Mimic Page 6

  ‘I informed my employer of my unavoidable tardiness in good time. They should have been able to make suitable arrangements.’

  Neither Winter nor Chambers knew quite how to respond, so didn’t.

  ‘May we come in?’ asked Winter, half-hoping he’d say no. But when he stepped aside to allow them past, they unenthusiastically made their way down the gloomy hallway, hearing the locks click back into place behind them.

  They went through to the living room, where a mismatched selection of armchairs were pointed towards an open fireplace, the net curtains yellowed with nicotine.

  ‘I’m a bit scared,’ whispered Winter.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ admitted Chambers, both smiling pleasantly when their host entered the room.

  ‘Please, have a seat,’ he said.

  The indecision on their faces wasn’t subtle as they each tried to determine which of the threadbare chairs looked the least haunted. Realising that they were both going for the same one, Winter practically dived across the room, looking smug as he sank his buttocks into the prize.

  ‘Tea?’ the man offered. ‘Coffee? Custard Creams?’

  ‘No. Thank you,’ replied Chambers.

  ‘I’ve literally just had a coffee,’ lied Winter, ‘… and some Custard Creams.’

  Chambers shook his head at his partner.

  The man walked over to take a seat, both detectives noting his distinct limp. He then perched on the very edge of the cushion as if ready to strike, his dark eyes watching their every move.

  Winter took out his notebook and flipped it open: ‘So, Mr Robert Douglas Coates …’

  ‘Robert Douglas Seymour Coates,’ the man corrected him.

  ‘Of course,’ said Winter. ‘I’ll just make a note of that …’

  Prick

  ‘And your age?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Do you know why we’re here?’ Winter asked him, noticing the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece in the pause before he answered.

  He nodded sadly: ‘I heard on the news. You’re here because of Alphonse.’

  ‘That’s right. So, you knew him?’

  ‘I consider myself fortunate to say that I did.’

  ‘And may I ask where you met?’

  Chambers had to remove his jacket, having inadvisably chosen the chair closest to the radiator, which was pumping out heat at an uncomfortable rate.

  ‘At the leisure centre.’

  ‘Where you …?’ Winter left the question dangling.

  ‘Swim.’

  ‘So, you were … friends?’

  ‘I would call it more a teacher/student relationship in nature. I saw a lot of myself in him, the depths of his untapped potential.’

  There was a slightly awkward beat in which both Winter and Chambers glanced around at the sum of Robert Douglas Prick Coates’s depths of untapped potential.

  ‘You live with your mother?’ asked Chambers, earning himself a glare from Winter for muscling in on his suspect.

  ‘Not any more,’ answered Coates. ‘She went into a home a month ago.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking what happened to your foot?’ asked Winter, taking back over. Coates showed no sign of even having heard the question until Winter went to ask it again: ‘Mr Coates, do you mind me ask—’

  ‘I cut it … on some glass.’

  Both Winter and Chambers unconsciously leaned forward, mirroring Coates’s unsettled pose.

  ‘And where was this?’ Winter pushed him.

  ‘At the leisure centre. In the shower room of all places.’

  The two detectives shared a look of anticipation, Winter trying to remember in which pocket he’d put his handcuffs.

  ‘Of little interest to the police, I should imagine,’ Coates continued, ‘but it looked like a syringe that had been stamped into the floor. I sliced the bottom of my foot open on it. It was quite painful. I then brushed what I could find into the nearest drain to prevent anybody else injuring themselves. Needless to say, I haven’t been back since.’

  They both relaxed a little, disarmed by the man’s very plausible story.

  ‘You’re a lecturer at Birkbeck College?’ Winter asked him, changing tack.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Art History?’

  ‘Broadly speaking.’

  ‘So, you must know quite a bit about … sculpture?’

  Coates gave nothing away, both men watching him closely as Winter continued.

  ‘Rodin’s The Thinker? Michelangelo’s Pietà?’

  ‘Of course. They are two of the most famous and celebrated works ever created.’

