Chapter 10
The First Last Chance
Neil was certain everyone had seen at least one police show during their lives. That was why most people expected police work to be a far more romantic experience than it actually was.
Trips to medical examiners, discussions over bodies in morgues, lots of heated questioning in enclosed interview rooms; all of these things were fantasies.
The reality was that once a body was found and tagged, a detective probably never saw it again. Not without a solid court order or the express permission of the victim’s closest relatives. As for interviews, nearly ninety-five percent of them were done at the residencies of those being interviewed. The only reason to interview someone in a formal suite was if you were about to caution or charge them.
Police work in the twenty-first century was a long line of requisition forms and data inputs, punctuated by an occasional trip to court and the odd Sunday off. That really was as romantic as the job got.
Because of this air-gap between fantasy and reality, the vast majority of desk detectives left the force long before they drew a pension. Either giving up on front-line detective work or leaving the police force altogether.
Neil however, was a realist. He fully understood what the job entailed, and could think of no vocation better suited to his particular talents.
Neil was a detective who utilised a robust, methodical approach to his investigations. Interviews were planned, the questions prepared long in advance, and even subtle items such as shirt colour chosen specifically to try to gain every advantage possible.
Neil’s studies repeatedly showed that the best detectives were invariably the best prepared. They met every challenge with a cool head because they were the custodians of the most vital information.
Anyone could gather information, but to collect the correct information, at the right time, and in the right way, that was not within everyone’s ability.
However, try as he might, this methodical approach was obviously not something that Artimus was a strong believer in.
After a fifteen-minute argument over the validity of information versus instinct, Neil gave up the fight. Artimus was wrong, and his methods would fail. If he wanted to go about things in a strange and meaningless manner, he would let him. Once failure was met, he would then take control and get to the bottom of the case in his own way. Not only would that put Artimus in his place, but it would show Henry that he needed no assistance in the future.
So, after hastily making four phone calls, the order specifically requested by Artimus, he set off out of London to their first contact point; the house of Mister Grayson’s brother in Cobham Fairmile.
As they headed south-west and turned onto the A3 toward Guilford, Artimus eventually broke his silence.
“I am going under the assumption you are aware of why I have requested we hold our interviews in this order?” said Artimus, flicking through his notes.
Neil was intrigued by the order of interviews Artimus suggested, that was true. If he were to choose, he would have gone to Mister Grayson’s place of work, the estate agent’s, and then to close family first. Artimus however, went for the Grayson’s first. Mister Grayson, then Missus Grayson, and only then to their places of work. Surely, there was only one reason for doing so.
“You’re trying to determine a motive.” said Neil, glancing at Artimus. “I think you are assuming the same as I am, in that it must be one of the Graysons who have done this. So, we need to ascertain why and that means other investigations are immaterial for the moment.”
“Spoken like a true detective.” said Artimus, smiling. “Horrifically incorrect, but still… good try.”
Neil supressed a growl. To hell with being nice. “Well, Obi-wanky-knobhead why have your Jedi powers determined this is the best place to start?”
Artimus laughed, seemingly unhurt by the comment. “My point, my ignorant little fagowan, is that we must proceed under the assumption that the bodies we found are not those of the Grayson family, they simply look like them. My primary investigative requirement in this case is therefore to determine the identity of the bodies themselves, not the motive behind whatever manner of death befell them.”
“So why go to see the Graysons at all?” asked Neil, confused. “If motives aren’t the driver in your investigation, then talking to them is of no use, surely?”
Artimus shook his head. “I am trying to answer the most important questions I can without my forensic data being available. That means I have to talk to the Graysons. Besides, as we both know, there are only three real motives for any crime.”
Were all conversations with Artimus going to be like this? Neil tried to keep the growing ire from his voice as he continued to press for succinct answers. “Three motives? I can say from experience…”
“All ten years of it?” said Artimus, mockingly. “Trust me. The only motives there are, are money, instinctive emotion, and revenge.”
“Revenge is an emotion. That’s two.”
“Not really. Instinctive emotions, anger, fear, lust etcetera, all create crimes of passion, instinctive events that have no planning. Revenge is a nurtured emotion, brought about by a deeper, sometimes suppressed, instinctive one. The crimes associated with revenge are therefore methodical, planned events. That is why my questions are primary, and motives are secondary.”
“And what, pray tell, might those questions actually be?”
“Dear dear.” tutted Artimus, closing his notepad. “Let us imagine we are stood in front of our board again. On the far right sheet, we have a series of information notes about what we have seen to date. On the top of that sheet is a line that reads ‘three fucking bodies in a sealed fucking cellar’. Are we clear about what we have so far?”
“Yes.” mumbled Neil, already regretting pushing for information.
“So, our initial conjectures on the deaths are already set. We believe them not to be the bodies of the Graysons, and we have a medium to high level of certainty that one or other of the parents are the probable culprits, for an as yet undiscovered reason. Are we still clear?”
“Can we move this along to the point where my question gets answered?” said Neil, frustrated.
“Of course.” said Artimus, lounging back. “Can I ask one of my own first though?”
“Yes, please do.” said Neil, sighing.
