Chapter One
The walls were closing in on Anna. Her chest tightened.
A loud, chilling wail rose up from beyond. She closed her eyes, pressed her palms to her ears to shut out the intermittent screams.
“Shut it!” yelled a voice in the distance.
“Can it!” growled another. “Before I make you.”
“Like to see that,” responded the first one. Raucous laughter filled the air.
Anna sat on the hard bench and shuddered, hugging her knees into her stomach, coiling her body to protect it. As the last decibels of laughter abated, her eyes focused on the graffiti scratched on to the wall beside her. Read this and weep. She stared at it for a moment then slowly, gradually, her body started to rock, forwards and backwards.
The sound of a door banging in a distant corridor reverberated around the building, breaking her abstraction. She looked around at the windowless room, the empty, off-white walls; the grey metal door; the dazzling light bulb in the middle of the ceiling that made her eyes ache; the grey flecked ‘easy clean’ flooring. A smell of bleach pervaded the air.
Anna felt a pang in her bladder as her eyes focused on the small cubicle in the corner. She quivered, wrinkled her nose. The thought of using what was inside didn’t appeal.
Footsteps and the jingle of metal brought her attention back to the door, her nemesis and barrier to the outside world. She held her breath as they halted for a second, before moving on, fading into the distance. It wasn’t her turn yet.
Anna massaged her shins gently through the navy jogging suit that hung off her tiny frame. She wriggled uncomfortably as the folds of material rubbed against the bare skin beneath, resenting being ordered to wear it, like a young child whose mother chooses their wardrobe.
Thoughts of her own mum made her shudder. She closed her eyes and imagined the scene at her parents’ home right now. This was supposed to be their special evening, their 30th wedding anniversary celebration. The invitations had been sent out weeks ago. She could see their friends arriving all smiles and congratulations, only to be turned away, only to be disappointed …
The camera in the far corner of the room faced her disconcertingly. Her bladder bounced in her stomach again and she scowled at the thought of them watching her, clenching her teeth in an effort to fight away the tears, cursing her tendency to cry when angry. Were they watching her body language?
Another distant noise in the corridor outside. Thud, thud, thud, at regular intervals. She clutched her stomach. She really needed the toilet. The footsteps were measured, precise and getting louder. She listened intently, trying to block out the other noises: the whir of the camera, the jangle of metal, the voices in the background, which all conspired to dull her hearing. The sound of a key being inserted into the lock followed. The door opened to reveal a man in black uniform looking slightly dishevelled. His hair was in dire need of a cut, his nose flattened as if, in the distant past, it had been on the receiving end of a good, hard punch.
“Anna Cottrell?” he asked. “Yes?”
“Your solicitor is on the phone for you.” He held out a cordless telephone. Anna jumped off the bed, tripping over her own feet in her haste to reach it.
“Will, is that you?”
“It’s me. Are you OK?”
“No, I need help.” She failed to draw breath, speaking quickly, as if the call would be ended at any moment.
“I’m on my way. Do you need anything?” he asked gently.
“Just you to get me out of here.”
“Sit tight. I’ll be there in twenty minutes…”
***
Two hours earlier, Anna switched to second gear as she free-wheeled down the hill and past the wrought iron sign indicating the entrance to Little Hampstead, completing her three mile journey home from work in the nearby midlands city of Hampton.
Due to its close proximity to the city, the small village of Little Hampstead was rapidly losing its sense of community. As long-standing residents died or moved into care, their properties were snatched up at over-inflated prices by professional people seeking the refuge of a rural, countryside setting. The school had closed two years ago, the post office six months later. Even the old village shop building was covered in tarpaulin, as builders worked steadfastly to turn it into the next hot residential property. What was left was a ghost village, the presence of the majority of its 400 inhabitants only noticeable by their wheelie bins on collection day. This suited Anna, she much preferred this environment to the goldfish bowl community where her parents lived.
Dark rain clouds, swept along by a bustling wind, threatened the November sky. Thankful for the assistance of bright street lighting as she entered the village, she slowed at the crossroads and turned right into Flax Street.
The familiar hum of her mobile phone started as she arrived outside number 22. She braked, fished her phone out of her pocket. “Mum” flashed on the screen. Manoeuvring herself off her bike, she sighed and pressed the answer button. “Hi, Mum.”
