Kissing the Dragon - 9. Professional Visit

By nine o'clock that evening, showered and changed into a baggy grey fleece and matching sweat bottoms, we sit down in front of the television to spicy Szechuan prawns, chicken in black bean sauce, plain boiled rice and stir fried dou mioa snow pea shoots with fresh ginger. Neither mentions the earlier visit but my mind is too active to concentrate on the programme. Taking the containers away, I finally settle for the diversion of marking fifth form essays in the small alcove that also serves as my office, trying to clear my head of the day that has been. A couple of years ago, I bought and arranged two large oak bookcases and a custom built faux-antique desk. Containing a roll top compartment I can store my computer equipment out of sight when not in use, making an attractive niche in the otherwise open plan of the house. Before slipping on headphones to lose myself in Mike Oldfield's Incantations, over an hour of gentle whimsical melodies repeating over and over, I hear raised voices from the television in the den and picture Billy lost in some US crime series or another. That seems to be his thing of late, although I often hear him simultaneously chatting to a friend on his mobile. Most importantly, he gives me space when he knows I have work to finish.

When I sit down at my desk, I find a gloss pink lipstick left on the keyboard that was not there when I arrived home. Intrigued now, I pop open the tube to reveal a novelty USB flash drive. Even though Billy has his own laptop, he occasionally asks to use my scanner-cum-printer and desktop computer with the large flatscreen monitor, to work on his personal blog or website—or whatever. I never ask. Typical Billy, I shudder to think what files are stored there, and drop the item into the Tom of Finland mug holding my selection of pencils and pens.

Ten essays marked and graded, I am more than a little surprised to glance up and find him lounging against the side of the bookcase. He has the tip of his forefinger in his mouth, a worried crease across his brow.

“Sorry to disturb, darling,” he says, dragging down his bottom lip as I yank my headphones off. “There is one serious looking chunk of a hunk here asking for you.”

"There is? For me?" I say, confused. If anyone ever calls around on weekdays they inevitably want Billy. ”Not the police again?”

“Nada. This dude is suited and booted. More like a financial advisor or something. Asked for you by name.”

“I don’t have a financial advisor.”

We both turn to the sound of the front door slamming closed and of approaching footsteps. Before I can probe further, the hunk in question looms into view. Cropped hair, cheap suit, bad attitude.

“Detective Constable Whitehead," I say, announcing him calmly, an effort to mask my sudden sinking mood. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Mr McCann. I need a few moments of your time, sir,” he says, over Billy’s shoulder, his gaze taking in the walls and interior of the house before returning to me. "In private please."

"I see. You'd better come on through to the kitchen," I say, as agreeably as I can muster. As I stand, I notice Billy's guilt-ridden expression. “It’s okay, Billy. I can take it from here."

Billy moves to one side, but remains standing flat against one of the bookcases, waiting for DC Whitehead to brush past. As he draws level, Billy whips out a hand in greeting.

"Billy Tan," he says, with a tilt of his head, a playful smile and and hand held palm down in front of his chest, as though waiting for it to be kissed. "At your service."

Billy has more front than Kensington Palace.

Hats off to Whitehead, he shakes Billy's hand awkwardly even though a flicker of confusion clouds his face. As I step forward to usher Whitehead ahead, I glance back at Billy who mouthes what the fuck to me. I smile grimly and give him the thumbs up okay sign, before following the detective into the kitchen and sliding the door closed behind us.

Once inside, I am about to offer one of the high stools around the black marble kitchen island but he is already sitting down, his back to me. Where five-feet-four Billy has to heave himself into the air to get onto the seat, often unceremoniously, DC Whitehead has simply straddled the stool probably in one effortless movement. Maybe a hangover from watching an old Jason Bourne DVD with Billy one night, I have a brief vision of Whitehead grabbing the head of a criminal in both huge hands, twisting once, and cleanly snapping the neck.

