’s no doubt about it. Anyway, I got up and put the kettle on for a cup of tea and put some food in Archie’s bowl. I then went down the hallway to the bathroom and had my wash for the day. When I got back, Archie’s bowl had been licked clean – he loves his food you see. So I got myself dressed … same clothes as yesterday, I’m afraid … cuts down on the laundry. Hard work carrying a big black
bin liner down the road. I’m not young any more.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, after I got dressed, I took Archie downstairs to do his business in the front garden. I do that every morning. After his breakfast. Otherwise he’ll soil the carpet again and that’s not very nice to clean up, I’m sure you will agree.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘We went down the stairs and I opened the door to let him out. I didn’t notice it at first. Archie normally runs off when I let him out, you see. Gets excited and scampers off round the garden – it’s difficult to get him back in sometimes. This morning though, he didn’t. Just sat at my feet sniffing at something. So I looked down and … there it was.’ She took another sip of her tea. ‘Just sitting there. I assumed it was rubbish. You know, somebody arriving home drunk had put it there not realising there was a big green wheelie bin at the end of the drive.’

  ‘What did you do next?’ Hal asked, listening more intently now that the story had eventually arrived at the important bit. He hoped she hadn’t noticed that the thing inside the McDonald’s wrapper was a hand. It was information they would try to hold back from the press if the investigation kicked off.

  ‘Well. I looked inside. I thought that perhaps there were some leftovers for Archie’s lunch in there. Save a few pennies. But there wasn’t. Only that thing. Tell me, Inspector, is it human? I assume it must be if the police are so involved.’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Hal answered, sighing inwardly. ‘The lab needs to check it out. Please, Mrs Thompson. Carry on.’

  ‘Oh, very well. I’m afraid I dropped it, Inspector. I picked up the bag and dropped it and it fell onto its side. I know you police like your evidence as fresh and untampered with as possible, but I’m afraid I did move it from its original position. Will that be a problem? I’ve watched CSI: Miami.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Singh chipped in, overloud of course. The dog had quietened down now and was lying across Singh’s legs, licking her hand.

  ‘After I dropped it, I ran back into the hallway and phoned Mr Rabin here – I thought it best to let him know first.’ She looked at the man sitting next to her. ‘He told me to stay inside and to call the local police station – which I did. Then Mr Rabin turned up, just before the police officer. We’ve been drinking tea ever since, haven’t we?’

  ‘We have, Doris.’

  ‘Tell me, Doris. When you were in the doorway letting Archie out, did you see anybody? Anyone behaving suspiciously or walking away from the house?’

  ‘Let me think … No. No, I don’t think so. Of course, I saw Mr Phillips across the road standing in his front window. But then he does that all the time. Hasn’t worked for years, you know. Incapacity benefit. Went a bit mental after the accident and goes around collecting old crisp packets or some such nonsense. Think his wife left him, you see.’

  ‘But nothing else that strikes you as a bit odd?’

  ‘No. Nothing I can think of. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be. I’ll try and think harder if you like.’

  ‘Well if you do remember anything, let us know.’ Hal gave her a smile. ‘Mr Rabin, could I have a word in private.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hal indicated the door, and Mr Rabin got up off the sofa and followed him out onto the landing. Mr Rabin was a very short man, even by normal standards. Five foot five at a push. He was quite thin and wiry, with stubby fingers and dirty nails. His hair was thick and velvety and was brushed back from his head into a semi-quiff. A twitchy moustache floated around in the middle of his face.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why someone would leave this on your doorstep, sir?’

  ‘Why do you think it was left for me?’ His voiced squeaked indignantly, his English slightly fractured, his eyes wide with horror. ‘Isn’t it more likely that somebody put it there to frighten one of my tenants? Shouldn’t you be talking to them? I don’t want no bloody psychos living in my house. This is a good, well-respected house. All of my houses are.’

  ‘We’ll talk to your tenants in due course, sir. But we need to consider all possibilities. Can you think of anyone who might do this to you?’’

  ‘I am a businessman, Inspector. I always have enemies. But nobody crazy enough to leave a human hand in my house.’

  Bugger, thought Hal. He’d looked inside the bag. That’s that piece of restricted evidence gone for a Burton.

  ‘What sort of business do you run, Mr Rabin?’ asked Hal. The man shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘I own this house. I have two more in Streatham. I run them well. We never have any trouble until now. I also have two shops – one in Norwood and one in Streatham. You might know them. Rabin Mini-Mart?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Hal didn’t have a clue.

  ‘They’re good businesses. Good money. My son runs the Norwood shop. I try to run the Streatham one. I live near, you see.’

