Now that the flashing lights are all gone, the dark grey Vauxhall is nearly invisible in the equally dark grey murk of an early morning in January, on a cordoned-off street in the southeast part of Oxford. Two men have been sitting in the car so long the windows are starting to fog up. The older of the two blows on his fingers to warm them and at last starts the engine. These two have been working together long enough to know what happens next. Words are not necessary. They will return to their office, begin their incident report, and wait to see if the post-mortem gives them any reason to think this is anything other than what it appears to be: accidental death resulting from an arson. The burned home had without doubt been vacant for some time, its rooms long empty of furniture or other belongings. The fire had been seen by a passerby and was contained before it spread much beyond the kitchen where it had apparently started. But the unfortunate victim had been in that very room and the fire had burnt his body: not completely, but beyond easy recognition.
The senior officer—Detective Inspector Robert Lewis—navigates the rutted snow of the close, focusing on getting the car successfully onto the cleared roadway. His partner—Detective Sergeant James Hathaway—is confident in Lewis's winter driving skills and thus is free to look out the car windows at the taped-off crime scene, somewhat obscured by the misted-over windows. And so it happens that, of the two, only he observes the young red-headed woman, dressed in high-heeled boots and a full-length fox coat, incongruous with the bleak building. She looks directly at the car—directly at him—and spreads open the coat, revealing a voluptuous and completely naked female body. Then she sparks a bright smile, closes her coat, turns, and walks away. Hathaway stares after her. He knows there's no point in asking Lewis if he saw her.
Hathaway shakes it off, deciding the event was so bizarre and remote that it possibly did not actually happen: the result of a hallucination or an over-active imagination, though he's never been known to have either sort of problem. He falls into a daydream, thinking of fox-fur coats. Vaguely, he hears Lewis ask him something . . . something about fur? Hathaway replies in a dreamy voice. "Yeah, I do."
"What?" Lewis's sharp retort snaps him out of it. "Hathaway, are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, what was your question? I was thinking of something else."
It's clear Lewis is wondering what that "something else" was for it to trigger the faraway tone in his sergeant's voice, but he doesn't ask. "I said, do you think the death by fire was accidental or intentional?"
"Well, the fire certainly looked intentionally set. I guess it depends on what Doctor Hobson finds. They guy could have been a drunk, sleeping it off out of the weather."
"Homeless, you mean?"
"Yeah, there's enough of that going around these days."
"Did you see his shoes, man? That was no homeless person."
Hathaway has to admit he had not noticed the shoes. In fact, he can barely recall any of the details of the crime scene. Lewis studies him, concerned.
"You sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine."
Lewis looks utterly disbelieving, but doesn't pursue the matter, saying nothing. Hathaway's thoughts stray far from the scene of the crime the rest of the way back to the office. Like Lewis, he says nothing.
Later, they sit working in their office, Lewis reviewing the report Hathaway has written. The phone on the Sergeant's desk rings, the number showing only, "Private."
"Detective Sergeant Hathaway."
"Hello there, James. I wonder if you liked what you saw this morning."
He is silent, trying to ascertain if he recognizes the smoky voice.
"I wonder if it made you hard. I like to think about you getting hard."
He reaches for the button to record the call, but the line goes dead. For a moment, he stares at the receiver in his hand before hanging it up. Then he notices Lewis, looking across the desk with his eyebrows raised.
"Wrong number, or . . .?"
"Yeah, I'd say."
Lewis's brows come down as one, pinched together in the middle. "You're not sure?"
Hathaway backpedals. "No, it was a wrong number. She didn't want to talk to me." He ineffectively hides the fact that he is flustered.
Lewis's eyes are knowing. "Ohhh. She. Say no more, Hathaway. I'll stop asking." He turns to his work, almost humming.
Hathaway exhales in frustration. Dammit. Best to just let it be. He knows Lewis peeks at him at least one more time—but without profit.
About an hour later, the phone rings again. This time, the number is familiar.
"Hello, Doctor Hobson. Post-mortem ready?"
The two detectives walk over to the mortuary. Lewis opens the door to the lab, welcoming the warmth. Hathaway is about to enter when he sees in his peripheral vision movement at the corner of the building. He pauses, peering more intently into the winter afternoon gloom. A flash of rusty red—fox fur—and white—breasts, belly, thigh—a wave and a smile. Her again! And then she vanishes. For an instant, he considers pursuit. The lab door opens again.
"You coming, Hathaway, or what?"
Lewis's impatience breaks his concentration.
"Erm, yes, Sir." She's gone, anyway. Not much point in trying to follow.
Doctor Laura Hobson explains her findings and conclusions. Their victim was a fifty-three-year-old Asian male, in otherwise good health. The short version is simple and as they expected: death occurred at the time of the fire, around midnight; the body burnt after death by the flames.
Her findings dispel any thought that the unfortunate victim had been homeless: the scorched remains indicate his clothing was of quality, and the charred billfold held several notes. There is no indication that the man, Jay Sandee, was ill or intoxicated.
"So, death from smoke inhalation, Doctor?"
"Oh, I need to show you one more thing." Hobson sounds almost cheery. She peels back the sheet covering the body, and points to a place near the bottom of the ribcage. The torso here is incinerated, completely blackened.
"See this?"
Both men lean in to see; Hathaway reels back quickly, gagging as the smell hits him. He manages to make it to the sink, retching copiously. Lewis's gaze follows him, slightly amused, slightly pitying. Then he turns back.
"You were saying, Doctor?"
She, too, checks Hathaway. He is pale, leaning heavily over the sink, no longer heaving but still breathing hard and spitting now and again to clear his mouth. It is evident he won't be returning for a while.
"Can you see this here, like an incision?"
