by Bo Brennan
“She’s also still here,” India said, waving at them.
Colt crouched at her feet. “Sorry. This is Kathleen, my sister.”
“That's good,” India said. “For a minute there, I thought you'd put your slap on and got pretty.”
He laughed and lowered his forehead to her knee. “Kathy’s a Medical Examiner, walked through the door just as you hit the deck.”
“Lucky me.” India winced and looked again at the woman, the family resemblance was striking. As her eyes moved around the assembled crowd of gawkers she saw the same resemblance repeated through all of them, with the exception of a concerned looking, buxom red head who was holding the hand of one of the men.
“What are you lot doing here anyway?” Colt said, following India’s gaze.
“Mum sent us. Said you'd be late and get into mischief.” Kathleen raised her brows. “Looks like she was right.”
The door to the bar swung open, a middle-aged man stepped inside, and bellowed: “Taxi for Kane.”
“That's me,” India said, rising to her feet a little too swiftly as the room spun out.
“Is there somebody at home to watch over you for the next couple of hours?” Kathleen asked, taking her arm.
Colt answered for her. “No. He's a fireman, been called out on a shout.” India frowned, wincing at the sharp pain caused by the jerk of her head. “She'll come back with me,” he said, pressing a wad of notes into the man’s hand and apologising for his wasted journey.
“Wait,” India called to the taxi driver. “Give him back his money. I'm going home.”
“Look, love. It's us or the hospital.” India threw Colt an angry glare as another bloody Colt woman stepped forward to stick her oar in. “Your choice, but home alone isn't one of them.”
“And who the fuck are you?” India said.
“Karen,” she said curtly, crossing her arms and wobbling her head with abundant attitude.
“Well, Karen,” India said. “I'm getting in that taxi and going home, and if you fancy yourself as the one who's going to stop me – good luck, love.”
Chapter 17
Monday 6th December
Colt slammed the cubicle door shut and dropped to his knees. Last night’s very enjoyable curry he’d shared with Lacey suddenly wasn't so enjoyable after all. Memories flooded back of the last time an assailant brought him to his knees – this time he was throwing up, last time the bastard had shot him.
Outside he could hear Len, shouting, “Under no circumstances does anybody enter these toilets!” And then he came crashing through the door himself. “Son of a fucking bitch,” he muttered, rushing into the adjacent cubicle.
Colt stood and steadied himself against the cistern. Wiping his mouth with a wad of tissues, he emerged grey and clammy to the sound of Len heaving his guts up on the other side of a door. He threw the tissues at the waste bin and kicked it in fury when he missed, sending the contents spilling across the floor. His temper over boiled and he rained blow after blow into the wall wishing it was him. Edge taken off he grasped his head in his hands and slid down the tiles, breathing heavily in through his nose and out through his mouth; fighting to regain control.
A pasty, blurry eyed Len appeared, took one look at the dents in the wall, and said, “You’re a chip off the old block, boy.”
Colt pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “How’re we going to catch this fucker, Len?”
“I've got no idea.” He sighed and rinsed his face. “But I do know one thing.”
Colt looked up, hands hanging loose over pulled up knees. “What’s that?”
“I'm going to make sure the station cleaners get a fucking pay rise.”
Colt laughed, and rested his head back against the cool wall. Exhaled purposefully when pieces of cracked tile crumbled and fell to his shoulders.
“Get your shit together,” Len said, holding out a helping hand. “You’ve gotta break this to the team.” Colt duly accepted and wearily hauled his arse off the floor.
He ran the cold tap and stared in the mirror, half-heartedly brushing tile and plaster debris off his jacket before finally giving up and taking it off all together. He loosened his tie and pulled it over his head throwing it on top of his jacket. Unclipping his cuff links he popped them in the small pocket of his waistcoat, rolled up his shirt sleeves and pressed the plug into the sink. When full, he plunged his face in and scooped the ice cold water over the back of his head and neck. Grabbing a fist full of paper towels he patted himself dry as the external door creaked open.
