Ian listens while Lorraine talks him through the various wounds (there are several of them), including the stab wound that would have proved fatal. Ian throws quick glances to where she points on the body and nods at the photographer to take close-ups. He feels the blood draining from his face.
‘It’s not all bad news,’ Lorraine says brightly. Perhaps she has noticed his discomfort.
‘Oh?’ Ian says, perking up.
‘We have collected some fibres and a hair. Ahumanhair. A head hair. Found it right here.’ She points to Joshua’s bare sternum, just below his neck.
Lorraine looks almost triumphant, but Ian’s bubble of hope bursts as quickly as it formed. A fingerprint (even a partial one) would be better, far better. Fibre analysis and hair analysis have limitations. Even if they get a match for the hair, it can’t in itself provide absolute identification. And, further down the line, the presence of the defendant’s hair on the victim can easily be explained away in court by any barrister worth their salt.
‘Can we rule out crime scene contamination?’ He sounds doubtful.
‘That’s not inmyjob description,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I know. I was thinking out loud. We found a footprint at the scene, you see,’ he says. ‘We’ve had torrential rain on three separate days over the past week and the print was perfectly preserved.’
He doesn’t say any more. Lorraine will have grasped the subtext. The footprint can only have been made after it had stopped raining and therefore several days after the murder. He has already sent someone round to check out the shoes of the retired couple who discovered the body while out picking blackberries. No match. Which means that the crime scene was probably contaminated during initial response. In other words, the foot belonged to one of the officers. And now the hair. He’ll have to find out if any of the first responders entered the crime scene without wearing protective clothing. Specifically, a hood. A spark of irritation flares inside him. Why couldn’t they be more careful? Then he remembers that he threw up inside the taped-off crime scene.
He reminds himself to keep an open mind. It’s a long shot, but the hair might just lead them straight to the killer.
Chapter 5
Carla
NOW
Iris knows. Somehow, she has found out about Josh. I spot her through the window of my study and I can tell from her wan face, her lips pinched into a thin, straight line, and from the way she shuffles up the driveway towards the cottage, scuffing at the gravel with the toes of the new black leather shoes I bought her for going back to school. I wasn’t expecting her for another hour and a half. She must have skipped cross-country training and caught the earlier bus home. Olly’s not with her. It looks as if he’s gone running. I leap up, head through the kitchen into the hallway and open the front door before Iris can reach it. Standing on the doorstep, I take her in my arms and rub her back, as if she were still a small child.
‘Everything will be all right,’ I say, finding no better words than the platitude Ash came out with only a few hours ago to comfort me. It didn’t work on me and it won’t convince Iris either.
I feel her stiffen. ‘You knew!’ she says into my chest. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Her voice is accusing and indignant. Gently but firmly, she pushes me away, then pushes past me into the house.
Minutes later, we’re sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table. Judging from her red eyes and the vertical streaks of mascara on her cheeks, Iris has been crying. She’s pale. I’ve made her some green tea and she cradles the mug in her hands, which are shaking slightly.
‘How did you find out?’ I ask. ‘Does everyone at school know?’
‘No.’
Not yet, I add silently to myself. It’s only a matter of time before it’s all anyone can talk about.
‘Millie told me this afternoon at break. She overheard her parents talking about it on the phone,’ Iris says. Amelia Rowland – Millie – is Joanne and Ian’s daughter. She’s in the same year as Iris and Olly at school. ‘How didyouknow?’
‘Jo.’
‘You should’ve told me, Mum.’ Her hands might be trembling, but her voice is steady.
‘I know. I’m sorry. Dad’s coming round this evening. We were going to fill you in then. How do you feel?’
‘You sound like Melanie.’ Iris rolls her eyes at me.
Melanie is Iris’s counsellor. Iris still goes to see her regularly, at Ash’s and my insistence, even though she says that the sessions aren’t helping her and she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.
Iris shrugs. ‘Relieved, happy, sad, angry,’ she says. ‘Mostly scared, I guess.’
I don’t tell my daughter that I’m scared, too. Terrified, in fact. For her.
*
Margo is dyslexic and, three days a week, she is to have help with her homework after school – an hour with a learning support assistant employed by the school to tutor a small group of pupils with learning difficulties. Margo and Olly arrive home at the same time – Olly sweaty and muddy; Margo bright-eyed and talkative.
