For the first ten minutes of travel, Artimus read the statements taken by the attending officers, occasionally pausing to glance out of the window and think, before returning to the text.
As Neil drove, he could not help but wonder how going to see the crime scene again might help. In the file with the statements were over fifty photos taken from varying angles in the house and cellar, and all the details of the property and its occupants. Surely, that was more than enough to go on without having to take a man so pungently aromatic to the house of a grieving family.
Neil never really had an interest in getting drunk. He knew many in the department who were, but even they refrained from alcohol until at home, or out after work. It was true there had been rumours about certain officers ‘going local’ as it was coined, but it was understood that the pressures of the job could do that to an individual and staff counsellors were never too far away.
The man sitting to his side on the other hand was not one who seemed to be possessed by the demons of stress. Neither did he appear to be overworked, or struggling with anything personal. He was merely a rich man who drank because he was either free to do so, or more likely in Neil’s opinion, awake.
Artimus was the kind of man his father used to call a professional drinker. A person whose job it was to be out of their face before polite society had even left work.
Neil smiled. It had been too long since he had thought about his parents in any way different to the last day he saw them alive. The day his life changed forever.
That one memory hounded him, made him awkward around others, forcing him to keep his distance to remain free from the possibility of losing anyone he loved ever again.
Neil shook away his ponderings. It would not do to relive those memories again, especially not whilst there was so much work to do.
As Neil returned his focus to the road, he considered ringing his superior. Death was a difficult thing to deal with, as he knew all too well, and allowing this man, especially in his current state, into the house of a grieving family could surely not be what was intended. No matter how much value Henry thought Artimus could bring, this had to be a step too far.
“I would not contact Mister Blackwater.” said Artimus, not looking up from the notes. “He is man of strong morals. Annoying him twice in quick succession would not be to your advantage.”
Neil shook his head. Could Artimus read minds now too?
“I do not need to have the power of precognition to see what you are thinking Mister Townsend.” continued Artimus, holding two photos and scanning them simultaneously. “Your face is lined by your doubts.”
“And you stink of booze.” said Neil, unable to hold his tongue.
“Noted.” said Artimus, peering closely at one of the photos. “Have you spoken with the family yourself?”
“I have. They’re in a lot of shock, but seem to be holding up.”
“Hmm…” mused Artimus, tapping a finger against his lips. “I take it you have thoughts about what has happened here?”
“I do.” Neil said sharply, unwilling to give over any further information. “What about you?”
“Plenty my boy!” said Artimus. “This could be quite the conundrum.”
“Anything you want to share?” pushed Neil.
“Only that I am looking forward to working with someone of your…” The word trailed off, and Artimus looked over appraisingly. “Your particular type.”
“What type exactly is that?” asked Neil, confused, glancing down to see whatever Artimus was looking at. “Was that a comment about my race?”
“Oh, good grief no my boy!” said Artimus, scrunching his facial muscles and turning a little more red. “Race is irrelevant. I only wished to point out that I have never had the opportunity to work with someone of your proclivital tendencies…” There was another pause, as if Artimus was straining to find the correct way of putting something delicate. “I struggle with the vagaries of modern vernacular sometimes; you will have to forgive me.”
Neil’s mind wandered before falling on that one word; proclivity. “Are you saying I sleep around?”
“I thought most gentlemen of your persuasion did?” said Artimus, seemingly confused. “I thought that was the done thing.”
My persuasion? Did he..? “Do you think I’m gay?”
“Are you not?”
“No!” said Neil, startled. “What makes you think that?”
Artimus stared at Neil’s feet, slowly drawing his line of sight upward, Neil unable to do anything but follow suit.
“Armani shoes, immaculately polished. Military ironing of trousers that are fitted, not bought. Belt and buckle matches both shoes and laces, shirt is a custom fit too, Saville? No stubble, fresh facial lines, expensive cologne, moisturiser, no sign of either cuts or bruising to hands, no ring worn, and plucked eyebrows.” said Artimus, leaning a little closer. “What makes me believe you may be gay? Almost everything about you dear boy. And I studied at Oxford, I can spot a closet fanny dodger at three hundred paces.”
Neil sighed, pulling alongside a police car and parking up. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not. Let’s just try to stay out of everyone’s way. We’re in and out; no bothering people.”
“As you say detective. No bothering people.”
Artimus exited the car and walked across to the cordon, laughing with the officer there and shaking hands as he was allowed through. It was clear the two knew each other.
As Neil approached, the tape was raised and the officer spoke. “You’ll have this case cracked in no time now sir. Old Craney will have this sorted, no doubt.”
The officer’s eyes and clearly buoyant spirits were strange given the circumstances, but Neil’s day had been a long line of unnerving events and so he let this latest one go. It was clear Artimus had many admirers.
At the doorway, Artimus stood with FME Bancombe, laughing convivially and showing all the posture traits of close personal familiarity.
“…and that woman in the red dress whose tights were covered in shi…”
“Am I interrupting anything gentlemen?” said Neil, sidling up besides the men.
“Artimus was just telling me I look like I could do with a good night out.” said Bancombe. “And I was telling him, the last time we went out I didn’t get back in for three days. Three days! Sophie was having kittens!”
“You will marry these flighty women Cyril!” said Artimus, playfully patting Bancombe’s shoulder as he laughed. “Oxford is no place to meet the sort of degenerate colonial types you find so appealing. I did tell you that.”
“I know!” chuckled Bancombe. “Luckily, I wasn’t a senior back then. She only got the house and car!”
“That’s right!” said Artimus, suddenly recalling. “You spent a few weeks in the old servant’s wing, as I remember.”
“He says servant’s wing as if it were squalor.” said Bancombe, turning to Neil. “It’s actually one edge of the mansion he calls home; an eight bedroom masterwork of wood and stone in its own right.”
