‘So, where does the flatmate figure unless it was a threesome and, if Ms de Bertrand is to be believed, that’s the most unlikely of scenarios,’ Gaby mused, almost to herself. ‘She made no secret of the fact that inviting Nikki into her home was one of the worst decisions she’d ever made.’
‘Considering we found no evidence that the victim had sexual intercourse, I’d say that a threesome was highly unlikely. I do have some good news, however,’ Rusty added, all trace of his smile wiped clean. ‘We did find trace evidence on the sheets once they’d hung in the drying closet for twenty-four hours, when it normally takes half that time. In all my years in this job I’ve never come across a body more totally drained of blood.’ He rubbed his hand along the length of his jaw, staring into the distance for a moment, his mind elsewhere. ‘She literally bled to death in seconds.’
‘Dr?’ Gaby said, her eyebrows raised at his sudden silence.
‘Sorry.’ He shook his head briefly. ‘There was some saliva that didn’t belong to either of the women. It’s gone off for DNA analysis and possible matching on the national database.’
‘Thank you.’ She took a couple of steps to the next whiteboard and stared at a photo of Tracy Price, forever captured with a laugh on her face, her hair blowing across her cheeks, her boys clutched in her arms.
It was now Gaby’s turn to be silent but only for a moment.
‘Right, back to our missing person’s case,’ she began. ‘I caught up with the search team first thing this morning and, as you’ll all know by now, there’s no news as to Tracy’s whereabouts. We’ve interviewed numerous family members and neighbours and even managed to track down her last job at Daffodils, an old people’s home along Llewelyn Avenue. There’s a variance however in the quality of information provided. If the next-door neighbours are to be believed, the Prices’ marriage was in difficulty. On the other hand, there’s some thought that Tracy might have been pregnant – none of which we can substantiate. Therefore I’m going to ask the DCI for more staff to widen the search—’
She stopped mid-sentence, staring now at the back of the room and where a young PC had slammed the door on its hinges even as an icy cold finger trailed down her spine. He stood there, his chest heaving, his eyes looking any and everywhere except at her. She’d seen that awful look before, a combination of horror, dread and loathing. She didn’t have to listen to the words pouring out of his mouth. She knew them already.
‘Ma’am. They’ve found a body.’
There was more. She knew it in the way his hands clenched and unclenched by his side, his head bobbing up and down like a demented puppet.
‘She’s at St Gildas School, ma’am.’
Gaby suppressed a groan, wondering how she could have got it so wrong.
St Gildas School – where Paul de Bertrand was headmaster.
Chapter 30
Gaby
Wednesday 13 May, 11.30 a.m. St Gildas School
Gaby knew very little about the education system in North Wales. Being childless, she had no need – a state of affairs that saw no signs of changing in the near future. Her life was set and, apart from the occasional night out with Amy, she rarely ventured past the confines of her job. She drank, ate and slept crime. The only time she didn’t was when she was curled up in bed reading one of her favourite romance authors such as Sue Moorcroft and Suzie Tullett. She certainly paid little regard to schooling unless it was in relation to a case and, thankfully, serious crimes in schools were a rare occurrence.
Staring through the heavy wrought-iron gates, the first thing she noticed was the air of silence in the schoolyard, The swings still. The climbing frames empty. Despite the time, there was no sign of life apart from the CSI van and a solitary copper standing by the entrance, signing everybody in. She felt a wave of cold right down to her bones at the thought of murder, the very worst of crimes, having been committed in a place where innocent children gathered.
Her gaze wandered over the grey-stone building, before returning to the plaque attached to the gate, engraved with the date 1579, presumably the date St Gildas was founded. She stilled, suddenly aware of the emblem – a red lion sitting atop of a blue shield. So very different from her school, which had been thrown up in the 1970s. They didn’t have an emblem, only the name of their school picked out in yellow against the deep blue of their sweatshirt. Her mind lingered on the crest. She could have sworn she’d seen that same badge before and recently but where? With a shake of her head, she dismissed the thought. She’d remember but not yet. Now she had more important things to think about.
