The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

13

Theories

Police officers are social drinkers. They have to be. The stresses of shifts are washed away with pints, and debriefs turn into scandalmonger sessions at the backs of boozers where the landlady can be relied upon to keep her barrels bled and her mouth shut. The alcohol is soaked up with carbohydrate-laden pub grub, but the cruelties of criminals are not so easily absorbed.

DS Janice Longbright and Sergeant Jack Renfield had detested each other at sight, but the death of a colleague had recently drawn them into a cautionary orbit. Longbright was lonely. Statuesque and physically imposing, she scared off men who wanted their girlfriends to behave like Barbie dolls, and as her conversation frequently revolved around the tragedy of sudden death, few civilian women remained in her circle for long.

Renfield, on the other hand, was the kind of Arsenal-supporting, beer-hammering mate who would never be alone in a North London pub. But there was something about Longbright that made him want to ditch his friends and be alone with her.

However, as Renfield settled into a corner at the King Charles I with his pint, that thought was cut short by the arrival of Meera Mangeshkar and Colin Bimsley. Sometimes the group liked to meet and chew over the day’s events without the senior detectives. They dealt with the grim practicalities of crime, and occasionally enjoyed leaving the abstruse thinking to their bosses.

The King Charles I was the oldest pub in King’s Cross. It had The Smiths on the jukebox, animal heads on the walls and a clientele that often ended up on the floor. It was home to a number of obscure games played by drinkers, including Mornington Crescent, the Drunk Shakespeare Club and the Nude Alpine Climbers Society of London, an inebriated challenge that involved making your way around the bar naked except for a coil of rope, a pith helmet and crampons, the loser being the first one to fall and touch the floor.

“We just had Gail Strong’s old man on the line,” said Meera, chucking packets of pork scratchings onto the table. “He went nuts at Raymond, warned him to keep his daughter out of the tabloids or he’d personally oversee the axing of our budget. Says it’s bad enough she’s working on this play without getting mixed up with a negligence case.”

“You think that’s what it is – negligence?” asked Longbright, taking her gin from the tray. “Giles reckons it’s murder.”

“Even though he can’t issue a death certificate, he’s going to give us the nod tonight,” said Renfield. “It’s going to be Unlawful Killing, wait and see.” In the case of an infanticide verdict, the sergeant knew that the inquest would have to be adjourned until the conclusion of the criminal proceedings. He’d heard that the Kramers had hired a solicitor and sent him to the opening of the inquest, but they had stayed away. Mrs Kramer was apparently in a bad way.

“It’ll be an open verdict,” said Longbright. “Not enough evidence.”

“It’s premeditated, though. Prints wiped clean, window opened. Opportunity is everything.”

“You reckon someone knew the only way they’d get into the house would be by invitation?”

“Like a vampire,” said Colin.

“Well, I don’t buy it,” said Meera, stirring her drink.

“You don’t buy anything. You’re the most cynical person I’ve ever met.” Colin had a new plan. He figured if he argued with Meera often enough, then suddenly withdrew his attention, she would realize she missed him and finally fall in love with him. He argued with her a lot. She had been raised in the urban war zone of an Elephant and Castle council estate, where open spaces were navigated in cautious silence and family combat took place at a high decibel level.

“Dan checked the CCTV in Northumberland Avenue this afternoon,” said Colin.

“Where is he?” Longbright asked.

“At his nipper’s school play, Murder in the Cathedral.”

“Did he find anything?”

“There’s a camera mounted on the wall of the opposite building, an insurance company, but its screen height is cut off just below the window ledge because the Kramers’ property is a private residence. Invasion of privacy policy. But Dan reckons it shows nobody could have left the building that way. Turns out there’s also CCTV coverage of the area either side of the front door to the apartment building, so we’re able to corroborate the doorman’s timings on when the guests arrived and left.”

“I think the answer’s obvious,” Meera began. “Robert Kramer killed his own son.”

The drinkers fell back in surprised protest. “Come off it, why would he do that?” asked Colin.

“Maybe he didn’t want to be tied down with a kid. Someone should ask Judith Kramer if it was a planned pregnancy when she wakes up.”

“Great, that’ll be your job, then, Meera.”

“Look at it logically: he had the opportunity. He waited until the house was full of people, nipped upstairs for a moment – ”

“Hang on, love.” Renfield raised his hand. “How’d he get in and out of the bedroom?”

“Don’t call me ‘love’, Jack, OK? Has Dan really checked every inch of the room? Kramer’s a theatrical type – he could have built in some kind of mechanism to remove the door hinges or something.”

“Dan’s had the door to pieces,” Longbright pointed out. “It’s an ordinary Yale lock and key with a regular handle and mortise and ordinary over-the-counter door hinges, no funny stuff. That just leaves the window, and we know he couldn’t have climbed outside after because the rain had soaked the rug and there were no prints. So unless he drilled a hole in the ceiling, dropped down into the room, killed his own son and then hoisted himself up, replaster-ing as he went, it looks to me like some kind of simple timing trick.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we’ve been led to believe that the kid was chucked out of the window and he wasn’t at all, did you think of that? He could have been taken from the nursery earlier and had his brains dashed out in the basement, then the room was prepared to look like he’d been attacked in his cot.”

“How do you prepare a room without setting foot inside it, Janice?” Renfield asked.

“I don’t know. Theatrics.” She fell silent and sat back.

“And why the hell would you?” said Meera. “I don’t see who gains from any of this.”

Colin thought for a moment. “Someone who wants to hurt the mother very badly by destroying the thing she loves most of all.”

“If that’s the case, Mrs Kramer could be in danger. We need to put a watch on her, or at least make sure she’s not left alone.”

“Her husband’s looking after her,” Colin pointed out.

“What if he’s Mr Punch?”

“What are you talking about? Please don’t start calling him the Mr Punch Killer.”

“The old man’s got it in his head that the Punch puppet was put beside the cot to leave some kind of warning. You know what happens in the story. After Mr Punch kills the baby, he goes after his wife and beats her to death.”

“Someone’s been reading too many supermarket thrillers,” said Colin. “Stuff like that just doesn’t happen in real life.”

“But it has, hasn’t it?” Meera drained her gin. “And it does happen, Colin. In Indian communities men go to incredible lengths to hide honour killings.”

“Robert Kramer’s not Indian.”

“No, he’s a millionaire sleazebag businessman working in the theatre.”

“And that’s exactly what makes it unlikely,” said Colin. “When it comes to settling scores, men like Kramer have plenty of legitimate means. My dad once paid to have a boxing referee’s ankle crushed. They spend all their time on their feet. Ended his career, it did.”

“And you seriously wanted me to go out with you before admitting that, did you?” asked Meera.

The squabbling continued late into the rainy night.