11: The Senior Investigating Officer
The house was on the Witham Estate, about ten minutes from the Butlers’. Mark drove slowly, obeying the speed limit, two hands on the wheel, while I called in for details and got Ruth. Sensible, hardworking Ruth. Ridiculously good with computers Ruth. I’m-going-to-be-in-charge-of-you-all-at-some-point Ruth. She spoke fluently, no redundant words. I could hear her ticking off the bullet points in her notebook as she talked.
The guy whose surname began with T was Colin Taylor. It was in Tricia’s diary in the garage in bubbly script. Or diaries. He’d been her client for over two years. Had no previous. Worked in Nottingham at a call centre of some kind. A man with no mortgage. No passport. Driving license up to date. Ruth sent me his licence mugshot on WhatsApp. He had a fat head. Short hair. Acne-scaring. No reason why he couldn’t just use clippers and cut his own hair. Though those photos made everyone look awful.
After I put the phone down, Mark turned off the main road and into the estate. Rows of semis, with front gardens ending in breeze-block walls. Drives at the side. Garages set back. Taylor’s road was narrow and lit by street lamps. Cars parked on both sides. In a richer neighbourhood the spaces would come with parking restrictions. Here people drove circles till one appeared. At the end of the road, we turned left at a T-junction and parked at the first available space. No one was around. Our shutting doors sounded like gunfire in the wilderness.
We walked over to number eighteen and knocked on the door. The temperature had dropped even more. We had hands in pockets. I half-expected our breath to freeze when it came out. While waiting we stamped and shuffled. On the way I’d sent a text to Carl telling him I was going to be late, could he take Roxy out for a walk? He worked weekends. Thursday was one of his days off. He didn’t reply. Which could mean anything.
After a minute, we heard movement behind the door, saw a shadow, and Taylor appeared. He was big. Obscured most of the hall behind him. The light turned him into a dark mass. He was wearing jeans and a baggy sweater. He looked down on us. Slowly, his face became clear. His eyes were droopy. His face had a shaggy beard that looked like laziness rather than a concerted effort to grow one. In the car, I’d told Mark he should lead. He needed the practice. He said, “Okay. It’s not as if I’m breaking the death of a loved one to him, am I?”
“You never know,” I replied.
We took out our warrant cards and Mark introduced himself, then me.
“Could we come in?”
Taylor clasped the door with one big hand. It was sort of pudgy. Like it was made of marshmallows. Same texture too. His voice was surprisingly quiet and gentle. A sing-song feel.
“What’s it about?”
Mark didn’t skip a beat. “We’re investigating the murder of a Tricia Butler.”
Taylor’s face might’ve moved but the light made it difficult to tell. He said nothing, seemingly felt nothing.
“Sir?” Mark said, and Taylor lifted his head and opened the door mechanically. Like he was a robot. Whether there was an element of resignation or any kind of emotion at all I didn’t know.
“Living room’s to the right,” he said behind us and closed the door.
The room was small. A sofa along one wall. An armchair in the bay window. A TV in one corner squeezed between the armchair and the fireplace. Games console beneath it – Carl could tell you which one. The walls were unadorned. One lamp on a table the other side of the fireplace lit the room. Another armchair beside it. Taylor put the main light on and offered us tea. We said no and sat, me over by the TV, Mark on the sofa. Taylor took the chair by the lamp. His body overwhelmed it. He waited for us to begin. Then: “What would you like to know?” His voice was still high pitched, but calm.
Mark got his notebook out. It was for show, or some kind of nervous tic. He did it every time. I’d checked the notebook. It didn’t have that much in it. Or if it did it was in an illegible scrawl. His memory was incredible.
Mark explained that we were talking to all of her clients. Routine. Which was not true at all. Taylor sat back into the chair, but still the arms looked tiny beside him. He nodded, “Okay.”
“How long have you been a client of hers?”
Taylor leaned forward. He couldn’t sit still. “Two, three years.”
“And when was your last appointment?”
Mark looked down at his notebook and tapped it with his pen. Taylor looked from Mark to me and back as if he needed to choose what to say and who to say it to.
“A few months back,” he said. “I was going to call her. Arrange an appointment.”
Mark hmmmed and nodded.
“Does she shave you, too?”
Taylor seemed to smile. He cupped his jaw with his right hand and gave his beard a rub. There was a soft scratching noise. “No. She would’ve done if I’d asked, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. She was accommodating like that.”
Mark nodded. “Were you friends?”
Taylor shook his head. “Not really.”
“How did you find out about her?”
Taylor laughed. “The old school way.”
“Phone book?”
He shook his head again.
“She put a sign up in the newsagent up on Harrowby Lane. One of those ones with little strips of paper at the bottom you can tear off. I think she cut it herself.”
“She’d have plenty of scissors,” Mark commented.
Taylor fell silent. Mark rubbed at the corner of his lips with a finger and thumb like he was removing some crumbs that had got caught either side. It was another tic. This one meant to show thought or thoughtfulness. Taylor filled the silence.
“Anything else?”
“A couple more questions. You said you were going to arrange a hair cut soon.”
Taylor rubbed at his thighs. “Hmm.”
Mark got his phone out. “So could you help us explain something?”
Mark handed the phone to Taylor. A picture taken of the scribbled out name was on the screen. I watched him carefully. He didn’t move, then: “What am I looking at?”
Mark frowned. “You don’t know.”
Statement more than question.
“It looks like a scribble.” He handed the phone back to Mark. “It could be anything.”
“It could be,” Mark replied and put the phone back in his pocket. “But it’s not, is it?”
I saw Taylor’s expression change. But he couldn’t help himself. “What is it?”
This time I replied. Taylor’s face filled with shock. It was like he’d forgotten I was there. Had appeared out of nowhere.
“It’s a page from Tricia’s diary,” I said. “Where she keeps the names and addresses of clients. Your name, too.”
Mark finished it. “Except your name’s not there because it’s been scribbled out.”
I took back the reins: “Do you know why that might be?”
Taylor shook his head. “No.”
He’d paused. Enough for it to be a lie. Or if not a lie, a fabrication or some sort of act.
“That was my name? The one scribbled out?”
His surprise was half genuine. He probably almost believed himself. We both nodded.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Nothing happened between you and her?”
“No.” Another pause. “Not that I know of.”
“Because your name was not just scribbled on one page.”
Taylor looked from me to Mark and back again. Like he was watching Federer or something.
“No. Every appointment was gone, too.”
“And on one page,” Mark said, “the pen had almost gone through the paper.”
Taylor had started bouncing his legs up and down. Like he’d drunk too much caffeine. His hands rubbed at his thighs like he hoped a genie would appear and grant him three wishes. It was obvious what his first one would be.
“Is there anything you can think of that would make her do that?” Mark asked.
Taylor stopped. “Do I need a lawyer?”
I smiled. “I don’t know, Colin. You tell us.”
myothervoices 