by Emmy Ellis
“No.” Tom moved to his bag by the door to get out a swab kit.
“The chairs must have been closer to Den, then they were put back,” she said.
She returned her attention to him. He’d been hit in the face. Drying blood left two tracks from his nostrils, and his lip had been split. Zach was undoing Den’s shirt, which was ripped from stab wounds, but she was unable to determine how many as the shirt was now red and dark instead of cream like the collar, which only had speckles of blood on it.
Zach peeled back the fronts, and Helena’s pie asked to come back out. She clamped her teeth and tried to think of something else, but the state of Den’s stomach was right there, compelling her to look at it. Some of the slices had merged into others, and parts of his innards peeped out.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m going to have to go.”
Zach nodded, and Andy turned away from the body, his shoulders rising as he retched.
The cuckoo sang out its two-tone tune.
Nine o’clock then.
Helena walked out without saying goodbye, worried if she unclamped her teeth, she’d be sick. She went downstairs, climbing over Mark’s body, and rushed through the storeroom. Out in the fresh air, she took several gulps, ripping off her white suit and snatching off the gloves. She’d keep the booties on until they got to the car. Tears stinging, she stuffed the clothing in a cardboard box beside Clive and made eye contact with him.
“Fucking horrendous, isn’t it, guv,” he said.
She nodded. “We’re…um…we’re going out the front to wait for the uniforms, then we’ll be visiting Mark’s wife.”
“Okay,” Clive said.
Helena hung around until Andy had disposed of his outfit, then they left the yard and walked down the alley. On the path outside Den’s, she coached herself calm. It wouldn’t do to visit Natasha Simons all distraught.
Once the uniforms arrived and she’d given them instructions, she took her booties off and got in the car.
She wasn’t looking forward to the next step one bit.
Chapter Twelve
Fifty-two Welbeck Avenue was a grand affair that must have cost a pretty penny. It was set at the end of a wide drive, majestic-looking with its own Victorian streetlamp to the right, spilling white light onto the asphalt and splashing on the brickwork. The lead-paned windows gave it a luxurious air, and bushes pruned to within an inch of their lives sat stoutly beneath the two front windows either side of the black front door.
Helena rang the bell, and a light flickered on next to the door, another Victorian effort, the shade black with a fleur-de-lis on top. A figure approached, the shape indistinct through the stained-glass portions of the centrepiece—red roses on winding green stems.
Red roses.
Helena shivered.
The door opened, and a woman appeared, blonde, blue-eyed, and slender, and Helena’s mind zipped to the description of the lady in the street at Felicity’s. This one had red jeans on and a long grey jumper that reached her knees, her feet snuggled inside cream boot slippers with satin ribbon bows on the sides.
Another woman popped her head out of a room at the end of the wide hall, an older version of Natasha Simons, and that was handy. Helena wouldn’t have to ask Natasha if there was anyone they could call to sit with her once she’d broken the news.
She disliked herself for that thought.
“Hello. I’m DI Helena Stratton, and this is DS Andy Mald.” She held up her ID. “It’s better if we come in. You are Natasha Simons, yes?”
Natasha nodded. “What’s going on?” She paled and stepped back to allow them entry, her hand shaking by her side, a fuck-off massive diamond ring twinkling on her finger. “This is my mum, by the way.”
“Hi,” the mum said, walking closer, her grey shoes shushing on the wooden flooring. “I’m Iris Banks.”
Helena and Andy stepped inside, and Natasha closed the door.
“Can we go and sit somewhere?” Helena asked, casting her gaze around at the large hallway, big enough to accommodate a black two-seater sofa to the left, a white side table with flowers and greenery in a yellow vase beside it. Their scent perfumed the air, and she thought about the funerals to come and how the smell of flowers wouldn’t be the same for this family anymore.