“I said no one was to come in here, Atkins, so tie a fucking knot in it,” Firman growled as the officer tentatively entered the men’s room.
“I'm not here for the facilities, Guv,” he said. “Havant CID’s on the blower, they've got a cadaver at a house fire in Leigh Park. The arson investigator thinks it might be linked to DCI Colt's case.”
The mood was fraught in the incident room; the team speculated in hushed whispers. Both DCIs were absent. All heads turned towards the gents’ toilet door as DS Simon Atkins emerged unscathed. Seconds later Firman emerged with Colt hot on his heels, carrying his jacket and tie. They disappeared into the office slamming the door behind them. The noise made India’s head ache. Everything seemed loud this morning.
“What the fuck's going on?” Sangrin said, craning his neck.
“I'm sure we'll find out soon enough,” Dwyer murmured.
“If I was twelve minutes late for a meeting I'd be on a second warning,” Sangrin said. India tutted, his voice was grating on her nerves, but it was good to know he had a mark on his file.
When they finally entered the incident room, Colt looked pale and tired. His face was completely devoid of the boyish charm she’d seen yesterday; overnight, vertical frown lines had been carved deeper between his brows.
Firman took his seat near the head of the table while Colt remained standing, shifting from foot to foot. For the first time he looked uncomfortable in front of them. India watched his Adam’s apple move sharply in his throat as he swallowed hard.
“Our rapist has just become a murderer,” he said evenly, pinning a new DVD still to the wall of yet another unconscious woman. The ensuing eerie silence was broken by a timely tap on the door, the constable silently handed Colt a picture. “Thank you,” he said. The constable nodded in response and exited the room without saying a word.
India noticed his shoulders solemnly slump as he turned his back to them, briefly studying the beaming smile of the bubbly blonde before fixing it next to the DVD still. A deep breath filled his lungs and lifted his broad shoulders as he turned back to face them.
“Martha Matthews, 35 from Leigh Park. The DVD was on my desk at Scotland Yard this morning. Her body is being recovered from the scene today.”
Veronica gasped. “Her body is still at the scene?”
“Yep.”
“Finally we'll get forensics,” Vicky said excitedly.
“Don't bank on it,” Colt said. “He set fire to her body yesterday; the fire brigade are still damping down.”
“How come we got the DVD this morning if he only killed her yesterday?” Dwyer said.
“He didn't kill her yesterday, he returned to the scene,” Lacey said. “What's the post date, James?”
“Friday 3rd December.”
“I need to see that DVD,” she said.
“Fill your boots.” Colt slid a copy across the table towards her. “I'd advise doing it on an empty stomach.”
“This is more than an escalation from rape to murder,” she enthused. “He's excited; he's broken his usual pattern and reacted with haste with no thought for the consequences.”
“Save it till you've seen it,” Colt said, raising a hand. “India and Vicky I want you at the scene with me today.” Vicky saluted in acknowledgement.
“I wanted to visit Katherine Darcy today,” India said, “see if there are any links between her and Sharon Cutler.”
“That’s what the FLOs ar
e for,” he said.
India rolled her eyes. “Ninety-five percent of rapists are known to their victims. Katherine Darcy is the only one left locally who can still speak.”
“You're coming with me!” He slammed a hand down on the table and glared at her. India gritted her teeth as pain shot through her head. If he was going to start chucking his weight about, she was going to need better pain relief than paracetamol. “Tom and Lee, I want you working with Havant CID to establish her movements for the last two weeks. Everywhere, everything, everyone. Leave no stone unturned.”
“This is going to send the press into a feeding frenzy,” Veronica said. “Now might be a good time to consider getting in a dedicated Media Liaison Officer.”
“I'll take care of that, don't want us getting bogged down in shit,” Firman said. “We’ll get a press conference scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
Sangrin frowned. “If she's all burned up how’s she been identified so quickly?”
