‘We don’t know it’s him. The DB could be someone else. A friend. An intruder.’
Robbie nodded but kept his hands clenched on the wheel, and neither of us spoke again until we pulled up outside. Ed arrived at the same moment, parking beside us.
‘All right, Stacy?’ he asked. After a quick glance around to make sure no Common realmers were in earshot, he greeted Robbie, ‘Your Excellence.’
‘Not too bad,’ I replied. ‘You?’
‘I’m all right.’ He paused. ‘I stayed up way too late watching Welsh bog snorkelling.’
Despite myself, I grinned. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. There’s like this peat-trench filled with water, murky as hell, and they have to swim it as fast as possible, but without using any swimming strokes.’
‘Hold up, how are they supposed to swim then?’
‘They have to propel themselves with nothing but flippers on their feet. It honestly looks like someone thrashing around with a shark.’ He grinned. ‘It’s hilarious. Some of them even wear fancy dresses. Five stars, totally recommend.’
I snorted. ‘I’ll pass. You got some booties and gloves I can snag? I left my briefcase at home.’ Sneaking out like a thief in the dead of night meant I hadn’t grabbed my usual kit. At least Dad’s old pocket watch still sat where it always did; I’d miss the weight of it too much to go without.
‘Always.’ He passed me some shoe covers and a set to Robbie too, then passed us both some purple nitrile gloves.
I took them and shoved my hair back in a rough ponytail. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘It’s DS Roberts and DC Atkinson on scene.’
‘They’re not going to love this.’ Ed hooked a thumb at Robbie, indicating he was thethisin question.
‘I’ll deal with that,’ I said confidently as we approached the property. Civilians on a crime scene were a massive no-no – but Robbie was far from a civilian, even if they didn’t know it.
The address was a terraced house nestled among others of the same ilk, their red-brick façades streaked with years of rain and dirt. A thin strip of scrubby front garden separated each from the pavement. The patch provided just enough space for a wheelie bin, a straggling rosebush, and not much else. Outside Number 24, police tape fluttered in the mild morning breeze, stretching from the wrought-iron gate to the chipped doorframe like the warning it was: bad things have happened here; stay back.
DC Atkinson stood sentry in his uniform, expression blank but posture rigid. It was still too early yet for rubbernecking neighbours, but they’d be waking soon, and then we’d see theirlace curtains twitch as they stared at the scene with a mixture of nerves, schadenfreude, and relief it wasn’t their house taped up.
The morning light picked out the condensation on the windows, the faded paint on the sills, and the marks where the door had been forced open. The lock was busted, the wood splintered. The door had been kicked in. Risky, as the noise of such an action had surely woken the victim. The killer would have had to move fast.
I walked forward and nodded at Atkinson.
‘Ma’am,’ he greeted nervously, eyeing the ogre next to me.
‘He’s a civilian consultant,’ I said firmly. ‘He’s coming in with me.’
‘Roberts won’t like it.’
‘Roberts doesn’t have to like it. This is a Unit 13 matter. DC Frost will be relieving you shortly.’
Atkinson’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like being pulled off an active case but knew better than to bitch about it to a superior officer.
I pushed the door open, Robbie and Ed in tow, and entered the small hallway with its worn lino and half-forgotten dusty umbrella stand. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of damp brick and something metallic and foul: the unmistakeable tang of blood and death.
‘Roberts?’ I called.
‘In the bedroom!’ he hollered back.
I took the tight stairs upwards, ignoring the downstairs area for now. The stairs creaked as I made my way up, and I wondered whether they’d groaned like that for the killer – wondered if the deceased had heard his murderer coming. Had he been jolted from sleep as the killer kicked down the door, heart pounding at the unexpected noise, only to have his fear compounded by the creak of the stairs?
I walked up the stairs quickly, counting the seconds it took to reach the bedroom: five seconds, moving at a jog. Even if our victim had been disturbed by the door being kicked in, he would likely still have been lying in bed, coming to after being pulled from sleep by an odd sound. And that’s if he was a light sleeper. He could have heard nothing at all.
I turned to the bed, where DS Roberts was taking photos. The victim was in bed, hadn’t even got out of it. The bed was drenched in blood.
And I recognised him.