“Anna. Where are you?” The voice was brittle with panic.
“Calm down, I’m outside the flat. I just need to get changed and I’ll be over,” Anna said.
“Did you pick up the serviettes?”
“Yes, I have them. I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Make it half an hour.” The call was ended. Anna sighed again and raised her eyes skywards. She put her phone back in her pocket and wheeled her bicycle towards the opening that divided the cluster of terraces, sympathetically converted into apartments, and stopped, waiting expectantly.
“Damn that light,” she muttered and gave up the wait, proceeding to wheel her bicycle through the aperture between the houses, which was bathed in darkness.
As she reached the rear of the property she was grateful for the slice of natural light the moon supplied as it broke out between the clouds, enabling her to see clearly enough to climb the steps to the entrance of her home. Using all the might in her slender body she lifted her bicycle, carrying it up to the door of Flat 22a.
It wasn’t until she reached the top stair, placed her bike down against the wall and fumbled in her bag for her keys, that she realised something was wrong. The door was ajar.
Anna stared at the open door for a moment, nonplussed. Did I close it this morning? She thought. She couldn’t remember locking it. Surely, I didn’t leave it open? Aware of the habitual rush that dictated her morning routine, she let her mind ponder these questions as her eyes searched around.
And then they found it, as they would a small crack in a windscreen: splinters down the side of the door, close to the Yale lock, chips that exposed the bare wood underneath the red paint, indicating that the door had been forced. Her body froze. A shiver rolled down the back of her head, gathering momentum as it descended, like an icy, cold waterfall.
She stood for a moment, glued to the spot, glancing around at the neighbouring terraces, praying for some sign of life.
Her senses heightened. She became aware of her own shallow breathing, the noise exacerbated by the growing darkness, and the knowledge that she was alone. On this side of the door at least.
With a sudden movement, she pushed the door with her fingertips. “Who’s there?” she called out, trying to hide the panic threatening to break her pitch. Her voice disappeared into the silence of the night.
Anna sucked a deep breath and closed her eyes for a second as she held it, a gesture intended to muster any remaining courage, before she pushed the door open further to expose an empty hallway. Relief squashed the air out of her lungs. This part of the house, in any event, was empty. Her shoulders relaxed and she reached around the left hand side of the doorframe, fingertips searching for the light switch. Finally they found it and with a short click, bathed the hallway in the poor, limited light of a low energy light bulb.
The light revealed very little: a small shoe rack containing a pair of black ankle boots next to muddy trainers to the left; four coat hooks above, upon which hung a single, black fleece jacket; a quarry tiled floor, covered for the most part by a colourful Turkish rug her parents had brought her back from a holiday.
Anna paused for a moment, her eyes darting around. There were only two doors off the hallway. The first on the right led to the kitchen and was ajar, the second directly opposite led initially to the lounge, following on to a double bedroom and small bathroom. This door was closed. The main entrance provided the only access to the flat, which occupied the first floor of the old house. The only access, she thought to herself. Whoever had forced this door would have also left this way. If they have left.
A tremble rippled through her body. Her hands shook as she parked her bicycle outside against the wall, removed the rucksack and rummaged in her pocket for her mobile phone. One bar of charge showed up on the lit panel. She gently pressed a button, switching the sound to silent, pressed three nines consecutively and placed it back in her pocket, her thumb perched over the call button, before stepping into the hallway.
Silence saturated the flat. She stood still for some time listening for any little sound, before gingerly placing her hand against the kitchen door. Deftly, she put one foot inside and peered behind the doorway. Relief again flooded her veins. It was clear.
Bizarrely, Anna felt an adrenalin rush at this point. This extraordinary turn of events felt like an out-of-body experience, the scene of a film set, where her alter ego was on an escapade of discovery. It was the kind of story that one would relate later at dinner parties to friends who would hang on every word. But this is no film, no story, thought Anna. Another shiver. It shot down her back this time, making her tremble again. This is right here, right now. This is real.
Reaching for the second drawer on the left, the kitchen light still off, she opened it and slowly felt around, eventually drawing out a long, sharp carving knife. Armed with mobile phone and knife, her confidence rose as she approached the lounge door. A strong metallic smell filled the air.
