He slowed, cautious as he rounded the corner, staring through the misty glow of a street lamp at those tenements that lined the opposite side of the street. They were often crowded with more than one family to a room, rubbish overflowing on the street, a cat skittering from an entrance into the shadows.
It was Friday, the work week end. Workers who returned to those flats would have collected their pay, then spent an hour or two at the local pub or tavern.
It was a place of families, with a child’s trolley made of wood and skate wheels propped against a wrought iron rail outsideone of the buildings, where a boy’s or girl’s play took them to the streets.
The entrance to number twenty-eight Craven Street was lit from the ground floor to the third, the shadows of those inside suddenly appearing at a window amid shouts of alarm that reached the street.
Instead of entering by way of the street entrance, Brodie ran down the steps behind a wrought iron rail, to the basement door. The lock gave easily and he quickly entered the building. The beam from the hand-held fell across stairs that led to the upper floors.
He paused in the shadows on the ground floor, heard voices just beyond, footsteps urgent on the floor above, then the slam of a door.
He crossed the hall to the stairs, the smell of coal oil and fish for someone’s supper thick in the air, along with a haunting memory that suddenly returned, of another place and another woman.
Ellie’s flat was on the second floor. The door, always bolted, now stood ajar. Had she only just returned in spite of what he’d told her, and forgot to set the lock?
He kept his voice low when he called out. When there was no answer, he eased the door open and stepped inside.
It was dark inside the one-room flat, except for the thin shaft of light that spilled through the open doorway from that single fixture in the hallway. He cursed softly. She would not have left the door unlocked, not even for a moment.
The flat had electric, the button beside the door. He didn’t turn it on. There was no need as he slowly swept the beam from the hand-held across the usually well-kept room. It was now in disarray, the table turned on its side, utensils scattered across the floor. And then he saw her.
She lay on the floor, her eyes sightless as she stared back at him, her head twisted at a sharp angle. Not satisfied with that, the murderer had also cut her, the bodice of her gown stained dark with blood.
He knew before he touched her that she was dead.
“Why wouldn’t ye listen!” he whispered.
He touched her cheek, her skin cool to the touch, that old memory sharp as if it was yesterday.
He pulled his thoughts back to the here and now.
She had fought her attacker. Not that it had done her any good. Whoever had been there had easily overpowered her.
It would have been quick, he thought. Those years with the MET and before, pushing their way back through memory.
This had been done by someone who chose to overpower and silence her quickly, and had then slipped away—someone who was experienced in such things.
If only he had gotten there sooner!
“Ellie, girl. I’m so very sorry,” he whispered even though she was past hearing anything.
The sound of a constable’s whistle, distant at first, then much closer, cut the silence.
He scanned the looming darkness of the flat, eyes narrowed in the meager light.
Where was the boy, Rory? Had the killer taken him? His head came around at the creak of a floorboard.
There was only the one room in the flat with the sleeping area curtained off in the corner.
That faint sound came again.
He rose and aimed the hand-held in the direction of the alcove with that curtain drawn across. He pulled the curtain back. The alcove was empty.
He heard it again, along with another muffled sound from the wall beside the alcove.
Brodie ran his hand along the scarred wood of the wall, caked with an accumulation of grime and soot from a coal fire she, and countless others before, had cooked with.
It wasn’t unusual for people who lived in these places to hollow out a space behind a wood panel or behind a counter to hide something of value—coins, a trinket, or a bauble that might be of value—against thieves who were known to frequent these places when those who lived there were away.
