staring at the speakers. ‘So that’s it. That’s what our witnesses heard? They heard the
first
porno video at eleven p.m., and the second, the violent one, at one a.m. They didn’t hear any intruder. Sir, that’s it. That explains it!’
A constable entered the sitting room, breathless and flushed. ‘Is everything OK, sir? We heard – er – strange noises – ah—’
Larkham laughed quietly. ‘No, it’s fine. It’s all good.’
The constable looked between the two officers, bemused. ‘OK then … sir. I’ll leave you to it.’
Ibsen stepped gently over the stained carpet and gazed towards the distant kitchen, speaking quietly. ‘That’s why we have zero evidence for a killer, why we have the victim’s prints on his own murder weapon. Because there was no murderer.
There was no murder.
It’s autoerotic. It’s a damn suicide. Kerensky watched gay porn all night, for some reason, then for some reason we don’t know this drove him to mutilate himself, so he went into the kitchen – and hacked off his own feet and his right hand.’
Larkham crossed the room and stood beside his boss. ‘Then he even tries to cut his own throat, but realizes you can’t ’cause it’s virtually impossible. Without a chainsaw. But he is dying, anyway, and he wants a final high. Autoerotic as you say, sir.’
Ibsen walked back into the middle of the enormous sitting room. ‘Exactly. He drags himself from the kitchen, because he wants that last amazing thrill. And then he reaches the desk. But he’s lying on the floor weak from blood loss. Desperately he reaches up for the laptop, turns it on, smearing blood on the keys. And he watches …’
‘Big Daddy’s Dungeon Party.’
A throbbing silence filled the room. Ibsen expected to feel a rush of vindication, even triumph, but instead he felt only a tinge of disappointment. So: it was not a murder but a bizarre suicide, a truly bizarre suicide. He’d solved it, and probably deprived himself of a fascinating case.
‘Er, sir?’ Larkham was pointing.
‘What?’
‘Look at the screensaver.’
Ibsen swivelled to look at the computer. As the laptop had been left to its own devices, the screensaver had come on: the entire screen was filled with a single image.
It was a human skull. The skull was adorned with a crown, and the neckbones were festooned with pink pearl necklaces and a red-and-blue Barcelona football scarf. Lodged between the stained brown teeth of the skull was a fat cigar, trailing smoke.
Ibsen frowned. ‘That’s a little weird.’
Larkham shook his head. ‘It’s not just weird, it’s fucked up. This whole thing is totally fu—’
But he was interrupted. A young woman was standing at the sitting room doorway, in gloves and a paper suit, her frizz of blonde hair just visible under a paper bonnet. She was clutching something in another clear plastic bag.
Ibsen just about recognized her. ‘Sergeant … Fincham?’
‘Yes, sir, Forensics. Are you the SIO?’
‘Yep. DCI Ibsen. What’s that?’
‘Something you ought to see, maybe.’
She walked over to him, carefully stepping around the blood stains on the Turkish carpet, and dropped the bag on the desk for him to examine.
Inside the plastic bag was a glass. It was smeared red, on one side in particular. The concept thrown up by this made Ibsen’s stomach churn.
‘Where and when did you find this?’
‘Just now, sir, it had rolled under the cooker.’
Larkham squinted. ‘Christ, is that blood?’
The woman nodded. ‘Almost certainly. Human blood. Congealed. Nearly dried. Maybe two days old …?’
Larkham pointed. ‘Look at the way it’s smeared down one side, like it has been … drunk from. It’s been used.’
Ibsen didn’t need to have this pointed out. Before he died the victim had drunk a cup of his own blood.
11
Tomb 1, Huaca D, Zana, north Peru
She could hear voices in the redness.
‘Jessica. Jessica!’
Someone was pulling her; sideways. She coughed, and coughed
first
porno video at eleven p.m., and the second, the violent one, at one a.m. They didn’t hear any intruder. Sir, that’s it. That explains it!’
A constable entered the sitting room, breathless and flushed. ‘Is everything OK, sir? We heard – er – strange noises – ah—’
Larkham laughed quietly. ‘No, it’s fine. It’s all good.’
The constable looked between the two officers, bemused. ‘OK then … sir. I’ll leave you to it.’
Ibsen stepped gently over the stained carpet and gazed towards the distant kitchen, speaking quietly. ‘That’s why we have zero evidence for a killer, why we have the victim’s prints on his own murder weapon. Because there was no murderer.
There was no murder.
It’s autoerotic. It’s a damn suicide. Kerensky watched gay porn all night, for some reason, then for some reason we don’t know this drove him to mutilate himself, so he went into the kitchen – and hacked off his own feet and his right hand.’
Larkham crossed the room and stood beside his boss. ‘Then he even tries to cut his own throat, but realizes you can’t ’cause it’s virtually impossible. Without a chainsaw. But he is dying, anyway, and he wants a final high. Autoerotic as you say, sir.’
Ibsen walked back into the middle of the enormous sitting room. ‘Exactly. He drags himself from the kitchen, because he wants that last amazing thrill. And then he reaches the desk. But he’s lying on the floor weak from blood loss. Desperately he reaches up for the laptop, turns it on, smearing blood on the keys. And he watches …’
‘Big Daddy’s Dungeon Party.’
A throbbing silence filled the room. Ibsen expected to feel a rush of vindication, even triumph, but instead he felt only a tinge of disappointment. So: it was not a murder but a bizarre suicide, a truly bizarre suicide. He’d solved it, and probably deprived himself of a fascinating case.
‘Er, sir?’ Larkham was pointing.
‘What?’
‘Look at the screensaver.’
Ibsen swivelled to look at the computer. As the laptop had been left to its own devices, the screensaver had come on: the entire screen was filled with a single image.
It was a human skull. The skull was adorned with a crown, and the neckbones were festooned with pink pearl necklaces and a red-and-blue Barcelona football scarf. Lodged between the stained brown teeth of the skull was a fat cigar, trailing smoke.
Ibsen frowned. ‘That’s a little weird.’
Larkham shook his head. ‘It’s not just weird, it’s fucked up. This whole thing is totally fu—’
But he was interrupted. A young woman was standing at the sitting room doorway, in gloves and a paper suit, her frizz of blonde hair just visible under a paper bonnet. She was clutching something in another clear plastic bag.
Ibsen just about recognized her. ‘Sergeant … Fincham?’
‘Yes, sir, Forensics. Are you the SIO?’
‘Yep. DCI Ibsen. What’s that?’
‘Something you ought to see, maybe.’
She walked over to him, carefully stepping around the blood stains on the Turkish carpet, and dropped the bag on the desk for him to examine.
Inside the plastic bag was a glass. It was smeared red, on one side in particular. The concept thrown up by this made Ibsen’s stomach churn.
‘Where and when did you find this?’
‘Just now, sir, it had rolled under the cooker.’
Larkham squinted. ‘Christ, is that blood?’
The woman nodded. ‘Almost certainly. Human blood. Congealed. Nearly dried. Maybe two days old …?’
Larkham pointed. ‘Look at the way it’s smeared down one side, like it has been … drunk from. It’s been used.’
Ibsen didn’t need to have this pointed out. Before he died the victim had drunk a cup of his own blood.
11
Tomb 1, Huaca D, Zana, north Peru
She could hear voices in the redness.
‘Jessica. Jessica!’
Someone was pulling her; sideways. She coughed, and coughed
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