Holding the knife firmly between her thumb and forefinger, she pushed hard. It swung open to reveal a large room, which the small streak of light seeping through from the hallway had little effect on illuminating. Just as she was cursing her laziness at leaving the long, heavily lined curtains drawn that same morning, she stopped. What was that? She shrank back into the hallway. There it is again. Tap, tap, tap. So quiet she could barely hear it. She allowed only very short, controlled breaths – as if it would impede her hearing. Nothing. Were her ears playing tricks on her? No, there it is again.
Anna retreated through the hallway and turned around, following the sound. There it was – the chain on the back of the door was hanging down, tapping against the back of the wood in the wind. She sighed heavily, relaxed her shoulders and turned back towards the lounge.
She repeated her earlier actions, this time reaching around the right hand side of the doorframe, a few fingers freed from the knife to search for the switch. Suddenly, the room was immersed in light. But her fingers felt soft and sticky this time and, as she drew her hand back into view, she noticed they were covered in a red liquid. It was then that she raised her eyes.
Anna gasped, dropping the knife. Panic surged through her body like a tidal wave. Her right hand clasped the doorframe tightly to prevent herself from falling as her legs weakened. She felt as if she was drowning, fiercely battling against a weight of water that was rapidly pushing her down. The room started to spin, mixing up colours, until everything was a blur. The heat in her head rose as she fought the urge to faint.
Acid rose in her throat and for a moment Anna stood there, head hung, sickly tears running down her face. Finally she turned back to face the horror of the room’s contents, opened her mouth but her voice caught, suppressing any sound as she pressed the ring button on her mobile phone.
Chapter Two
Detective Chief Inspector Helen Lavery was standing beside the toilet, watching her fifteen-year-old son retch and cast out the poisoned contents of his stomach like an overflowing drainage pipe, when her mobile phone rang.
“Damn! Hold on a minute, Matthew,” she said, patting his shoulder before walking out of the room. He looked up helplessly. The truth was that he couldn’t hold on even if he had wanted to.
She reached into her pocket as she crossed the landing and answered on the fifth ring, just before the voicemail kicked in.
“Yes?”
“Ma’am, this is Inspector Henton. I’m sorry to bother you this evening, but you are the Duty SIO.” It was a statement more than a question, as if he sensed her irritation, the intrusion into her evening.
“Yes, I believe so,” she replied, reaching down to grab a notebook and pen from her bedside table. “What do you have for me?”
“Uniform were called to a flat in Little Hampstead at 6pm this evening, where they found a body with multiple stab wounds. Paramedics have certified it dead and the Duty DI is on the scene.” The control room Inspector’s voice was rushed, keen to pass on this information, as if the end of his shift were approaching.
“Any suspects?” Helen asked as she opened her wardrobe, her fingers flicking through the endless hanging clothes, most of which hadn’t been worn in years.
“Only the informant, an Anna Cottrell, who claims she arrived home from work to find the body of a stranger in her flat.”
“Who is the inspector at the scene?” she said, as she crossed the room and rummaged through the washing basket, pulling out a white, jersey shirt.
“Acting DI Townsend.” Helen closed her eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed, tucking a stray strand of her dark, bobbed hair behind her left ear as she dug through the archives of her brain, recalling her memories of Simon Townsend.
During her first year in the force they had worked on the same shift. His nickname was “Cuff” because he was known for cuffing off jobs, choosing to do as little as possible. His reputation for being lecherous was legendary and none of the female officers liked to be crewed up with him. But there was one incident that was soldered on to her brain cells.
On one particular night shift he was paired with a junior PC, Janet Bland, a new recruit just out of training. They were tasked with staking out an industrial estate that had experienced a number of burglaries in recent months. They arrived by car and were required to patrol the area on foot every couple of hours.
Whilst alone on patrol PC Bland was accosted by three male assailants. Although she managed to shout for assistance on her radio, by the time emergency support arrived, she had been badly beaten. Townsend claimed that it had happened while he had momentarily broken contact to relieve his bladder nearby.