  ‘And as an expert—’

  ‘Art History is quite a broad subject,’ Coates interrupted him.

  ‘In comparison to us then,’ Winter corrected, Coates nodding along to his logic. ‘Can you think of any link between those two pieces of art?’

  ‘Link?’

  ‘Anything at all?’

  Coates looked puzzled: ‘I thought this was about Alphonse’s murder?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  The lecturer seemed to zone out for a few moments, chewing on his fingernail as he mulled it over.

  ‘I believe that The Thinker was originally just one small part of a far more ambitious piece entitled The Gates of Hell …’ A little disconcerted, Winter wrote it down. ‘Many believe that it depicts Dante, but there are those who suspect it to be, in fact, Rodin himself. Pietà, meanwhile, captures Mary cradling her dead son in her arms,’ he pondered out loud. ‘One resides in Paris, the other in Rome. They were created centuries apart. One bronze, one marble … I honestly can’t think of a single thing that connects them.’

  ‘We’re going to need a sample of your blood,’ blurted Chambers, catching both Coates and Winter off guard.

  ‘My … blood?’

  ‘In order to exclude you from the investigation.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll co-operate in any way that I can.’

  ‘Appreciated. May I use your bathroom?’

  Again, Coates didn’t answer right away, as if disappearing into his own head to calculate his response.

  ‘Upstairs. First door on your left. You’ll have to excuse the mess.’

  Chambers nodded and got up, leaving Winter to finish off. He glanced into the dated kitchen on his way out, noticing nothing unusual, and made his way up the staircase to the landing, where the carpet was caked in dog hair of various colours. He suspected that the entire house normally looked the same, only the ground floor hastily prepared for their visit. Disappointingly, both bedroom doors were closed and he didn’t dare risk trying them, the house creaking and groaning, reporting his every movement to its owner downstairs.

  Walking into the bathroom, he closed the door and hurried straight over to the medicine cabinet. There was an impressive selection of pills, most belonging to a Mrs M Coates, but none of any significance. Frustrated, he looked around the sparse room for any further insight into the strange man’s life. With no better ideas, he stepped into the bathtub to reach the frosted window, forcing the rusted catch to peer out over the back garden. In comparison to the well-tended gnome-fest to the front, the rear of the property was a state – overgrown and wild, bar an area of disturbed soil at the very far end.

  Knowing he’d already taken too long, Chambers pulled the window closed, flushed the chain and washed his hands for good measure. He reached for the door handle but paused on seeing the home-made decoration hanging from it. He flipped it round to read the inscription etched into the wood:

  ‘Though your sins are like scarlet,

  they shall be as white as snow.

  ’

  ISAIAH 1:18

  Frowning, he twisted the handle and headed back downstairs, where Winter was already on his feet, ready to leave.

  ‘I haven’t seen your dogs yet,’ said Chambers, collecting his jacket.

  Coates looked at him guardedly.

  ‘Saw the hair on the carpet,’ he explained.r />
  ‘Dog. Just one,’ Coates told him. ‘Sadly, he passed away. Quite recently, in fact. I think that may have been the final straw for my mother.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Chambers. ‘What sort of dog was he?’

  ‘A mutt. We have always taken in strays.’

  ‘“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,”’ said Chambers, ignoring the enquiring look Winter shot him.

  Coates appeared momentarily lost, but then smiled for the first time since their arrival.

  ‘Now you sound like my mother,’ he said, showing them to the door.

  Climbing into the car, Winter looked to his colleague expectantly:

  ‘So … what did you think?’

  ‘OK. I was wrong,’ admitted Chambers, starting the engine. ‘I get why you’re interested in him.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Wearing a derisive sneer, Mrs Chambers pushed her main course around her plate, the single spoonful she’d managed of the starter apparently filling her up.

  ‘What is it again?’ she asked, sticking an exploratory finger into the sauce.

  ‘Chicken,’ Eve replied curtly. ‘A flightless bird we have back home. One of my mother’s recipes.’

  ‘And where is home again?’