“Pillow talk,” Colt said, staring straight at India. “Good old fashioned pillow talk, Lee. Right, let's go. Everybody back here at 8 pm sharp.”
Chapter 18
The media were pressing against the police tape when they arrived. Several eager hacks, cameras rolling, were already interviewing the street’s evacuated residents.
As Colt pulled up behind the remaining fire engine, India pointed to the wisp of smoke billowing across the sky and out towards sea. “That's a good sign,” she murmured. “Fire must be out.” Colt clenched his jaw, still too angry to speak.
A weary and sombre looking Gray Davies emerged from the front of the burnt-out house as they stepped to the pavement. Colt scowled when he lifted a corner of his mouth and winked at India. But even anger couldn't blind him to the cleaner facial areas where Gray’s breathing apparatus had been, and he wondered if India been home alone all night nursing a head wound.
Gray tilted his head past Colt as Vicky Maplin climbed from her car behind them. “Hey Vicks,” he said. Vicky smiled like a schoolgirl in return.
“What you got?” Colt said abruptly before being acknowledged himself.
“One cadaver in the front bedroom, believed to be the lone female occupant. Judging by the burn pattern the seat of the fire appears to be the bed itself.”
“Accelerants?” Colt said
“Getting high readings on the Hydrocarbon Sniffer in the main bedroom indicating accelerant use. Burn pattern’s also indicative of accelerants. I can't officially confirm until the analysis comes back from the lab, but it stinks of petrol in there.”
“Where's the body positioned?” Vicky asked.
“On the bed,” Gray said. “She’s pretty burnt up, but there's no evidence of an escape attempt so she was probably dead before the fire started.”
“Who ID’d her?” Colt asked.
“ID’s not official as yet, but neighbours all gave the occupant’s name as Martha, and her Mother turned up at five last night. She provided the photo I sent over to you this morning. There’s no face left to look at in there.”
“Dental and DNA it is then.” Vicky sighed. “How did you know she was one of ours, Gray?”
“Thirty-something female, living alone, end of terrace, spread-eagle on the bed.” He furtively glanced at India, and shrugged. “Made an educated guess.”
“I’ll get a uniform to check the local garages, see if anyone's filled a can recently,” India said.
“You might want to check the hospitals too, babe. Arsonists are idiots, they usually burn themselves when they –”
“When can we go in?” Colt said, interrupting him.
“When I declare it safe,” Gray returned with equal disdain. “In the meantime, you can wait over there with the rest of the plod.”
Colt stared after him as he re-entered the building, and then followed India and Vicky to join the small cluster of overcoats leaning against the post box.
“Well, if it isn't the delightful Vicky Maplin. I must have been a very good boy to receive the pleasure of your company twice in the same week.” India rolled her eyes as the sleazy DI puckered up and moved in for his standard squid lipped greeting of female officers.
“Hi Mark,” Vicky said, and expertly cold shouldered him, leaving him puckering up to nothing but acrid air and teetering like a tightrope act on the kerb.
“India,” DI Mark Watson said giving her a wide berth. The dirty bastard had tried to cop a feel the first time they’d met, hadn’t tried again after he found his nuts clamped in her hand. Two could play at that game.
“Hello again, Lucy,” Vicky said, addressing the sour face behind him. “This is DC India Kane, Winchester CID.”
The woman wearing far too much makeup and inappropriate clothing didn’t even acknowledge her. India huffed as Lucy intercepted Colt on his approach and warmly welcomed him by thrusting her very ample breasts his way. She’d encountered her type plenty of times over the years, was sick of seeing incompetent women – and men – getting promoted because they were screwing a high ranking officer, or worse, because they were related to one. India shook her head in disgust, and observed DC Lucy Levington sizing up her next promotion. A close working relationship with a man of Colt’s rank would do a lot more for an ambitious young detective’s CV than screwing Wanker Watson ever would.
India leant against the post box, ignoring the DI’s attempts at small talk and let out an enormous over exaggerated yawn as Vicky approached with scene suits.