  Hal looked at the man closely. His clothes were smart and crisp. A lilac shirt tucked into his black trousers, around which a wide brown leather belt was looped. The shoes looked expensive and shone as if he’d spent hours polishing them up. On his fingers, a number of chunky gold rings clunked together as Mr Rabin gesticulated.

  ‘My sergeant tells me you’re divorced, Mr Rabin. You don’t think –’

  ‘No, Inspector. Bloody woman wouldn’t have anything to do with this. She sucks blood and money from me but … No. She couldn’t have anything to do with this.’ He tapped the side of his head with his index finger. ‘Too bloody simple-minded.’

  Hal smiled and looked around the landing. The stairs ran past Doris’s door and curled up to a second floor where Hal could see more doors to other flats. The whole area looked seedy and unkempt, as if every surface was covered in either a layer of dust or grease. The white paint on the banister felt sticky and grubby and Hal recoiled, automatically wiping his hand across the top of his trouser leg.

  ‘It must be difficult being a landlord. Keeping all of your tenants in check.’

  Mr Rabin looked suspiciously at Hal. ‘Like I said, Inspector, we never had any trouble here before. I make sure all of my tenants are good people.’ He straightened himself up and tried to look proud. ‘Nobody here – in this house – has missed a rent payment. Ever. I respect them and they respect me. I leave them alone and they pay me on time. Respect, Inspector. It is what my father taught me.’

  ‘How long have you owned the house?’

  ‘Four years now. Yes. Four years this July. It’s a good building this, yes? A doctor owned it before me.’

  Hal scratched the top of his head. Just being in the place made him feel as if he was riddled with fleas. He wondered what terrible turn of events had left poor old Doris Thompson with no other option than to live in this pit.

  ‘Mrs Thompson is a good tenant?’

  ‘Doris? She’s an excellent tenant. She always keeps an eye on the place for me. Tells me if somebody is making too much noise or leaving the rubbish out or something. I let her keep the dog. I don’t let nobody else keep an animal. Too much mess normally. But Doris – I let her keep the dog.’

  ‘We’re going to need a list of your other tenants. Who they are, where they work – that sort of thing. We’ll also need to talk to them.’ Hal walked slowly back into the room where Singh was now carrying the empty tea cups to the sink. Doris, sitting on the edge of her chair, was tickling Archie’s belly. ‘Sergeant Singh will ask you about all that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Again, if you think of anything … well … you know. Please let us know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hal turned his attention to Singh. ‘Singh.’

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘Downstairs a moment.’

  In the wide hallway, Spud (or Sponge, he could never remember) and the copper had disappeared. Hal and Singh stood near the opened door.

  ‘Get him to open up each of the flats. Just in case it’s one of the poor bastards who live here. Find out who does live here, and chat to them if you can. If not,
we’ll have to chase it up later. Check the neighbours. I’ll go to the station and ring round the local hospitals.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  Hal looked up at the brown-stained ceiling and the damp paper curling off the wall.

  ‘Have you ever lived in a place like this, Singh?’

  ‘What? You mean a place as awful as this? Yes. I remember at university having to smash a rat with a saucepan once. Left a terrible mark on the carpet. Landlord refused to give us our deposit back that year, I think.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, Singh.’

  ‘Don’t forget the Four Bells at twelve. Morrison’s leaving do.’

  ‘Oh Christ, yes.’ Bloody Old Man Morrison and his leaving do. Hal sighed and walked out of the door into bright sunlight – exactly what his hangover didn’t need at that moment.

  John Good had packed away his equipment and was waiting for Hal at the end of the garden. The package on the doorstep was gone, sitting in a cold box in the back of Good’s large white transit van.

  ‘You look rough.’ His eyes scanned Hal up and down.

  ‘I always look rough. How’re Margaret and the boys?’

  ‘You already asked me that.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Mmm. Margaret’s away in Sheffield on a course this week. I’m looking after the boys on my own. We’re going to spend the weekend living off frozen lasagne and Chinese takeaways.’ John Good ran his fingers through his thick greying hair. It was the sort of hair you’d hope to have at the age of fifty-two. No little areas where people could see the top of your scalp. No widow’s peak eating away at the front. Just pure luxuriant, thick hair which, if it were tighter and curlier, would look like a little woolly hat on the top of your head. Hal patted the top of his shaven head in response. He suddenly felt that he looked like a big pink watermelon alongside Good.

  ‘You been drinking again?’ Good continued.

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘It’s no good for you, you know. Just messes up your liver and gives you free radicals and broken veins. I don’t drink any more.’ Then, more sadly: ‘Never have the chance. What with work and two teenage boys running riot all the time, I don’t even think about it. To be perfectly honest, I don’t miss it.’ He sounded anything other than perfectly honest.