She was careful to avoid the passenger seat. Instead she concentrated on the view out the window while she waited for the uniformed officer up ahead to sign them in. There was so much history here: history and elegance. The long driveway up to the grounds encroached by purple-flowering rhododendrons. The games fields in the distance mowed in precise stripes. Her thoughts returned to Liverpool and the concrete jungle that had been her local comprehensive, suddenly feeling out of her depth. But while her education wasn’t bad and she’d easily managed to achieve the entry requirements needed for the force, nothing, in either her schooling or training, could in any way prepare her for the sprawling grounds of St Gildas.
‘Morning, I’m DS Darin and this is Dr Mulholland,’ she said, winding down her window and signing her name on the clipboard handed to her, well aware of the silent man by her side. At a time when she’d relish being alone to collect her thoughts and prepare herself for what lay ahead, she found herself in the company of the most taciturn of men.
She followed the officer’s directions to the nearest available parking space and, switching off the engine, remained silent, unsure of quite what to say.
‘Thank you for the lift, the garage has just texted. Mine won’t be ready until later today.’ Rusty’s Irish lilt shattered the silence.
‘It’s no bother,’ Gaby said, turning in her seat.
She’d never taken the time to look at him too closely and, while part of her thought of what to say, the other part was drawn to his blue eyes, now staring back. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. He was attempting to be civil but only because it suited him. He’d been all ready to grab a lift in the CSI van until he realised that it was already full to bursting with officers. ‘If you need a lift back it can be arranged too,’ she continued with a brief smile, a smile that wasn’t returned. ‘Come on, we can’t get this show on the road without you doing your stuff.’
Instead of replying, he stormed out the car and walked in the direction of the CSI van, leaving her to follow behind, a bemused expression on her face. It was obvious something must have happened to upset him, something that involved her, but she had no idea what. She’d never understand Dr Mulholland if she lived to be a hundred – funnily enough, that was something she was starting to regret.
‘So, what have they done with all the children then?’ she said, turning to one of the CSI officers and accepting the paper suit and over shoes before slipping off her jacket and stepping into the jumpsuit.
‘They’ve sent home all the ones they could. The rest have been ferried across to St Michael’s by minibus. Apparently, they have some sort of emergency reciprocal agreement.’
‘Yes, well, if finding a dead body isn’t an emergency then I don’t know what is.’
She rested against the van to secure her over shoes before following Rusty across the car park and to the line of sheds at the back of the building, speculating for the umpteenth time what had made her decide to go into law enforcement when she hated the sight of blood. Oh, not so badly that she fainted or anything, but it was enough to make the bile rise up the back of her throat. She could have decided on a much simpler career course – she could have even chosen to go into the family business. But with both of her brothers working for her parents, she felt the time had come to stretch her wings and a bobby on the beat was a whole lot more exciting than a job in the local Italian restaurant. The thought of food was a
sharp reminder that breakfast seemed a very long time ago.
Hunger was the least of her worries when, moments later, she found herself in the very last shed, staring down at the body of Tracy Price, her unmistakable red hair chopped close to her scalp, the hilt of what looked like a kitchen knife protruding from the left side of her chest.
‘Don’t just stand there staring, Detective. And, if you’re going to throw up, do make sure it’s well out of the way of the crime scene,’ Rusty snapped, before turning back to examine the body.
She lifted her brows at the CSI who was staring across at them both, his mouth dropped wide, his camera paused in the action of photographing the scene.
It was times like this that Gaby would like to have told the esteemed doctor exactly what she thought of him, but she was too busy trying not to lose the contents of her stomach.