Bland was in hospital for six weeks afterwards, and did not return to the force. Helen never found out whether this was due to the extent of her injuries (which included cracked ribs, a broken femur and a detached retina), or as a result of the mental trauma the incident had caused. Janet, while refusing to make a formal complaint, later confided to her colleagues that Townsend had chosen to sleep in the car, rather than accompany her on patrol. The episode cast a shadow over the whole station for many months afterwards.
Whether or not Townsend was disciplined, Helen was too junior in rank at the time to know. He transferred to the Metropolitan police shortly afterwards. She’d heard that he had been promoted to Sergeant a couple of years ago and returned to the Hamptonshire force last year when his marriage broke up, but their paths had not crossed. Until now. She wondered how anybody, even a reformed character, with Townsend’s background could rise through the ranks to Acting Inspector.
“Ma’am?” The voice at the other end of the line jolted her back to the present. “Would you like his mobile number?”
“No, I have it,” she lied. “Is there a Duty DS on scene?”
“Yes, DS Pemberton.” Helen cast her eyes to the ceiling in relief. “I will take his mobile number please.” She scribbled down the digits, clicked to end the call and quickly changed out of her jeans and sweater into the tired looking suit she’d picked out, breathing in to fasten the size twelve trousers. She threw the shirt over her head, donned the jacket and reached over to grab her mobile phone, punching in DS Pemberton’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“DS Pemberton.” The thick, Northern accent disclosed his Yorkshire roots.
“Sergeant, this is DCI Lavery. I’m the Duty SIO this evening. What do we have?” she said as she scrambled around the bedroom, lifting the remote, moving books off the bedside table, in search of her watch.
“Have the control room not briefed you?” he asked, an indication of surprise in his voice.
“In your own words, Sergeant.”
“Certainly… Well, control room were called to 22a Flax Street, Little Hampstead at six o’clock this evening by a twenty-four-year old female who claimed she’d returned home from work to find the door forced and the stabbed body of a white male, approximately fifty years old, in her flat. An ambulance was called who certified death at six-fifteen, and I arrived while the paramedics were on site.” He articulated these facts efficiently and she was impressed by his competence, as always. Helen had worked with DS Pemberton for a couple of months on “Operation Sandy” the previous year, where she had led a team seeking to reduce the number of distraction burglaries in Hamptonshire. He was an old school detective with plenty of experience.
“What action has been taken, so far?” she asked, as her eyes found her watch, laid on top of the bookcase.
“DI Townsend is with me. Would you like a word?”
“In a moment. Please continue.” Helen reached over and grabbed her watch, precariously balancing the phone between her chin and neck whilst fastening the catch.
“Errr… Of course.” There was a trace of perception in his voice, betraying his awareness of the inspector’s reputation. “Uniform cordoned off the area, preserving the crime scene. They called out the Force Medical Examiner who is here now and the CSIs, who have just arrived, and took an initial account of events from the suspect. We’ve started house-to-house within the vicinity. Just waiting for the pathologist.”
“What do we know about the suspect?”
“Very little. No previous record. She works as a teacher in a local school, has lived in the flat for two years. Claims the victim is a complete stranger to her.”
“Any weapon?”
“A carving knife was found at the scene.”
Helen narrowed her eyes as she scribbled down the details. “Where is the suspect now?”
“She has been arrested and escorted to the station. She was found by the entrance to the room where the body was found, knife beside her.”
“OK. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t let anybody move anything and make sure the Crime Scene Manager logs every movement, both into and out of the house.” Helen cringed as the words flew out of her mouth before she was able to stop them. DS Pemberton would be well aware that this was the first time she had headed a murder investigation. Coupled with the fact that she had only served a short spate in CID as a Detective Sergeant during her ten-year service (a constraint of the accelerated promotion scheme), she knew that she had a lot to prove. And she also knew that her every move would be scrutinised not only by her superiors, but also by her own team.
She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll speak to Inspector Townsend now.”
She could hear a momentary shuffle in the background as the phone was handed over. Townsend must have been standing right next to him.
“Good evening, ma’am. I…”
Helen cut in. “Good evening, Inspector,” she said and, not wishing to invite conversation, quickly continued, “When you have familiarised yourself with the crime scene can you please get back and secure us an incident room? I believe Cross Keys is the nearest station to Flax Street?”
“It is,” he replied.
