Garibaldi cycled along the High Street past the Sun Inn and Barnes Pond into Church Road, took a left at the Red Lion traffic lights and headed up Castelnau towards Hammersmith Bridge. Ever since the bridge had been closed to traffic the road had been quiet, but today it was busy. Police cars and a forensic van were parked outside a cordoned-off house on the eastern side and a crowd of onlookers had gathered on the pavement opposite. Garibaldi locked his bike to some railings, took off his helmet and walked towards Gardner, who was standing beside the cordon tape in a forensic suit.
“Morning, boss.”
“What have we got?”
“A body underneath an open window at the back of the house.”
“Don’t tell me. Did he fall or was he pushed?”
“Could be. But there are a couple of odd things about it.”
“Tell me.”
Gardner turned to the house. “First thing is, this is no ordinary house.”
Garibaldi looked at it. It seemed ordinary enough to him, or as ordinary as a multimillion-pound mansion on the favoured side of Castelnau could ever seem.
“Or should I say,” said Gardner, “no ordinary owner.”
Garibaldi raised his eyebrows.
“Jimmy Clark.”
“Jimmy Clark?”
“Yeah. He called it in,” said Gardner. “Found the body this morning in his back garden.”
“What do we have on him?”
“Clark? He’s—”
“Not Clark. The body.”
Garibaldi shook his head. Did Gardner do it deliberately?
“Male. Probably late twenties, early thirties.”
“ID?”
“Not yet.”
“Phone?”
“Nothing. No cards or wallet. Nothing on him at all apart from his keys.”
“You said there were a couple of odd things. First is this is Jimmy Clark’s house. What’s the second?”
“The second is he’s wearing a mask.”
“Who? Jimmy Clark?”.
“No. The victim.”
“A mask?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of mask?”
Gardner hesitated.
“Are we talking a sex thing here? Is it that kind of mask?” He could already see the headlines.
“When you say sex thing …” said Gardner.
“Do you want me to spell it out?”
“I know how to spell it.”
Garibaldi looked at his sergeant, unsure whether she was joking.
“This mask,” he said. “What kind of mask is it?”
“Mick Jagger.”
“What?”
“It’s a mask of Mick Jagger.”
“What’s he doing in a Mick Jagger mask?”
“We don’t know. Seems there was a party here last night.”
“What kind of party?”
“No idea.”
“And have we taken this mask off to have a look at him?”
“Yeah.”
“And …?”
“As I said, no ID or anything. No idea who he is.”
“Where’s Jimmy Clark?”
“He’s inside. Pretty traumatised.”
Garibaldi took out his card, showed it to the uniform on the cordon, pulled on a forensic coat, cap and shoes and went into the house. He followed Gardner into the entrance hall and reception room where SOCOs were at work and through the French windows that opened onto the garden.
“Morning, Doc,” said Garibaldi to the figure crouched over the body.
“Ah,” said Martin Stevenson, looking up.
“What have we got?”
“What we’ve got,” said Stevenson, “is a dead Rolling Stone.”
He moved back from the body to allow Garibaldi a closer look. Garibaldi crouched down.
“Must admit,” said Stevenson, “it’s a first for me. Never had one in a mask before.” He held up a transparent bag which contained the mask and turned the face to Garibaldi. “Good likeness, don’t you think? Jagger as he was, of course. Not as he is now. But quite an impressive piece of kit. Must have cost a bob or two.”
“The cleaner looked out,” said Gardner, “and was absolutely convinced Mick Jagger was lying dead on the gravel. She took some persuading that he wasn’t.”
Garibaldi turned and looked up at the window. “Did the cleaner find him?”
“No,” said Gardner. “Jimmy Clark did.”
Garibaldi moved closer and looked down at the corpse. Jeans. Trainers. Shirt. Fleece. It could have been anyone. Any young man. He thought of Alfie.
“Is it as obvious as it seems?” He pointed up at the window.
“Too early to tell for sure, but his injuries seem compatible with a fall from height.”
“Not that high, is it?” said Garibaldi.
“High enough. Especially if you land on your head, which it seems is what happened.” Stevenson crouched down beside the body. “It also looks like he’s been in some kind of fight.” He pointed at the face. “Here, just below the eye, there’s redness, as if someone’s hit him.”
“And there are signs of a struggle in the bedroom,” said Gardner.
“So,” said Garibaldi looking up at the open window, “he could have been in a fight up there and fallen out.”
“Could have,” said Stevenson. “We’ll have a better idea when we’ve had a look at him.”
Garibaldi looked down at the body. “Poor sod.”
It was always a shock. Not just to confront another life gone but to consider the way it went and what would follow its departure. The grief. The pain.
And, in suspicious cases like this, the questions.
*
Jimmy Clark never looked like this on TV.
On screen he had the chisel-jawed looks and the winning charm of a fading matinee idol. Always cool and controlled, he gave the impression in whatever he was doing – hosting, quizzing, opining, playing – that all was right with the world, that things were OK in a quaint, almost old-fashioned way.
Now, unshaven and shocked, he seemed someone else entirely.
“How long will this take?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Garibaldi.
“I have things to do,” said Jimmy.
“I’m sure you do, but I’m sure you also appreciate that with a dead body in your garden, you might need to change your plans. Perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened this morning: how you found it.”
“I’ve already told you.” Jimmy pointed at Gardner. “I told her everything.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell it again. And you’ll also, of course, have to give a formal statement.”
Jimmy Clark gave a slow nod. “I can’t tell you how shocked I am. I mean – I don’t even know who he is. Do you?”
“Not yet, no,” said Garibaldi. “Nor do we know why he was wearing a Mick Jagger mask.”
“Ah, yes,” said Jimmy. “The mask.”
“Bit strange, isn’t it?”
“It is, yes, but – look, detective—”
“Detective Inspector Garibaldi. As in …”
Garibaldi stopped himself. This was neither the time nor the place – even if it was the kind of joke Clark might make himself.
“Look, Inspector, before I take you through the events of this morning, there’s something I think I need to tell you. I know absolutely nothing about this man or what happened to him. I have no idea how he got into the garden and I have absolutely no idea how he died, but when it comes to the mask …”
Clark gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes and puffed out his cheeks – the kind of would-you-believe it expression he often wore on TV.
“The thing is, that mask is mine.”
“It’s yours?”
Garibaldi saw new headlines.
“Yes. I was wearing it earlier in the evening.”
“You were wearing a Mick Jagger mask?”
“I was performing in the Bull’s Head. Look, I need to tell you this but before I do, can you let me know what’s going to happen—” he pointed towards the garden “—out there?”
“Your house is now...