“We'll take the scene from here, Mark,” Colt said. “I need you to liaise with my officers to establish a timeline of the deceased’s movements.”
“Oh, right, okay mate,” he said, a little startled as he pulled Colt to one side, lowering his voice. “I promised Lucy she'd be able to see the body. As soon she's seen it we'll get off, yeah.”
“No, you’ll go now,” Colt said, staring at him. “They'll be at the station in about fifteen minutes.”
Wanker Watson went to speak but thought better of it. India pulled on the unflattering protective suit, and watched as he gathered up his scowling trollop and bundled her towards his car.
“Oh, and Mark,” Colt called after them. “I want my boys back and all leads assigned by 8 pm.”
Vicky, used to donning such attire, was dressed and ready to go in seconds. She was registering their details with the officer keeping the Scene Attendance Log when India padded towards her in protective over shoes.
“You’ll need this,” Vicky said, passing her the Tiger Balm. India dabbed it under her nose before positioning her facemask and raising the hood.
Standing outside the front door, India watched as Colt struggled to get his considerable bulk into a standard sized suit. Vicky nudged her, eyebrows jittering up and down above her mask. “Google him in the Sunday Supplement,” she whispered. India frowned quizzically and turned in the direction of her subtle nod, swiftly diverted her eyes again when she got the gist. It couldn’t be comfortable for any man to have his balls hoisted that high by an ill-fitting crotch in a scene suit.
“I'm glad I don't have to wear these bloody things every day,” he grumbled, awkwardly flexing his arms and legs as he came towards them.
“I've informed them we’re expecting the ME and two more CSIs,” Vicky said, laughter evident in her voice.
Colt nodded, and turned to the uniform keeping the register. “Is there an officer on the back of this property?”
“Yes, Sir. We think he entered and exited through the back.”
“Let’s get this over and done with then,” he said, tugging at his crotch.
Gray led the way. Even through the facemask and potent balm smeared beneath her nose, India could smell the smoke and petrol fumes the second she crossed the threshold.
“No foot plates?” Vicky said.
Gray stamped his boots in the puddles on the floor, splattering their suits with thick black sludge. “No point.” He shrugged. “There have been six of us traipsing through here and a few thousand gallons o
f water. Sorry hon.”
The downstairs was badly smoke damaged; thick black soot clung to every surface in swirling patterns of alternating density. The only sounds came from the steady drip of water as it found its way through from the upper level, creating dense pockets of black streaming sludge along the ceilings and down the walls. India could just make out the standard familiar remains of furniture common to most modern homes.
They followed Gray as he took them to the back door, indicating the route the arsonist probably took through the kitchen, hallway, and up the stairs. The waterlogged blackened carpets squelched under their feet, the fire hoses had destroyed any hope they had of categorically tracing his route. Already they were in the realms of probability.
Gray paused at the bottom of the stairs. “The floor’s damaged up there,” he said, his drawn face taking an uncharacteristically serious expression. “Colt, you go at the back, ladies in-between. Follow me carefully and stay close to the outside walls.” Using his axe, he tapped every step as they slowly climbed the stairs behind him single file until they reached the landing.
India glanced to Colt when she saw a look pass between him and Gray. From his vantage point over their heads he was staring into the main bedroom, beads of sweat forming on his brow. On Colt’s subtle nod, Gray turned and led them into the dark bowels of hell.
An impromptu moment of silence followed as they gazed down at the sight before them. Martha Matthews’ bed was positioned with the headboard against the far wall, the foot of the bed directly beyond the door. The missing bedroom window welcomed the brightness of the day in, illuminating her still-smoking charred body in all its macabre glory. Her mouth was open, roots of teeth exposed where lips should have been, twisting her jaw into a sinister and hopeless silent scream. One leg was raised off the bed and her bent arms suspended in mid-air like a boxer preparing to fight.
“Is she posed?” India said.