“Of course.” Natasha gestured to a panelled door. “What’s happened? Did Mark have an accident on the way home? My husband…”
“Best we sit down.” Helena walked through the doorway into a plush living room, the sofa and chairs burnt orange, the walls cream, a white coffee table reminiscent of IKEA in front of the sofa, and a cream-and-orange geometric-patterned rug sitting in the centre on dark laminate flooring. It was all posh yet didn’t have Helena feeling out of place. She hated homes where she thought if she breathed it would make a mess.
Natasha and Iris sat on the sofa, close to each other, and Iris grabbed Natasha’s hand. Helena and Andy chose the chairs opposite.
“We’re here about Mark and your father-in-law, Den,” Helena said, looking at Natasha. “Was Mark meant to be there tonight?”
Natasha nodded. “Yes, he goes once a week, usually for eight, but he left early so he could get back to watch a programme at nine. I rang him, actually, to remind him, but he didn’t answer, and I got worried and thought…he’d crashed the car.”
The remembered sound of Mark’s phone ringing echoed in Helena’s head, ghostly and sad. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m sorry to say Mark and Den were fatally stabbed this evening.”
Natasha blinked, and it was clear she was processing that information. Slowly. Iris gasped and slapped her free hand over her mouth, a muffled moan creeping out from behind it. With Natasha still mute, Helena took the opportunity to ask a question.
“Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to do that to them?”
Her words just hung there, tension buzzing.
Natasha’s eyes overspilled. She shook her head. “Mark’s…dead?”
Iris lowered her hand and rubbed her chest. “Why? Why would anyone do this?”
“We don’t know,” Helena said. “And, yes, they’re both dead.” God, that had come out so blunt. But how could she soften something like that? To coat it with icing and put a cherry on top wasn’t going to help matters. “Early indications show that Den was stabbed first, and Mark had perhaps arrived and disturbed the killer.” She winced—it was so difficult to say these things to people, knowing their hearts were breaking, their minds full of terrible images, but she had to. “It’s so important for us to know if there were any grudges, any reason why anyone would want to hurt them.”
Natasha stared blankly. “No, I can’t think…” She turned to her mother. “There’s no one, is there?”
“No, not that I’m aware of,” Iris said. “They’re both lovely men. I’ve known Den all my life, and he’s never had a bad word to say about anyone. Not to me anyway. And as for Mark, he’s cut from the same cloth. He’s a gentleman, a kind person.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Would this have anything to do with the building society, do you think?”
“It’s something we’ll be looking into, certainly, but that doesn’t explain why the person we’re searching for would be at Den’s.” Unless it was to use him as bait to lure Mark to the shop, but then what about Felicity? Or weren’t the crimes connected at all, and it was just a coincidence they’d all been stabbed several times? Helena glanced at Andy and moved her eyes to give him the signal to make some tea. “Perhaps Den upset someone in the shop, a customer maybe.”
Andy got up and left the room.
Iris frowned. “I just can’t see it.”
“Oh God. Lizzie…” Natasha stared at the rug.
Helena raised her eyebrows at Iris, silently asking who that was.
“My granddaughter,” Iris said. “She’s one next week. Mark had organised such a lovely day for her…”
Bloody hell… “I’m so sorry.” She was, too. A little girl was going to grow up without her
daddy, his loss felt for years to come. She took a deep breath. All this emotion was a tad overwhelming for her, so God only knew what Natasha and Iris were feeling. “Andy is just making you some tea, then I have some more questions. I realise it’s difficult to answer them at a time like this, but we need to ask them in order to find who did this as quickly as possible.” Before they target someone else.
Both women nodded, Iris rubbing Natasha’s back, and Natasha gazed vacantly ahead, her forehead ruffled. Helena guessed she was in shock. Grief would pour out soon—it could be in the following minute, tomorrow, or next week, but it would come, drowning her with its cruel severity.
They sat in silence until Andy returned with two cups, white with big orange flowers on the sides, a yellow dot in the centre. He placed them on wooden coasters on the coffee table then retook his seat, clearing his throat as if that would rid the air of the horrible taint of death’s aftermath.