  ‘Content, Jamaica.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ the older woman replied, turning her disapproving glare to her clearly objectionable surroundings. ‘So, they call this a “loft” do they?’ she asked, pushing her plate away from her.

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Just a fancy word for “flat”, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘One that costs as much as a house.’

  ‘Depending on the house.’

  Making another snort of general displeasure, Mrs Chambers took a moment to regard her hostess sitting across the table from her, Eve squeezing her husband’s hand in anticipation:

  ‘You’re quite pretty …’

  ‘Thank you. How quite kind of you to notice.’

  ‘… for one of them.’

  ‘Oww! Jesus!’ blurted Chambers, Eve’s fingernails finally breaking his skin. He glanced between the two woman, neither looking particularly happy, and suspected he’d missed something.

  ‘Are you finished, Lucile?’ asked Eve, getting up from the table.

  ‘Oh, most definitely,’ she replied, handing over the plate as if she couldn’t get it away from her quickly enough.

  ‘Want to help me with dessert?’ Eve asked Chambers.

  ‘I thought it was already made up in—’

  ‘Help me with dessert!’

  He obediently got to his feet: ‘Mum, can I get you another … tap water?’

  ‘No. Thank you,’ she said, covering the top of the glass with her hand as though he might try to stealthily top it up without her consent.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ tutted Eve as they carried the plates through to the kitchen. ‘She doesn’t even like the water!’

  ‘I think it’s going well though, don’t you?’ smiled Chambers hopefully, receiving a ‘you’re sleeping in the spare room’ glare in reply.

  ‘Have you not been at the same dinner table as us?!’

  ‘Shhhhh. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Don’t shhhh me!’

  ‘I’m sorry. Do you not like her?’

  ‘Like her?!’ spat Eve, again, a little too loudly. ‘I hope she chokes on my mango tart!’

  Chambers looked a little taken aback … and then a little nervous:

  ‘She doesn’t really like mango … or tarts.’

  Dropping the beautifully presented plate into the sink, she punched him in the arm.

  ‘Oww!’

  ‘Why didn’t you stick up for me?’

  ‘I didn’t even hear what she said!’

  ‘Because you were daydreaming … like usual,’ she huffed.

  ‘Look,’ started Chambers, ‘Mum’s just … a bit old-fashioned. She’s very proud of her Ghanaian heritage and of being British.’

  ‘And doesn’t like you wasting yourself on any old “Jamo”?’

  Chambers sighed: ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to … And what about our children? Is she going to treat them the same way?’

  Chambers looked shell-shocked: ‘Are you …? Are you saying you’re …?’

  Eve folded her arms: ‘What would you say if I was?’

  ‘I’d say … that’s wonderful.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ! Thank God!’ he gasped, holding his hand to his heart.

  She cracked a smile: ‘What’s going on with you? Did something happen with the case today?’

  Chambers glanced across the room to ensure his mother was still looking as bored, disgusted, and outraged by the single-floored-ness of his living space, as before.

  ‘The blood and hair I snatched from the rope didn’t match our victim … any of our victims.’

  ‘Still, blood and hair though. What is it doing there?’

  ‘What is it doing there?’ agreed Chambers.

  ‘Let’s talk about this later,’ Eve told him, squeezing his bleeding hand. ‘Just get me through this first. I need you.’

  The next morning, Chambers hobbled into the office, the spare bed apparently taking Eve’s side in the argument. Skipping the pleasantries, he gestured for Winter to follow him into the meeting room, closed the door and then lay down with a groan of relief.

  Unfazed, Winter removed his notebook and took a seat on the floor beside him, gazing up at the stained ceiling tiles:

  ‘How did anyone manage to spill coffee up there?’ he asked.

  ‘Boss threw it at someone he didn’t like.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Oh. Kinda looks like the Millennium Falcon,’ he said, squinting up at it.

  ‘I was thinking the blade of an axe,’ said Chambers. ‘But as a prospective homicide detective, it’s good to know where your head’s at. So, Robert Coates’s alibi for the night of the first murder?’