“Good. Then I’ll leave it to you to set things up. The press will be crawling all over this very soon and we need to be prepared. And start calling in the DCs,” she paused for a moment, rubbing her forehead. “I’ll call you back before you do that. OK?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you at the station.” She clicked the button to end the call and started jotting down names of particular detectives for her homicide team.
***
Just over twenty minutes later Helen flashed her badge at the PC who was blowing hot air into his hands, rubbing them together and stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm. He moved aside, allowing her to walk through the gap between the houses and climb the rear steps which led to the entrance of Flat 22a. As she arrived at the entrance hall she could see DS Pemberton, talking to a man in a long, black coat with his back to her.
“Detective.” She nodded to DS Pemberton and immediately the black-coated figure turned to face her.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed.
“Good evening, Charles,” she said, relieved that, out of the limited number of pathologists that serviced their area, she had struck gold. Dr Charles Burlington was captivated by his work, his lengthy career providing him with a wealth of experience.
“Helen, how lovely to see you!” His face lit up as he extended his hand, but she didn’t miss the glint of surprise in his eyes. She shook his hand warmly and smiled.
“How are those little boys?” he asked, as he recovered himself and stood back to survey her fully.
“Oh, you know, teenagers,” she replied, the smile still playing on her lips.
“Teenagers. Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Then it really must be quite a few years since we saw each other. Do give them a slap on the back from their uncle Charles. I’m sure I must owe them both a rugby tackle.”
“I think Matthew would give you a run for your money these days. He must be six inches taller than you.” She laughed. It was good to see Charles. He’d been a great friend to her late father, and the family. They resolved to stay in touch after the funeral though work, family routine and moving house had restricted their contact for many years to Christmas cards. She noticed his thick, curly brown hair had transformed to white and crows’ feet had crept in around the eyes, but in spite of his age he still kept himself trim.
“How is Sarah?” she asked, creasing her forehead, trying to think when she had last seen her. It must have been John’s funeral, she thought to herself. John, Helen’s husband, had died suddenly in 2000. Helen remembered Charles’ devoted wife fondly. She was one of those women who had given up her job as soon as their first child had been born, and once they had grown up and left home, dedicated her life to gardening, home cooking and exercising the family collie.
“Running around after the grandchildren these days, reliving her childhood,” he replied. Silence followed as he started to look around the blood-bathed room. “And what do we have here?” He was focusing on the corpse now, sat up against the large sofa that dominated the room. “Are you working on this one?” he added, turning his attention back to her.
“Heading the investigation actually,” she replied, watching the surprise in his eyes warm to comprehension. “So, I’m going to need your help Charles.”
“Well, well. Following in your father’s footsteps, I see?” James Lavery had dedicated the majority of his career to the Homicide Team in Hamptonshire. It was his stories, his enthusiasm for the job, sheer tenacity and desire to make a difference that had rubbed off on Helen during her formative years. Leading the Homicide Team had been her ambition for as long as she could remember.
He looked back into the room. “We’d better get started then.” She watched him move over towards the body, encased in his own world of forensic pathology and turned back to face the sergeant.
DS Pemberton was an imposing sight, a bear of a man in height and width with a shiny, bald head. The last ten of his twenty years in the force had been served as a detective and, having worked on the homicide team for five years before moving out to Area, he was completely comfortable in this environment.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, his voice so deep it sounded as though it had been lifted from the pit of his stomach. “How are you?”
“Fine, thank you, Sean. And you?”
He nodded. “Can’t grumble.”
Helen turned and looked over the scene properly for the first time. “So, what do we know about this chap?” Pemberton started shaking his head before she’d even completed her sentence. “No wallet? Doesn’t anybody recognise him?” she asked. With the amount of police staff and civilians that had passed through this room in the last hour, it was very possible that somebody might have recognised him.
“Nothing. We’ve checked his pockets. There’s nothing on him that indicates his identity.”
“Can I move him?” Helen turned around, following the voice. It was Charles, bent over the body, calling to one of the Scenes of Crime officers.
“Yes, we’re done in that area,” he called back.
“Excellent,” Charles replied, shuffling around the corpse, absorbed in his work.
Helen looked back at Pemberton, her thoughts racing. “Has anyone taken prints?” she asked.
“Not yet, as far as I’m aware.”