“We have reason to believe these murders are connected to another one,” Helena began. “A woman named Felicity Greaves was also stabbed in her home, and there are similarities I can’t divulge at present that have cemented the belief they’re linked. Do you know her?”
A flicker of something swept across Natasha’s face. Was she entertaining a memory? “From school. She was in the year below me. I don’t know her in any way other than that.”
“I knew her mother,” Iris said. “Also school related, but I said hello every so often when we were older, if we bumped into each other in shops or whatever. I doubt this is relevant, but she topped herself after her fella got killed in an accident. He got crushed in his lorry. I remember Felicity went to live with her gran, Gladys someone or other.”
“Okay.” Helena had a think about how to word her next query and also how to reveal it was a female they were searching for. She decided to just say it outright. “So if we think about Felicity, Mark, and Den, is there any person linking them together? I’m talking a woman here.”
Natasha snapped out of her funk at that, her cheeks turning pink, her mouth forming a thin, tight line, as though anger had her in its grip. “A woman? Mark wouldn’t have…he would never have cheated. You can’t be telling me that.” Her bottom lip wobbled, and fresh tears rolled out the red carpet, waiting for grief to step on it and become the star of the show.
“That’s not what I’m thinking at all,” Helena said gently, annoyed she hadn’t put it better. “The lady we’re after has blonde hair, long, and was outside Felicity’s on the night of her murder. It’s very difficult, I know, to imagine a woman doing this, but we have a witness, and we have to follow that line of enquiry.”
Iris swallowed, crying herself now. “If you think Mark arrived there and disturbed the killer, taking him completely out of the equation, and we only think about a woman wanting to kill Felicity and Den, it doesn’t make sense. She’s young, and Den’s old. What could possibly link them?”
That had crossed Helena’s mind and was confusing her, too. They weren’t related, they were poles apart in lifestyle, and nothing about their connection added up. “This is what we’re desperate to find out. Any link, however slim, would be of help.”
“I can’t think of anything,” Natasha said. “We don’t really socialise these days. Mark and I go to the pub maybe once every three months or so—Mum looks after Lizzie—but we don’t meet up with friends or anything.” Her voice was low and weak, hard to hear. “Mark’s busy at work, so when he comes home he just wants to relax, and I don’t particularly keep in touch with anyone. I’m too busy with Lizzie. The days just merge into one another.” She pulled her hand from her mother’s and wiped her cheeks. “I-I’m sorry, but this is all a bit too much. I want to scream…to run and…”
Thinking it best to leave them be for now, Helena got up. “I understand. Thank you for your time, and I’m sorry for your loss. Someone will be in contact about formal identification and when the bodies will be released. If you feel you need to speak to a family liaison officer, Dave Lund is a lovely man who can help you with many things. Would you like him to call round tomorrow?”
Natasha nodded. “I-I think so. I have no idea what to do…”
Iris stood at the same time as Andy.
“I won’t be a minute, love.” She patted Natasha’s shoulder. “I’ll see you out,” she said to Helena.
At the open front door, Helena shivered at the chill wind that gusted in, and she stepped out into the rain that pelted down so hard it bounced off the drive. She smiled at Iris and handed her a card that had various numbers on it as well as Dave’s. Then she offered her own.
“Give him a ring first thing,” Helena said, “so he can come straight out. Tell him I gave you his card. I’ll send him an email in a second as well. If you or Natasha think of anything, call me, all right? Take care now.” She turned and made a dash for the car, clicking the key fob to get the doors unlocked.
In the driver’s seat, damp and dogged off at the weather, she used her phone to send Dave’s email, then, with Andy beside her, reversed out of the drive and into the street.
“We’ll need to nip to the station to do a check on CCTV and social media, just a quick look in case it gives us something we can use tonight.” She glanced at the clock on the dash. “We’ll give it until midnight, yes?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t bloody get this at all,” she said, straining to see through the windscreen. Even though the wipers were on, the deluge was excessive. Wind rocked the car, and she gripped the steering wheel in an attempt to keep the vehicle from slewing to the side. “I mean, they’re connected but not. Make sense?”