"Oh, yeah. God, how'd you notice that?"
Her eyes twinkle. "That's my job, Lewis. Admittedly, it's more apparent on the inside, where it penetrated his heart . . . killing him." She smiles in satisfaction. She has worked with Lewis long enough to know that this is exactly what he wants to hear.
"He was murdered!" He gazes at her with undisguised affection.
"Well, I'd say he was killed by a long, thin, but stiff blade, very sharp, that caused his heart to stop when it penetrated. Calling it 'murder' is your job, Inspector." She smiles, winningly.
He returns the smile, looking as though he could kiss her, takes her written report, and collects James. Thanking the doctor for her report, the two detectives head back to their office. Lewis notices that Hathaway checks all about as soon as they leave the lab. But Hathaway says nothing and so Lewis says nothing. They are both very good at saying nothing.
They know little about the victim—his name, facts from his identification, and whatever hints Doctor Hobson's report provides—but no more than that.
"Y'know, I think this was some sort of . . . what's the word? Assignation?"
Hathaway is surprised. "You mean he was meeting someone for a sexual liaison when he was killed? What makes you think that, Sir? Why not some more innocent meeting?"
Lewis's furrowed brow matches that of his sergeant. He is studying Sandee's wallet through the plastic bag that protects it. "Look at the indentation on the inside." Lewis flips the wallet to Hathaway.
James catches it easily and opens the wallet as well as he can. "This circular mark, you mean?"
"Yeah. What does that make you think of?"
James studies it, thinking. After a while, his expression shows he has the answer.
"He often carried a condom. So often, in fact, it's left a dent. But there was none in the wallet when he was found. So the most likely explanation is that he had used it so recently he hadn't yet had time to replace it."
Lewis grins. "We'll make a detective out of you yet!"
Hathaway continues. "But maybe the killer took it for his own purposes."
Lewis counters. "Who says the killer has to be a man?"
"Did Hobson's report say?"
"No. Let's ring her."
Hathaway wonders if Lewis doesn't have his own reasons for phoning the doctor, but he says nothing.
"Yeah, hi, Laura, one more question about Mister Sandee. Could a woman have slid that shiv into his ribs? Or would it have taken a man?"
She answers immediately. "Anyone with the weapon at hand and enough knowledge to put it between his ribs could have done it. Wouldn't have taken much strength at all. There was no indication he'd put up a struggle."
"Any evidence he'd had sex recently?"
"As you may recall, that part of him was badly burnt. So I can't tell you either way. But there were no textile fibres in the wound, so it's unlikely the blade went through any fabric. His shirt was probably unbuttoned."
"Ta, Pet. You're the best."
He rings off and faces Hathaway. "Either one, man or woman. So what do we know?"
Hathaway exhales. "Nothing. He was killed. That's all. No motive, no suspects."
Lewis rereads the post-mortem report. "Go 'round his flat, do a house-to-house and see if the neighbors think of anything." He sees Hathaway's resistant expression. "Get PCs to do it, man, I didn't mean you had to do it all yerself. In fact, let's go through his place together."
Sandee's home is an ordinary terraced house in Iffley, not far from where the fire occurred. It is apparent he lived alone and was not as interested in spending money on his abode as he was in spending it on his wardrobe. The furniture is serviceable but cheap and there is nothing decorative or personal about the place.
"Doesn't feel much like home, does it?" Lewis views the front room, puzzled.
"Not everyone has your fondness for tchotchkes, Sir."
That earns Hathaway the expression he was aiming for. "Me what?"
"Knickknacks."
Eyeroll.
They learn little more from their inquiries of the day. Sandee was relatively unknown among his neighbors. No outstanding debts; no unusual, recent credit-card purchases; no traffic violations. No known family. Very little clutter or other personal effects, and therefore, very few clues about his life. Hathaway orders telephone and other personal records, but until those are sent, the detectives are at a standstill, for the most part.
When at last they conclude there is little more productivity in the day, Lewis watches Hathaway pack up his things, put on his greatcoat and head out with a barely audible, "Bye." Something was on his mind today, Lewis knows, but whether it was the grotesquely burnt body or something else, he cannot be certain. And of course, he doesn't ask. Lewis stays behind to make some notes and to recheck what they've put on the incident board so far. He's in no hurry to go home, the takeaway places will be less crowded if he waits another hour.
Hathaway makes his way to his car with hopes that the roads are better now, seeing as how the ploughs must have been out for hours. He knows at least he will have to brush the day's dusting of snow off his windscreen.
But he notices several curious things about his car as he nears it in the car park. First, the snow has been brushed off the windscreen, windows, and lights. Second, there are peculiar footprints all around the car: a triangle, with a dot a few centimetres from the base of the triangle. Just like the prints high-heeled boots would make. Third, even though the doors are locked, there is a single red rose on the driver's seat. Tamping down his rising unease, James looks all around but sees nothing in the evening darkness. He drives home with all his senses straining at their maximum potential. He is utterly unable to relax despite the generous glass of wine he's poured himself, jumping at every sound: an icicle falling, a neighbor shoveling the walk, the tick of the heater. And he stays on heightened alert all evening until he at last falls into fitful sleep.
When Lewis approaches his car in the car park, he sees immediately that there is something anomalous about it. His car is surrounded by heaps of snow, as though every snowplough in the car park chose to pile its gathering around one certain grey Vauxhall.
"What th' bloody . . ." Since most of the other station employees have left by now, Lewis is forced to dig his car out himself. At least he keeps a shovel in his boot during the winter. Bastards. Sorry I don't leave at four so you can plough your precious car park free of obstacles. The fact that his curry is cold by the time he gets it home does not add any cheer, and he lies in bed in a sour mood for a good hour before sleep overtakes him.