The floor of the shed was floating with blood and, with no duvet or mattress to soak it up, it looked as if someone had strewn a few gallons of red paint over the boards. But it wasn’t just the sight … it was the smell. Gaby struggled to heave breath into her lungs, as the heavy sweet sickly scent filled the air; she knew that it would take a very long time to get the odour out of her mind as well as her nostrils. Only seconds before, she’d been attacked by the familiar gnaw of hunger – now it felt as if she’d never feel the need to eat again. Death was an ugly business but this – this must be the worst crime scene she’d ever attended.
She clenched her fists, her nails biting deep, her arms squeezed across her chest as she continued her study of Tracy Price, so different and yet so similar to that of Nikki Jones. She tried to focus on the differences, despite the persistent feeling of nausea threatening to make her run for the door.
The victim lay naked across the middle of the floor, her hands gripping onto the hilt of the blade, her expression one of surprise. Gaby froze, appalled by that look. Tracy hadn’t expected death here amongst the cricket stumps and rugby balls. She’d expected a very different experience. Her gaze finally shifted to the picnic blanket underneath, the navy and green check just discernible amongst all that red. On the face of it, Tracy had signed up to what looked like a secret assignation – one that had gone horribly wrong. But, after twelve years on the force, the one thing Gaby knew was that looks could be deceiving.
‘So, what do you think then, Dr?’ she said, her mind resolutely avoiding the thought of the two little boys who’d lost their mummy. She dragged in another breath, tilting her head in Rusty’s direction, well aware that she hadn’t spared a thought for Barry Price. She was yet to analyse whether that omission was due to the statistical probability of a close family member having been involved or for a different reason.
He glanced up quickly before continuing his preliminary examination and once again he surprised her, his voice not full of the biting retort she’d grown to expect. ‘I think you need to leave me to work my magic, Gabriella, while you go and start doing whatever it is you do. I need to get her back to the morgue as quickly as possible. You can see for yourself what happened but as to why or how – that’s another story.’ He lifted Tracy’s wrist before continuing. ‘The best I can say is that she died less than four hours ago as her body is still in the state of primary flaccidity. It’s also a good guess that she died at the scene and—’ He shifted his attention from where he’d been looking under Tracy’s lids ‘—it would have been only seconds. She probably wouldn’t have been aware of more than a sharp pain before she died.’
‘Thank you. That’s something families always ask first,’ she said, staring again at the remnants of that glorious hair.
Would Barry be the one to ask if his wife had suffered or would he alone know the answer to that question?
‘Owen, what have you got for me,’ she said, a short time later, her paper suit carefully disposed of in one of the yellow clinical waste bags, her hand patting down her hair.
‘Not a huge amount, ma’am. Mr Lacey, one of the PE teachers, was setting up for athletics and he went along straight after breakfast to pick up a pile of cones to mark the course.’
Owen was concentrating on his notebook, a clear sign that he’d been affected by the news of Tracy’s murder just as much as she had. After working by his side for the last three months, she’d learnt about his pretty much photographic memory and that the need to write things down verbatim, in his case, wasn’t necessary. She squeezed his arm and he finally lifted his head.
‘Thank God he had the common sense to lock the shed and phone us straightaway before alerting the headmaster and implementing their critical incident plan. Can you imagine a crime scene contaminated by six hundred trampling feet? Old Rusty would have had a heart attack,’ he said, his chin hardening.
She rocked back on her heels a moment, her mind trying to join all the dots and failing miserably. Links. It was all about the links, no matter how tenuous. But there was nothing here that made any sense. They had two bodies in less than a week. Two bodies both stabbed to death and both linked to Christine and Paul de Bertrand. Coincidences like that didn’t happen. They were made to happen. But where did St Gildas fit in and who the hell would go around chopping hair almost down to the root?
Like Christine de Bertrand, Tracy’s hair would have been her crowning glory. The one thing that set her apart, turning her from pretty into a real head-turner – someone to get noticed wherever she went. Was that the link or was it a complete red herring? Gaby’s lips twisted. It seemed that wherever she turned there was a redhead sneaking up behind her what with Christine and now Tracy. Even Rusty for God’s sake. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think that they were searching for someone with a red-hair fetish – did such a thing even exist? It was something she’d look up as soon as she got back to the station.