“What do you think the chances are of those exact bodies being found, in that exact house, by the exact same people they appear to be? Remember, we are talking about bodies found in house only occupied by those people for six months, located behind a wall built before they moved in, in the only entranceway to a room that was pristine when it was found.”
“Isn’t that kind of the reason we think it was one of the Graysons?”
“No, it is not.” said Artimus, his tone a mix of anger and disappointment. “At least, it isn’t to me.”
“Really helpful, thanks Artimus.” said Neil, turning all his focus to the road. “Let me know when you want to make some sense, will you?”
“Sure Neil.” said Artimus, looking out of the passenger window. “Let me know when you want to stop being a pride-filled idiot, won’t you.”
That was it. No further conversation would be entered into with Artimus unless it was absolutely vital. They would get to Mister Grayson’s brother’s house, ask their questions, hopefully get their answers, and then he would go see Henry. It would be painful to do, and he had never once considered doing it before, but he would request to be removed from the case. He could tolerate this over-privileged buffoon no longer.
Thirty-five minutes later, they were pulling up outside a Georgian masterpiece of brick in one of the most beautiful suburban villages Neil had ever seen.
The house lay at the end of a grey stone driveway, visible through black iron gates. A brick wall, maybe eight feet high surrounded the property, and the magnificent portico, suspended on four neo-classic pillars gave the structure an air of refined opulence.
“W
hat a gaudy hole.” said Artimus, peering out toward the building. “Probably worth three or four million, but looks like it was designed by Simon Cowell. What a waste of good bricks.”
Neil ignored the remark, leant out of the driver’s side window, and pressed the intercom. A moment later, after stating their reason for coming, they swung open.
Striding from the car, Neil neatened his appearance, as a young woman probably in her mid-twenties came out to great them.
“Good afternoon officer.” the woman said, extending a hand. “I’m Alexis Grayson, Noel Grayson’s wife.”
Neil accepted the hand and shook it lightly, looking the woman over.
A brief glimpse at the file of Noel Grayson before they set off portrayed an older man, eight years senior to his brother Michael. However, that would make Noel at least twenty years older than the woman stood before him.
Alexis was clearly a well-kept woman. Her clothes were expensive, her make-up and jewellery showing off the wealth her life was bathed in. She was slim, with shapely curves unaffected by the spread associated with childbirth. A trophy wife perhaps?
“Missus Grayson, thank you for allowing us to come and visit your family. I’m Artimus Crane.” said Artimus, arriving at Neil’s side. “And may I take this opportunity to compliment you on your magnificent house.”
“Thank you.” said Alexis, blushing. “It’s my husband’s house. I think it looks like trash if I’m honest, but he loves it.” She gestured with an elegant wave of her slight arm toward the door. “Please gentlemen.”
Neil was unsure it was possible, but somehow the inside of the property was even more pretentious than the outside. Marble floors were everywhere, a gold balustrade ran the length of the double arced sweeping staircase leading to the Romeo and Juliet balcony suspended in the centre of the entrance, and rich wooden panelling raised from the floor to the midpoint of the fourteen foot walls. To top it all, a crystal chandelier, maybe twenty feet in length, dangled from the open space of the stairwell down all three of the building’s storeys and cast a twinkling mist of light over everything.
“I can see why you admire your husband’s taste so much, Missus Grayson.” said Artimus, his face contorted in apparent disgust.
To Neil’s surprise, Alexis giggled, restraining his desire to chastise Artimus for another misplaced comment.
“Let just say I’m not married to Noel for his artistic eye.” said Alexis, knowingly. “Would you like me to show you into the winter drawing room? I’ve asked Michael and Harriet to meet you there.”
Neil went to speak, but Artimus interjected before he could.
“If I could ask that we speak to Mister and Missus Grayson separately please. We investigators have our foibles about these things, you know.”
Alexis’ eyes scrunched for a moment, before she nodded. “Of course, however you wish gentlemen.”
Before Neil could move to follow, his phone started ringing. Smiling politely to Alexis, he withdrew the device and was surprised to see Wordy’s number on screen.
“Can this wait John?” asked Neil, stepping toward the door. “We’re about to interview Mister and Missus Grayson.”
“Not really. Artimus said I should ring you as soon as I found anything. Is he there?”
Neil turned, prodding the phone in Artimus’ direction. “It’s for you.” He turned to Alexis, trying his best to maintain his calm. “We won’t be two minutes Missus Grayson.”
“Take as long as you need.” said Alexis, disarmingly.
A short while later, Artimus grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Neil’s phone was returned and they were heading through the house.
“Am I likely to find out what you and John just discussed?” asked Neil, as they passed through an impressive dining room and into an even more imposing drawing room.
“All in good time Neil. All in good time.” said Artimus, leading the way.
Neil caught himself before he shouted. Everything, even the slightest twitches of Artimus’ shoulders were now an irksome counterpoint to what he was trying to do. The sooner this partnership, if it ever truly was one ended the better.
He calmed himself as he strode into the drawing room after Artimus. Just today, he told himself, just keep it together today and this will all be over.
Chapter 11
Mister Grayson