Roberts - The Aachen Memorandum

T he first thing Horatio saw on entering the drawing room was the Admirals corpse lying prostrate on the sofa. He dared to hope death had come naturally, but an indefinable something about the room suggested murder.

As in every crisis of his life, Horatios first instinct was to panic and run as fast and as far as his asthma would let him. This time, however, he sat down on a chair beside the nearby escritoire and breathed deeply five or six times. He took a suck on his Salbutamol inhaler as his huge brain kick-started itself into life.

He was tempted just to retrace his steps and leave by the front door. It took something approaching a full minute of cogitation before he leant over to the phone on the desk and dialled 112. If he was being set up for this, he reasoned, that at least might work in his favour.

Hello? Police? Hello. Listen, Ive just found a dead body.

Whos speaking please?

Horatio Lestoq. For once there was no snigger at the absurdity of his name. Thats L-E-S-T-O-Q.

Please switch on your vid. It was a womans voice. Efficient. In control. Altogether irritating.

There doesnt seem to be a screen its one of those old-fashioned phones.

Postcode or g-mail address?

Sorry?

What is the postcode there?

Look, he answered, clearly and slowly, trying hard to suppress a sense of mounting hysteria, I have just found a dead body, Im not trying to send a sodding parcel!

Please be calm. We need to know where you are.

No idea of the postcode, I dont live here. But its a rectory in

Then he saw writing paper standing in a rack on the desk.

Hang on. Yes yes, here it is. RG2 4RW Hampshire.

There was a pause.

The Rectory, Ibworth, near Basingstoke?

Yes, thats it.

Police and paramedics will arrive soon. Right now, though, I need some more details. Horatio took another long suck from his inhaler. He hoped hed brought a refill.

Name of deceased?

Im fairly sure hes Admiral Michael Ratcliffe.

Youre not certain?

Ive never met him before. But its his house.

Spelt?

R-A-T-C-L-I-F-F-E.

Cause of death?

Dont know. Hes just lying there. Heart attack? The moment he said it he knew it was not.

I.D. number? Her cool, impersonal tone had definitely got on his nerves now. Perhaps it was also the way she kept omitting the definite article.

How should I know? Im not going anywhere near it, if thats what youre suggesting.

Not his. Yours.

Oh, I see. All right, yes, its 478 A 34QW. She tapped it onto her modem.

Checking 478 A 34QW.

Yes. There was a milliseconds pause.

How long has deceased been dead?

No idea.

According to this youre a doctor.

Im not that kind of doctor.

What first aid have you administered?

None. The mans dead for Gods sake!

Are you sure?

Horatio forced himself to look across at the body. White-haired and crumpled, it hadnt moved a millimetre since he entered the room.

Yes. Pretty much Yes.

OK. Stay where you are. Touch nothing. Police will be with you momentarily.

The police In a moment , thought Horatio. He later prided himself on having been pedantic even in that crisis.

They arrived far sooner than hed expected, the sirens audible through the half-open French windows almost immediately after he had replaced the receiver. He glanced around the room, trying to avoid the body, but failing. There was no sign of blood. He thanked God for that. As a child any sight of it, let alone his own, had always made him retch. Coming face to face with it now would put him off his food for months. And that would never do.

What was it about the room which alerted him to the possibility of murder? There were the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the inevitable naval prints, several silver photograph frames on the piano by the French windows. All very twentieth-century decor. The photos were mostly of a much younger man, presumably Ratcliffe himself, in naval uniform on decks, but there were a couple of a small child and one wedding shot. The groom was also wearing naval uniform, but Horatio did not think it was Ratcliffe. They were arranged carefully in rows, with three gaps. Had some been removed?

Try as he might to avoid it, Horatios gaze kept swivelling back to the body, which was dressed in the sort of clothes someone might have worn a century ago. Tweeds, cavalry twills, an old cardigan, even the frayed end of an M.C.C. tie was visible. One of the sofa cushions lay over and partly covered what Horatio could see was a well-polished pair of vintage, dark brown brogues.

Looking away again, Horatios eyes rested upon an even stranger anachronism. On the desk there was a sheet of white blotting paper, set in dark green leather. Otherwise virgin, it was stained at the very bottom by some thin ink marks.

Police autos were speeding up the drive around the other side of the house. He could hear gravel flying. On an impulse, unusual in someone who thought of himself as a congenital coward, Horatio tore off the marked piece of blotting paper about three centimetres by ten and crossed the room to the large mirror above the mantelpiece to read what was reflected.

Mrs Robson, he saw, and, underneath, your roving godfather , and below that, Michael. The investigative hack in him got the better of the law-abiding citizen. He folded it in half, put it in his mouth and salivated hard.

Here! he shouted, chewing, as the police got to the front door, first on the left!

Two armed men burst in. Horatio swallowed.

The first the one pointing the N-series machine gun showed no gratitude for Horatios directions. On the floor! he yelled. Face down! Hands and legs apart!

Horatio did as he was told. The second man came forward to frisk and then handcuff him. In the police auto he was told that by law he was required to speak and that everything he said would be videoed for certain use against him. He was then driven the four miles to Basingstoke police station, where he was asked to hand over all sharp objects. His cash, pager, watch-phone, I.D. card and belt were also taken, after which he was led away to what they termed the custody suites.

Horatio did not protest. He decided, for the thousandth time in his twenty-nine years, that discretion would probably be the better part of valour.

Once in the cell he lay on the bed, fingers interlaced behind his head. It was his deep-thought mode. Ignoring the camera in the ceiling, the graffiti and Inmates Charter on the walls, the all-pervasive stench of urine and the likelihood of catching scabies off the filthy mattress, he put to use the one sharp implement the police could not confiscate.

His brain.

He hadnt got a double-starred first in the logic paper of his Finals for nothing, he told himself. He presumed this would not be a case London would let the local force keep. Assuming C.I.D. used the M3 special lane, and allowing for the fact that police autos were not fitted with speed governors , he probably had an hour. In that time he must work out for himself exactly what was going on.

And for that , he must go back to the beginning.

CHAPTER 2