Gilded Edge, The Read Online Free Page A

they looked for people watching, curtains twitching, scaffolding erected nearby that might offer vantage points into the house itself, flower sellers, taxi stands, kiosks, tented builders digging up the road, checking on anyone who might have witnessed the ins and outs of the victim’s home; anything that might just look out of place or provide a witness. And that was why Mac, the experienced and wily copper, kept to such a meandering pace, because he was assessing and assimilating the world he was entering, and capturing mental film footage that would be stored up for future reference. And Vince was absorbing Mac’s movements and was learning to slow his pace, too.
    Nice and easy does it.

CHAPTER 3
    In one of the downstairs reception rooms, scene-of-crime officers were deep in discussion with the white coats of forensics and pathology. Clayton Merryman had already inspected the body and was making his preliminary notes. Nearby came the flash of magnesium, as cameras popped and pictures were taken. Details of the victim had been gathered, and teams of uniforms were being sent out to ask the neighbours what they had seen, or heard, or knew. Mac went straight over to join the huddle of coppers and white coats, while Vince hung back and studied the room. It was cathedral-like in its proportions, and the ornate decoration on the ceiling looked as if it had been piped on by a master cake decorator. Two stalactite crystal chandeliers, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in an opera house, hung miraculously. Small, and not so small, expensive figurines stood in every available space on the richly hued mahogany furniture. A long-cased clock skulking in one corner of the room struck the hour with a gloomy chime. The gilt-framed paintings on the walls featured dark and serious portraits of men dressed for war, from a fey-looking Elizabethan in doublet and hose to a First World War officer encased in a greatcoat, amid warriors and soldiers from every war and imperial skirmish along the way. The women all looked the same: stiff and starched in lace and festoons, with powdered hair and alabaster doll’s skin and brightly painted pinched lips. Meet the family! The whole room looked as if it needed a red rope sectioning it off, and a uniformed guide to talk you through the contents.
    It wasn’t until Vince looked more closely that he spotted the details that assured him he hadn’t time-travelled back a couple of hundred years. Tucked away in a corner was a shiny hi-fi; a record sat on the turntable and some 45s, out of their sleeves, were scattered on the floor nearby. On a marble-topped coffee table stood two fluted glasses, one bearing the distinctive lipstick print of a woman – the colour was red. Vince spotted two empty champagne bottles by the Parian marble fireplace; another sat on the floor by a red-striped, silk-covered chaise longue. They all bore the eyecatching, wallet-thinning, burnished-gold shield label of Dom Perignon. Resting on a French marble-topped commode, next to an enormous bronze figure depicting the god Atlas supporting the world, about the size of a football, on his back, was a heavy cut-crystal ashtray. It was brimming with the butts of thirty or so thoughtlessly smoked cigarettes. Vince went over to take a look. Bending down, he saw that among the biscuit-coloured filtered butts were three hand-rolled joints smoked down to the roach.
    Mac meandered back over towards him, and Vince said: ‘It looks like our man had company last night. A little party? I bet it wasn’t with his wife – if he’s even married.’
    Mac nodded in agreement, but wanted this deduction explained. ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘When was the last time you and your wife got drunk and danced around to Lulu’s “Shout!” – just the two of you?’
    ‘You’d be surprised, Vincent, what me and Betty get up to. And she much prefers The Rolling Stones.’
    ‘That explains it. Do you and Betty get stoned on pot, too?