“I understood that Detective Chaudhary would be dealing with me from now on,” I say, casually, walking to the other side of the kitchen island. Something subtle in his mien changes at that remark, a flicker of irritation crossing his brow.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid you’ve got me tonight,” he says, looking past me to study our array of fridge magnets, most selected and bought by Billy. Especially the ones illustrated with semi naked men. My favourite is the one Vaughan bought me with the slogan, ‘love means singing a karaoke song for him’, even though he never did. DC Whitehead’s disgust is plain as he shakes his head a couple of times before dragging his attention back to me.

“Lucky me,” I reply, grinning suggestively and raising an eyebrow. When his gaze returns unflinching, I feel myself redden and ask. “How about something to drink?"

"Why not."

I notice him watching as I move to the counter top beneath the kitchen window where I keep the stainless steel kettle and coffee mugs.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“What are you having?”

“Me? I was going to have something alcoholic.”

“Sounds good.”

"Are you allowed? Drinking on duty.”

"Officially, I'm off duty," he said, before fixing his gaze on me and adding. "I was in the neighbourhood. Decided to drop in. Get a few things cleared up.”

With a shrug I open the fridge door, letting the cool air wash over me while searching the shelves. Since Vaughan left, I rarely keep the fridge stocked with alcoholic drinks, just a bottle of dry white wine from my collection for an occasional glass with dinner. Billy only drinks his toxic-coloured isotonic drinks and protein shakes, kept with other inedibles on his shelves. Two bottles of specialist Belgium beer sit at the bottom of the fridge but I will not touch those. They belong to Vaughan and I want to keep them for whenever he comes back. To pick up the last of his things. Or whatever.

"I'm afraid I don't have beer. Glass of wine okay?"

"Fine," comes his amused voice.

I lift out the bottle and close the fridge. Behind me, I hear the staccato clip of paper and realise he is flicking through his notebook. From a glass fronted cabinet, I hesitate a moment before pouncing on two rarely used glasses. Pink crystal goblets with a base made up of four small stiletto-heeled feet. A present from the lodger. Why should I be the only uncomfortable person in the room? I have my back to him, pouring a generous measure into each glass. After returning the bottle to the fridge, I reach down and hold the stem of each glass, my back still to him, when he catches me off-guard with a question.

"So. Are you and Mr Tan…?" he begins, and then falters. It takes me a moment to understand his meaning.

"God, no!" I say, spinning around so fast I slop wine from one of the glasses onto the cuff of my fleece. Immediately I find the need to justify myself. “Don’t get me wrong. Billy’s great, but he's not at all my—I mean, I’m his landlord. Legally. I have a contract. If you need to see a copy."

“It’s okay, sir," says the detective, his brow still holding the same shaded glower, but now an amused and frankly handsome grin crinkling his mouth. “That won’t be necessary."

"Look Detective Constable,” I say, sighing and setting one of the pink vessels down on a coaster in front of him. After plucking a tissue and dabbing my sleeve, I relish with cruel satisfaction his eyes take in the wine glass and his eyebrow crinkle with disgust. "If it's okay by you, can we dispense with the knighthood? As you know I'm a teacher and I get shackled with the title 'sir' every day. Would it be possible to call me Mr McCann."

"I'm sure I can manage that, Mr McCann.”

"Thank you," I say, casually sipping my wine, before settling myself back against the draining board. I feel more in control standing rather than negotiating one of the stools in front of him. “So. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

“As I said. Partly following up on your burglary,” he says, scanning the room as though searching for something in particular. “And also to get a few things straight regarding Harrison’s death.”

“Go ahead.”

Looking down at his notepad, he flips open to a page.

“PC Marsh said there was no obvious sign of a break-in. No broken windows, no forced entry.”

“That’s right. Apparently they walked in the front door and out the back.”

Whitehead peers over at the back door then, taking in the locks at the top and bottom. He stands abruptly and goes over to the handle. With his hand on the door handle, he turns back to me.

“Mind if I take a look outside?”

“Be my guest,” I say, and remain where I am while he unbolts the door, allowing sobering chill air to enter the room before he steps out into the back garden. A few minutes later he is back, wiping his feet on the door mat.

“Security light’s not working,” he says, more an accusation than an observation. After re-bolting and locking the door, he places the key on the side cabinet before coming back around the island to take his seat.