  ‘Home alone.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a new angle for us to look into,’ announced Chambers, reaching into his jacket pocket and handing Winter a bright orange rubber chew toy. ‘Dogs.’

  ‘Great,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Wait … What?’

  ‘Dogs,’ repeated Chambers. ‘I picked this up from his front garden on the way out.’

  ‘Maybe you should take a day off,’ suggested Winter.

  ‘Just look at the teeth marks,’ Chambers told him. ‘There’s one set of seven close together, another of four further apart, and then another couple of deep punctures completely different to the rest.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘At least three different dogs have been chewing on this thing. And when I went upstairs, the carpet was matted with fur of every colour under the sun.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘And there’s a grave in the back garden.’

  ‘A grave?’

  ‘… Area of disturbed soil.’

  Winter looked dubious: ‘That doesn’t make it a grave.’

  ‘Remember what we said the night we found Henry John Dolan up on that podium?’

  ‘Errm?’

  ‘“Non-committal”. A tentative first kill perhaps? Setting up the pieces but then letting the weather do the dirty work for him. Do you know where most serial killers begin before moving on to real people?’

  ‘With animals,’ said Winter, catching up.

  ‘And one of our two prime suspects seems to be going through dogs at an alarming rate.’

  ‘But what about Tobias Sleepe?’ asked Winter. ‘He’s got a pulley system easily capable of lifting a person covered in hair and blood. He seems equally as guilty.’

  ‘You like my guy now?’ Chambers asked him.

  ‘Of the two of them, yeah, I think he’s the more likely.’

  ‘Well, I like yours.’

  ‘So, which do we go for? Make the wrong choice and we
lose our case.’

  Chambers considered it for a moment:

  ‘Both. Simultaneously. One of us digs up the garden while the other seizes the pulley.’

  ‘Without a warrant?’ asked Winter sceptically.

  ‘Without a warrant,’ nodded Chambers. ‘In and out. Confidence is key.’

  ‘One of us will be wrong.’

  ‘But one of us will be right,’ Chambers pointed out. ‘Even Hamm can’t ignore that. There’s no doubt in my mind that one of these two freaks is our killer … You?’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Then we can’t lose, can we? Are you in?’

  ‘I’m in … When?’

  ‘No time like the present,’ said Chambers. ‘The longer we wait, the longer they have to kill again.’

  The meeting room door swung open as Lewis entered, stumbling over the two men on the floor and slopping his coffee over the wall:

  ‘What are we doing?’ he asked them while shaking off a painful scald.

  ‘Fixing my back,’ replied Chambers, making no attempt to move. ‘Better half made me spend the night on the spare bed.’

  ‘Well, join the club,’ said Lewis, setting his coffee cup on the table before lying down next to him. He let out a sigh of relief. ‘Can’t remember the last time I was allowed in my own bed … Boss’s looking for you.’

  ‘What else is new?’

  A peaceful silence descended over the three men, only interrupted when Winter pointed up at the fresh stain on the wall:

  ‘Anyone else seeing a lightsabre?’ he asked.

  ‘Screwdriver,’ replied Lewis.

  ‘Yeah, definitely a screwdriver,’ agreed Chambers. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told Winter. ‘You’ll get it.’

  Chambers was parked fifty feet down the road from Robert Coates’s cottage and had fiddled with every button on the dashboard twice while waiting for 1:45 p.m. to come around, the time agreed upon with Winter to allow him to get into position. He looked up at the dark clouds: ‘Come on. Don’t rain. Please don’t ra—’

  As if on cue, the heavens opened, flooding the street in seconds.

  ‘… Thanks, God,’ he muttered, glancing once again at the dashboard clock:

  13:42

  Close enough, he decided, grabbing the shovel from the passenger-side footwell and climbing out. Utterly drenched by the time he’d passed the neighbours’ houses, he marched through the front gate of the cottage under the watchful gaze of the grinning gnomes. The sound of the raindrops striking their ceramic bodies seemed to bring them to life – like tiny tools hard at work under the cover of the rain.