“Get somebody to bring down a mobile fingerprint machine, would you?” she said. “At least then we could get the prints run through the system to see if he is known to us. We could do with identifying him as soon as possible.”
Pemberton nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a mobile phone. He turned and walked into the hallway as he made the call.
Helen stood and surveyed the walls showered in blood, looked across the floor. Finally her gaze rested on the corpse. Male, aged around mid-fifties she guessed, with grey, thinning hair. She tried to look beyond the blood wounds and extensive stains on his body. His appearance was generally unkempt, his hair greasy, his clothes ragged, as if they had seen better days. Yet he didn’t look like a tramp. He wasn’t dirty enough for that.
She glanced over at Pemberton as he strode back into the room. “What did the FME say about time of death?” The Force Medical Examiner, or FME, was a local GP who attended murder scenes to certify time of death.
Pemberton stifled a chuckle. “Sometime within the last four hours,” he replied, raising his eyebrows.
“What?” Helen said incredulous. “What good is that?”
“Let’s hope he comes up with something more accurate.” Pemberton nodded towards Charles who was now on his knees, suitcase opened, hard at work. Helen walked over to him.
“What do you have for me, Charles?” she asked.
“Well, of course it’s very early to say,” he replied, as he turned his head sideways to look up at her, “but I would say that this killer knew exactly what he was doing.”
“How do you mean?” She bent over to look as he turned the body over on to its back.
“Look here, and here.” He pointed out two large stab wounds surrounded by congealed blood. “The knife was inserted from the front on all the wounds. He was facing his assailant the whole time.”
“Interesting.” Helen knitted her brows.
“And look where the wounds are placed. In my experience of stabbings, the assailant is almost whipped into a frenzy, providing far too many wounds because they panic and don’t know when to stop. This is not the frenzied attack it initially appears. It looks as though our killer was going for main arteries and organs, hence the blood spatter,” he gesticulated to the walls adding, “I would say that this was probably his first blow.” He leant over and pointed at the heart. “The first and the fatal blow. Nobody could put up much resistance to that.”
“Are you saying it was somebody skilled, a doctor perhaps?”
“Not necessarily, you don’t even need A level biology to work out where the major arteries and organs are placed. All you’d have to do is read a few books. You could get it all on the Internet these days. No. What I’m saying is that he went for a quick death. He wanted him dead quickly and only continued to wound to make sure he was dead.” DS Pemberton had joined them now and they were all staring at the victim, wide-eyed. It felt as though they were the only three living people in the whole room.
“And look at the smear marks over there.” Charles pointed across the floor. “The victim would probably have crumpled and fallen face down, in a ball like configuration, from these wounds. But the killer didn’t leave him there. He dragged him over to the sofa and sat him up against it, to face whoever walked through that door,” he said, lifting his head to look over at the entrance adding, “eyes open deliberately, for maximum effect. He was intent on creating quite a show.”
Helen stared at Pemberton and then back at the body, “What about time of death?” she asked eventually, breaking the silence.
“Difficult to be exact,” Charles said, shrugging apologetically.
“Some indication would be useful.”
“Well, he’s pretty much bled out. Considering the cold weather conditions and the lack of heating in here, his size and the pooling of the blood…” He looked at his notes, “body temperature and rigor mortis just setting in around the neck and shoulders…” He appeared to be talking to himself at this point. “I would say he has been dead for about three hours, estimating time of death at any time before five o’clock. But that is only an estimation,” he looked up at Helen, as if to confirm this statement, “I’ll be more sure when I open him up tomorrow.”
“OK, thank you,” she said.
“I understand from your officer here that you possibly have the murder weapon?” Charles asked as he carefully packed the last remaining items into his briefcase.
“Yes, a carving knife was found next to the suspect,” DS Pemberton broke in.
Charles fastened his briefcase and rose to standing. “A kitchen carving knife? Are you sure?” He stared at the sergeant, perplexed.
“I believe so. That’s what it looked like to me. We’ve had it measured and sent it back to the station for examination.”
“What’s the matter, Charles?” Helen asked.