“I know,” I say, stepping to the door, picking up the key and replacing it in the lock where it should be, at twelve o’clock. “It packed up a month or two ago. On my list of things to do.”

When I turn back, I notice him studying the lock before casting a quizzical look at me. As though I care. My house, my rules.

“And you say the front door was open when you arrived home?”

“Your PC found that, not me. But yes, that’s right.”

“I see. Who else has keys to your house?”

“Only a few people. Billy, Vaughan…”

“Vaughan?”

“My partner,” I say, avoiding mention of our separated status. Besides, I have already explained this to the officers earlier. “But he’s in Southeast Asia.”

“Could he have returned without you knowing?”

“No, I spoke to him Sunday. He was phoning from Singapore. He’s not due a visit until the end of the month.”

“Got to love those long distance relationships.”

“Not my choice,” I reply, adding a nonchalant shrug, determined not to rise to any of his barbed comments. Dorothy Humphreys gave me good advice when she told me to force a modicum of calm and not offer any more information to the police than their questioning absolutely demanded.

“Anyone else?”

“Sorry?”

“Have keys to your place? It’s surprising who we place our trust in when it comes to our homes.”

“Is that right?” I reply, at this odd comment. “Mrs Greenfield. She comes over Wednesdays to clean and iron.”

“How nice for you.”

This time I glare at him as he smirks arrogantly before taking a sip of wine. Few people have such a keen knack of irritating me. As if that is not bad enough, he places his glass to one side of the coaster. Is he purposely riling me?

“She’s paid help,” I say, trying hard not to glare at the countertop. “It’s not charity work. And before you ask, she didn’t come over today, nor did she lose her keys. I phoned and checked while the police constables were here.”

“What about your coworker, the geology teacher?”

“Martin Hogan. Yes, he has a set too, but he was still at school when this happened. I’m guessing you already know that.”

“Could you or Mr Tan have forgotten to lock the door when you left this morning?”

“No. I’ve already told your people all of this,” I say, and unable to help myself, lean across and plunk the offending glass back onto the coaster. He watches detached as I do this, a curious and amused look on his face. I offer no explanation. “Mr Tan leaves before me, and I always double lock the front door after setting the alarm. And no, he didn’t come back to the house. If you’ve checked with your people you’d know that already.”

“You see, Mr McCann, I’m finding it hard to believe that somebody came here, got the door open in broad daylight, and then strolled out of the back door with only your old laptop tucked under his or her arm.”

“In case it’s escaped your notice, detective, it’s February and it gets dark early. And this person, whoever they were, set off the alarm. Maybe they simply grabbed whatever they could lay their hands on.”

“If they’re using cover of darkness as an opportunity, why not grab your desktop computer, your wall mounted flatscreen TV, your state-of-the-art B&O sound system, or any of those architectural design blueprints I noticed in your study that must be worth a pretty penny? Even that vase full of one pound coins must be more valuable than a geriatric laptop.”

With that I follow his gaze to the tall, clear glass vessel on top of the fridge. He has a point. There must be over two hundred coins in there. But the blueprints are far more valuable. I had thought the same thing earlier in the day when the constable took down details.

“Opportunism?”

“An opportunist who leaves no fingerprints, picks locks like a professional, and leaves a house tidy apart from removing one specific item of computer hardware. Does that really seem like opportunism to you, Mr McCann?”

Someone should have warned this man about using tones of ridicule on a teacher. Not only did we invent them, we made them an art form.

“You’re the detective, why don’t you tell me. Isn’t that what they pay you for?”

He stares hard at me for a moment, his scrutiny cold and unreadable. Have I rattled him? I hope so.

“And are you absolutely sure nothing else is missing?” he asks, eventually.

“Fairly certain. Yes.”

I am, too. I checked all the rooms upstairs as soon as the officers left and found nothing out of place. Standing up from the stool in one clear movement, he drains the last of his wine before replacing the glass—on the coaster this time.

“Nice,” he says, rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip. For a thug, he has attractive lips, full and flawless, almost feminine. I frown and shift my gaze away when his eyes meet mine. “A Burgundy, I’m guessing? Mersault?”

