‘What’s up, Mitch?’ She had last seen him what felt like days ago at the crime scene of Liam Sachs.
‘Our guy here might not be related to your case,’ he said, telling her he was still at the house.
‘Found something on the tech?’ she asked.
‘No. The computer and phone are already at Ridgepoint for fingerprinting and DNA. They’ll be with your guys in the morning if you still want them.’
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ Kim asked.
‘Because once we’d removed the body and taken samples from the immediate area, we moved the seat he’d been sitting on.’ He paused. ‘We found a note. A suicide note.’
FIFTY-TWO
Kim took a few moments of the journey to read up on the village of Stableford. Classed as an affluent area, the properties were mainly detached with only four flats listed and no social housing provision at all. Statistics claimed that the population of just over three hundred was ninety-nine per cent white and that it was populated by an even mix of fully employed, self-employed and retired. In the last month, two crimes had been reported.
‘It’s a bloody hotbed,’ Kim said as Bryant drove past the village hall.
‘And here we are,’ Bryant said, pulling onto a gravel driveway. A wooden gate had been propped open with some kind of ornamental rock.
They were guided through an arch of sycamore trees towards a stone country house, drowning under vines of wisteria and ivy. She guessed the house to be four to five bedrooms, but there were many outbuildings and what looked like a self-contained annexe behind the main house.
Accommodation also appeared to have been fashioned above a three-car garage.
‘Hello there,’ called a voice from the side of the house. The man heading towards them was early twenties with dark floppy hair that fell over a tanned and handsome face. He was wearing riding gear with a skull cap tucked under his left armpit and a riding crop in his left hand.
‘John Dermot?’ Kim asked.
‘The third,’ he said, nodding. ‘Who’s asking?’
She and Bryant produced their IDs as she introduced them both.
‘Oh, thank God the parents are away. They’d just die of embarrassment having police turn up to the house. Mercifully you’re not in a panda car or Mrs Fitzsimmons would have had a field day. She’s the neighbour, and one of her cameras can just about reach to this spot here,’ he said, moving two feet to the left. He held up and waved his middle finger. ‘Just in case. Snotty bitch.’
‘Err…Mr Dermot, may we take a minute of your time?’
‘Of course. I don’t think I’ve been a witness to anything illegal. Immoral probably, but that’s another story.’
Kim stepped towards the house.
‘Not that way, Inspector. I live over here.’
They followed him to the car port and up a set of wooden steps that led to the floor above.
He opened the door for them to enter. Kim caught a whiff of alcohol as she passed him in the doorway.
‘Nice place,’ Bryant said, stepping in behind her, and Kim had to agree.
The first room was a lounge-cum-TV-room with double-aspect windows showing views of open countryside to the rear. One entire wall was taken up with a huge television and entertainment centre including music system and at least two gaming consoles. Beyond this room she could see a light and airy kitchen with modern units and appliances.
‘The bedroom and bathroom are just off the kitchen, but I’m guessing you don’t want to see them.’
‘Here is fine,’ she said, taking the end seat on one of the oversize sofas. Bryant took the other end seat.
The man put his skull cap on a chair in the corner, and the clinking of glass told her he was fixing himself a drink.
He turned and the crystal tumbler was half full with a generous measure of golden-brown liquid. A glance behind him told her it was single malt whisky.
‘So how may I help you, Inspector?’ he asked, taking a seat opposite and snaking his free arm along the top of the sofa.