Gaby tried to remember a case like it and couldn’t. But then maybe she was reading more into it. Maybe there was no link. Maybe the knife protruding out of Tracy’s flesh wouldn’t turn out to be lodged in her heart.
Throwing a final thanks to Jeff, the senior CSI present, she crunched across the gravel drive, Owen at her side. ‘Come on, we have the day stretching out before of us and lots to fill it. First, we need to tell the family before any of the press get to hear. How they managed to get Nikki’s story for the Sunday edition is beyond me. I wouldn’t be surprised if we have someone in the department with loose lips – it would be a crying shame if those two little boys got to hear of it outside of the proper channels.’
‘Not forgetting the husband, are you, ma’am? I reckon he’ll be just as devastated if not more so, especially if that lady in the care home was right about her being pregnant.’
She searched his face for any tell-tale signs of a reprimand but all she got for her efforts was a bland stare.
‘Thank you for reminding me of my duty, Detective Bates,’ she replied, her tone sharp. ‘I’ll bear in mind your comments. Now, ring Amy Potter and tell her to meet me back at the victim’s house in … let’s see …’ She pursed her lips, trying to calculate exactly how long it would take her. ‘You’d better make it an hour. In the meantime, I’ll leave you to check that the PE teacher has completed a written statement.’ Her hand rested on the door frame, her head turned towards the outline of the shed in the distance, now fenced off with a couple of rolls of their trusty yellow tape. ‘If you can check in on the doc before you go to see if he has anything more for us. With a bit of luck, and him pulling out all the stops, we should have his preliminary findings by end of play today.’
Chapter 31
Gaby
Wednesday 13 May, 1.45 p.m. Llandudno
Gaby met Amy on Barry Price’s doorstep forgetting for a moment that the last time they’d been in touch was via that terse email earlier that morning. Amy hadn’t.
‘Are you on a death wish?’ Amy grabbed Gaby’s arm, preventing her from pressing the doorbell.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said are you on a death wish? Well, on your head be it but you seem to
have forgotten that you still have to work with the man.’
Gaby’s jaw dropped. ‘Look, I don’t have time for puzzles. Tell me what I’m meant to have done and to whom and I’ll sort it.’
‘Ha, sort it will you! I don’t think so.’ She leant forward, hissing in her ear. ‘Tell me whether you meant to include Rusty in that last email you sent me. You know. The one where you said that you’d “have to be desperate to consider dating Dr Mulholland”?’
Gaby let out a long groan. ‘Bloody hell. I couldn’t have?’
‘Yes, you could.’ Amy stepped back, releasing her arm. ‘Presumably if you didn’t do it on purpose then you must have clicked “reply to all” by mistake – if it wasn’t so stupid it would be funny but I’m far from laughing. He’s a nice man, Gaby, who’s just gone through the most horrendous of divorces. Your email will only have cemented that there’s a good chance all women are like his bitch of a wife.’
Gaby felt her cheeks redden, too embarrassed to even know how to reply. There was nothing she could say, even to him. He’d never forgive her for this and the sad fact was that she’d been beginning to like him just a little. She felt Amy give her a quick hug before reaching for the bell.
‘It’s not the end of the world if you didn’t mean it. Come on. We’ll put our heads together later and see if we can’t come up with something.’
This wasn’t the first time that Amy and Gaby had found it necessary to break bad news and an unexpected death fell slap bang into the middle of that category. But this was the first time they’d been met with a flat rejection. Usually there was disbelief and often anger, quickly followed by a deluge of emotions that a jumbo box of tissues had no chance of assuaging. But to be greeted by a total rebuttal was new, her mind doing somersaults as to the cause.
Darkest Night Page 17