“All right, all right…” said Artimus, shooing any further comments from Bancombe away, “Mister Townsend and I have come to examine our dearly deceased, so let’s make haste whilst I can still stand.”
Neil followed the men through the house, the corridor, the kitchen, and the living room now eerily quiet.
“Family has gone upstairs with Leeks to get some things. I think they’re going to stay with relatives.” said Bancombe, striding toward the cellar stairs. He handed Artimus some gloves, who frowned, begrudgingly starting to pull them on. “Just as requested, we have left the bodies unmoved until you have made your assessment. But now they are exposed to the air, I would like to move them as soon as we can.”
“I hate these stupid bloody things.” grumbled Artimus, his trembling returned as his fine motor skills were pushed to the limit. “To hell with it! Lead on.” Artimus waved toward the stairs, the part-on glove wobbling like some freakish chicken crown.
Artimus paused on every step during his descent, each area around his feet scanned and rescanned as he methodically came to the opening. Another five minutes of prods, pokes, notes, and nods later, he stepped into the cellar itself. Almost as if the bodies did not exist, he proceeded to examine the rubble on the floor, and the back of what remained of the brick wall, before beginning an inspection of the walls.
“Are we going to be getting to the corpses at some point?” asked Neil, yawning and checking his watch.
“All in good time, Mister Townsend.” said Artimus. “Is your Grindr messenger going off or something?”
“What are you…” said Neil, catching himself as the app name resolved in his mind. “Like I said, I’m…”
“Not gay.” finished Artimus, moving from the walls to the chairs without engaging Neil’s look of disgust. “I heard you the first time detective. You seem rather too eager to point that out. Textbook case, wouldn’t you say Cyril?”
Bancombe smirked underneath the hand covering his mouth. “Absolutely.”
“Are you quite finished?” said Neil, indignantly.
“Oooh…” said Artimus, in an overly camp tone. “We are a very aggressive young man, aren’t we? Does that have anything with the amount of testosterone pumping through you I wonder?”
“Do you know how politically incorrect you are being right now” said Neil, his ire rising.
“Don’t talk to me about political correctness, young man.” said Artimus, in a more serious tone. “As you have stated, you’re not gay, I’m not gay, Bancombe, well… last time I checked he didn’t like an extra sausage with his breakfast, but it has been a few years, and I can’t be certain… You need to stop being so defensive. I am only playing stereotypes, am I not? I am not inciting racial hatred and neither am I accusing you of doing anything wrong. I am merely pointing out that you may not be aware of your sexual orientation. If that’s politically incorrect, then I’m sorry. Modern liberalistic rot of the highest order that it is!” As he spoke, Artimus took a vial from his pocket and unscrewed the lid. Scraping something from one of the chairs, he resealed it and handed in to Bancombe. “You’ve probably attended those Diversity Training seminars the Metropolitan Police organise. An attempt to train into you the notion that we are all the same and can live in harmony, by pointing out all the cultural differences we have that prevent us doing just that! Poppycock, poppycock, and thrice poppycock I say!”
Neil folded his arms and leant back against the wall, there was no point arguing. Whatever reason Artimus had for mocking him like this, he would not be giving the man the pleasure of knowing it was getting under his skin.
Another ten minutes went by without a word. Artimus and Bancombe hovered over the bodies, checking every detail they could. At the end, Artimus walked over to Neil, still scribbling away.
“I have collated my queries and assigned them to the four possibilities I see as viable at present for concluding this investigation.” said Artimus, flicking back through his notes. “Possibility one and two are clearly indicated, with possibility three less so, and possibility four being preposterous, but undeniably a remote possibility that cannot, as yet, be discounted.”
“Anything I should know?” said Neil, still wondering what Artimus may have seen.
“The room and the bodies are my primary concern. Identifying who they are and why they were moved here is vital.”
“Why they were moved here?” said Neil.
“Yes, detective. This is a store room.” Artimus gestured around. “There is no dust on anything. That is because the seal on the brickwork was hermetic. If these people died in here, then where is all the bodily fluid? Where are the fungal plumes? Why are the chairs dry and polished?” Artimus was shaking his head, almost in disbelief that Neil had not noticed these things. “These people died somewhere else, and were moved to this location once decomposed. Then the wall was erected to seal them inside. If they were put in here alive, there would be attempts to escape visible on the brickwork, maybe even the ceiling. They are unbound as you can see. You would not simply wait to die. Someone killed these people and brought them here. For what reason, I am unsure, but my primary suspects are now Mister and Missus Grayson.”
Neil looked at the discarded remnants of the wall by his feet. Why had he not realised that? Of course the wall was constructed after the bodies were put here, but now he thought a little more about it, the fact they were killed elsewhere was a step he had not taken.
“Don’t feel bad, detective.” said Artimus, scanning his notes once more before folding them into his pocket. “The fact the wall could have been here, demolished, and rebuilt just as it was only to be demolished again, probably also eluded you. Come on Cyril, if we hurry, we should just about catch happy hour at the White Horse.”
“Oooh!” said Bancombe, eagerly following Artimus out of the cellar. “I haven’t been to Parson’s Green in a few years.”
Neil took one last look around, before jogging to catch up with the pair. Once outside, Artimus stopped by the gate and handed him a card.
“Meet me at my office at about ten in the morning Mister Townsend. We have much to discuss.”
And that was that. Artimus and Bancombe slowly meandered down the street away from the house, leaving Neil alone.
With nothing else to be done today, Neil walked over to his car. Tomorrow, something would make sense. It just had to.
Turning the card over so he could plan a route for the morning, Neil’s heart sank. “You have to be kidding me!”
DAY 2