“I’m impressed. Top marks, detective. Hadn’t taken you for a wine buff.“

I am impressed, too. On a teacher’s salary, I tend to live a frugal life. The B&O sound system, desktop computer and blueprints were all bequeathed to me by Uncle Dom as part of the estate. Wine is my only vice, one also acquired from and encouraged by him. Part of a pre-Christmas shopping spree on a day trip to a Boulogne hypermarket, this particular wine is one of my favourites.

“Couple of pieces of advice, Mr McCann. First, making assumptions about people can be dangerous. And secondly, it’s probably time you considered fixing that security light, and changing the locks front and back.”

“Thank you so much, detective. Sound advice. Good to know my honest taxpayer’s money is going to good use,” I say, without bothering to mask my sarcasm.

He snorts then and I watch him as he saunters towards the door leading into the house. Fully intending to escort him as far as the front door, I push myself away from the cupboard and begin to skirt the island.

“Oh yes,” he says, stopping and turning casually back, his hand on the door handle ready to slide it open. “One last thing. Do you have keys to Mr Harrison’s house?”

“Denny’s? No, of course not,” I replied, wondering about the sudden change in questioning. “Why do you ask?”

“According to his accountant, Miss Moseley, only a few people have spare keys to his home. And you’re one of them.”

“Sorry Inspector but Miss Moseley is mistake—” I say, faltering, because I have forgotten about the time when Alfie’s condition worsened and Vaughan offered our help. We had never gotten around to returning them to Denny. “Ah. Sorry. Yes, we do have a spare set somewhere.”

“I see,” he says, his gaze unwavering.

“Do you want me to get them?”

“No. I just wondered why you hadn’t volunteered this information earlier.”

“I didn’t remember until—”

“And what other salient pieces of information you’re conveniently forgetting to mention.”

“I am not purposely forgetting—”

“Like how the only other set of fingerprints inside Harrison’s house were yours. On a bottle of mineral water.”

Blood drains from my face then, an icy wind blowing through me and something he must surely notice. How did I forget to mention that? The bottled water I gave Denny when he threw up on the way home. Whitehead’s scrutiny is beginning to fluster me.

“I—he vomited on the way back. I gave him my water to help—“

“Did you kill Denny Harrison, Mr McCann?”

Even though I should have anticipated the blunt accusation, or something along those lines, especially from this brute, his words blindside me and my mouth drops open in shock.

“No, I did not,“ I state, as calmly as I can muster. “Am I a suspect?”

“Let me see,” he says, releasing the door handle, his steady gaze searching for something in my face. “Aside from yours being the only other fingerprints in the house not Harrison’s, you appear to be the last person to have seen him alive. We’re pretty sure now that someone came to his home that night, someone he knew and trusted. You have keys to the victim’s house and you had a very public row with him before Christmas. The odds do seem to be stacking up, don’t you agree, Mr McCann?”

“I didn’t go into his house. And I didn’t kill him. I told you. Surely you’ve confirmed my alibi with Mrs Wong?”

“Of course. But who can vouch for you after that?”

“Do I need to seek legal advice? Seems you already have me bang to rights.”

Once again, Whitehead smirks in his arrogant way as I struggle to keep my anger in check. What kind of human being wallows in the misfortune of others?

“If that were true you’d be locked in a police cell right now,” he says. “Trust me on that, Mr McCann.”

“I’d rather not,” I reply, matching his sardonic tone. “If that’s okay by you.”

Maintaining the same smug grin, he shakes his head slowly. I know he thinks I am an arsehole even if he has not said as much. And the feeling is mutual. Right at that moment, though, I could not give a damn. I just want him gone from my home.

“Is that all?”

“That’s about it for now. We’ll be in touch if we need anything more. I’ll find my own way out,” he says, finally sliding open the door and walking through.

“And I’ll make sure to lock up after you,” I say, following him through the house to the front door. “Had more than my fair share of unwelcome people traipsing through my home for one day.”

As soon as I slam the door on him, I lean my back against the cool paintwork and breathe deeply. Time to call on an expert. After all, what is the point of having a mole in the Metropolitan Police if you cannot call in a favour every once in a while.