‘We’ve just started door-to-door enquiries and, so far, no one has said they saw anything suspicious either last night or this morning.’
‘There’s still time,’ Ramouter replied, walking over to the kitchen counter. Slices of cold and hardening garlic flatbread were on a wooden chopping board next to a bowl of wilting salad. A large wine glass, dregs of red wine staining the sides, was next to a bottle, the cork stuck on the corkscrew beside it.
‘Your victim is a man, right?’ Ramouter asked, pushing the base of the wine glass with his finger, turning it around.
Copeland nodded. ‘We haven’t formally confirmed his identity, but we believe him to be the homeowner, Dr Graham Ashcroft.’
Ramouter pointed at the pink lipstick on the edge of the glass.
‘Ah, I didn’t notice that,’ Copeland said.
‘And there’s another wine glass on the dining table. Is our victim married, girlfriend?’
‘We haven’t established that yet.’
Ramouter pointed at the knife block on the counter. ‘There’s a knife missing.’
‘Paramedics said the wounds of our victim were consistent with a knife, and the postwoman described cuts and bruises to the victim’s face but it’s impossible to say if that particular missing knife was used in the attack or—’ Copeland shrugged– ‘just missing. You know what it’s like. I’ve lost count of the number of forks I’ve thrown in the bin.’
‘I’m assuming your officers have done a search of the area?’
Copeland narrowed her eyes. Ramouter wasn’t sure if she was annoyed at the question or was now annoyed with him. The question remained unanswered.
Ramouter left the kitchen area and made his way into the middle of the open-plan room. A seventy-inch TV was on the wall above a brand new PS5 on the wall-mounted TV unit. To Ramouter’s left was a solid oak table. In the middle of the table was an open laptop next to two bowls stained with dried pasta sauce. A second wine glass was on its side, in a pool of now-sticky red wine. He walked along the bespoke bookcase filled with recent bestsellers, modern classics and prize winners.
Ramouter pulled out a book from the top shelf and turned the pages, causing Copeland to say, ‘This ain’t a library. What are you looking for?’
‘Your victim is a collector. This is a first edition, first printing copy of Ernest Hemingway’sThe Sun Also Rises,’ he said, replacing the book on the shelf. He reached into his oversuit and removed his phone.
Copeland stared blankly at Ramouter. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘That copy ofThe Sun Also Risesis valued at just under four grand.’
Copeland whistled.
‘Don’t you find it odd there’s no ransacking?’
‘Not at all. The burglar didn’t get a chance because our victim was home.’
‘Mind if I go upstairs?’ Ramouter asked.
‘Knock yourself out, but be careful. CSI haven’t made their way up there yet. I’ll be outside if you need me.’
There were three bedrooms upstairs. Two large doubles and a single room that had been converted into an office. Ramouter poked his head into the office where a dual monitor screen stood on top of a teak-coloured standing desk. A treadmill and oak rowing machine were on the right facing a smaller version of the television downstairs.
‘This isn’t a burglary,’ Ramouter muttered to himself as he walked into the main bedroom and saw the designer bags on the shelves of the opened wardrobe. The closed drawers in the wardrobe and the jewellery on the dressing table confirmed to Ramouter what his gut had been telling him from the moment he saw the Lexus on the driveway. Whoever had forced their way into the house wasn’t interested in stealing anything of value. The only thing that had been on their mind was violence.
‘DC Ramouter.’
Copeland’s loud voice travelled to the first floor, quickly followed by the sound of her feet landing heavily and rapidly on the stairs.
‘What is it?’ Ramouter asked. Copeland appeared in front of him, the red flush in her cheeks deepening as she placed a hand on her chest.
‘I need you to come with me. Our aggravated burglary might have just turned into an attempted murder.’
‘Homeowner’s name is Patsy Howe. Sixty-two years old,’ said Copeland. She ran her hand through her hair and attempted to smooth down her wayward curls. ‘She’s a retired teacher but she works as a tarot reader.’
‘You’ve rushed me down here to see a psychic?’ Ramouter asked incredulously.