“Well, I can’t be sure until I perform the autopsy tomorrow, but I’d say that the blade that caused these wounds was rougher than a mere kitchen carving knife. More like that of a hunting knife.” He stood up as he spoke, pulled the rubber glove off his right hand and held it out. As Helen reached to shake it he added, “I guess I’ll see you at the autopsy in the morning. We’ll firm everything up then.” He nodded at Pemberton and waved to the CSI team, before exiting the flat.
Later, Helen pulled her jacket around her to prevent the chilly air from biting into her chest as she crossed Flax Street and walked around the corner. The wind had died down now, but not before it cleared the sky of clouds, leaving way for a heavily frosty night. When she reached her car she pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket, flicked through the contacts until she located home and pressed the dial. The call was answered on the second ring.
“Hello?” a voice whispered.
“Hi, it’s me. How’s Matthew?” she asked, as she climbed into her car.
“He’s OK. Don’t worry. He’s sleeping now. How about you?”
“Will you make sure he’s laid on his side?”
“He’s fine, really. I’ll go check on him again in a moment. How’s it going?”
“Yeah, fine thanks. Looks like I’m going to be late though, and probably in for most of the weekend.”
“I kind of guessed that. Look, don’t worry, I can handle things here. You just do whatever you need to and I’ll see you later.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it. See you later.” Helen ended the call, ignited the engine and rested back into her seat as she pulled out into the darkness. It was going to be a long night…
***
People show an amazing array of different reactions to a dead body. Some are frightened, afraid that the corpse will return to life and try to avenge their attacker, like in a film; some are horrified at the scene, the circumstances in which a person lost their life; some are sad, they grieve for the victim, think of their friends, their family, the lost years of life and opportunity; others are matter-of-fact, like the emergency services who are more accustomed to such sights and whose senses have numbed over the years as a result. Anna hadn’t felt any of these emotions. In fact, she hadn’t thought about the body at all. Until now.
As she finished talking to her solicitor and watched the cell door bang closed, she realised that, so far, her mind had focused on her incarceration, consuming her with anger tainted by the fear of being imprisoned. It had blocked out all earlier events, which felt like a blur, a whirlwind. An extraordinary out-of-body experience.
She recalled the blood splattered over her lounge, like a scene from a horror film. Who would have thought that one person’s body could contain so much blood? She thought for a moment – a person. This blood had belonged to somebody. An overwhelming feeling of shame engulfed her. She had been consumed with the incomprehensible inconvenience to her life. He had lost his… Her stomach churned, but this time her bladder did not call out to her – it seemed to have frozen.
Anna forced her mind to push further into its depths. A lacerated body sat facing her on the floor. The eyes… She shuddered, shaking as she recalled the eyes open wide, staring at her. Eyes that had belonged to someone. Panic pulsed through her veins as realisation set in. The victim of this atrocity belonged to someone. The brutal truth of this fact made the pain in her head sear until her brain felt as if it were splitting in two. This was somebody’s father, brother, husband, son…
Somewhere, some family would be disturbed this evening. Possibly watching a film, or putting the kids to bed, or maybe sitting down to dinner – a normal routine family evening, ruined by a knock at the door.
As they answered the door and saw the police officers wearing their hats, speaking in a solemn tone – “May we come in?” – their minds would race, overwhelmed with questions. Who was it? What has happened? They would brace themselves for bad news. Maybe they would think that their car had been stolen? But the police officers’ tone would be too serious, their manner too empathetic and, once invited into the sitting room, they would ask them to sit down. Then, they knew it was serious – an accident, maybe even a death. Anna shuddered…
She imagined then that the questions would start. “Was your husband wearing a certain colour jacket when he left home today? Did he leave the house wearing grey trousers?” And this may instil an element of hope in the victim’s family. Anyone could match that description, it was nothing significant. But then the mention of something personal like a white gold, engraved wedding ring would crush all ambiguity – and they would know, there would be no doubt.
The breathing would stop, they would clutch their head and in one moment their world would be shattered – all because of that knock at the door. And they would gaze up at the clock, reading the time when their life had changed irrevocably.
Tears streamed down Anna’s face. Would they think it was her? That she could even be capable of causing such pain, such devastation? The thoughts made her head go hot and dizzy. Sweat coursed down the back of her neck as she jumped off the bed and rushed to the toilet in the corner, pushing strands of hair out of her face as she retched.