“Yeah. Connected by death, but what the hell else it is, I have no idea. One person clearly had a beef with them, but I can’t figure out what it might be. Maybe Facebook and the like will offer us some insight, but can you see Den being on it?”
“Not really, not unless he has a business page. Christ, this weather is nasty. Look at that gutter over there.”
Water churned against the kerb, rushing towards the drain. Trees either side of the road bent over slightly, their bare branches wavering as if to ward Mother Nature off. Rain came sideways, smacking into Helena’s window, the slap of it loud and unsettling.
“Bloody global warming,” Andy said, folding his arms across his chest.
“And to think some people don’t believe it exists.”
She pulled into the station car park, and they ran inside, cold rain soaking Helena’s hair in seconds. Inside, she trudged up the stairs and walked through to her office, draping her coat over the back of the desk chair, grabbed a spare T-shirt she kept in the cupboard, and dried off her hair with a small towel.
She joined Andy in the incident room. He was already on the phone to CCTV, so Helena sat at Ol’s desk and booted up the computer. Accessing Facebook, she did a search for Den and, finding nothing whatsoever, she checked for Mark. His page was public, so she could nose at anything and everything. Pictures of him, Natasha, and baby Lizzie were predominant, as were some of a holiday to the Algarve last year, Lizzie in an adorable little sun hat, her cheeks pink, one bottom tooth sticking up in an otherwise gummy smile, her dress spilling out over her legs while she sat on the sand. It was all so perfect, so lovely, and Helena imagined Natasha looking at those photos in the future and crying over what had been and what was lost.
Checking his friend list, she found nothing regarding Felicity, which didn’t surprise her. Mark had few contacts—fifty-one—and they were mainly men, perhaps mates from school or work colleagues. No one had said anything untoward on his timeline, and he didn’t post or comment all that much, a meme here and there or a link to a news article.
She decided to leave the proper digging for Ol tomorrow and ask her to contact Natasha to see if she knew Mark’s password, although forensics would have his phone, and if Mark logged on to any apps, he might not sign out, so they could check his Messenger and see if anything showed up there.
“Want a coffee?” sh
e asked, rising and moving towards the vending machine.
“A hot chocolate if there are any, although I’ll be surprised if there are.”
She popped some coins into the slot and selected Andy’s drink. “Prepare to be surprised.” A cup winged its way out onto the silver grate and filled with hot chocolate. “I’m going to have one and all.” She handed him his, then pressed the button again. “And, just like that, fate’s being a bastard. Coffee it is for me then.”
“Ah, the CCTV files are here,” Andy said.
Helena placed her cup on his desk and scooted Ol’s chair over. She briefly wondered how Phil had fared at dinner with Yarworth and hoped he’d picked a good candidate to join their team.
Sitting beside Andy, she waited while he accessed the CCTV in Den’s street.
At seven-forty, Mark parked, got out, and disappeared down the alley. She shivered at that being the last time anyone other than the killer, or perhaps Den, had seen him alive. A few cars drove by, and Helena wrote down the number plates, but no one walked along the street. After eight, Clive drew up and got out.
“Is that it? Just the file at the front of the shop?” she asked.
“There’s another. Let’s see what it is.” Andy minimised the window and clicked on the second file. “I’ll just scoot along on fast-forward until we get to what, six o’clock?”
“That’ll do,” she said, then sipped her coffee, scalding her bloody tongue.
With the time reached, Andy set it to slow-forward. It was the scene of the back of the shops, darkness shrouding everything except for a lamppost bursting with light at the end of the alley. The camera must be mounted a few shops along from Den’s, and it pointed to the left, showing the bottom of Den’s yard and a partial of the alleyway.
“Go forward a bit faster to around ten to eight, when we know Mark was there,” she said.
Andy did, and they watched it at normal speed for a while, then someone appeared, walking down the alley to the right of the screen.
