He told Archie to hold it. For two days.
CHAPTER 48
Liz was a cleaner. ‘Domestic operative’ she liked to call it when anyone asked. She did three lots of three hours a day in a regular cycle of houses where people were too lazy or too busy to do it themselves.
She liked it. Sometimes the owners were at home, sometimes not, but even if they were they tended to get out of her way and let her get on with it. The roar of a vacuum cleaner or the stink of furniture polish kept most people at arm’s length. She could work at her own pace, get lost in her thoughts, try to work out how to make her youngest do his homework or her man to stop at four cans of Tennent’s a night. Sometimes she’d drift off completely – her hands would be wiping off someone else’s dust but her head was on a beach in St Lucia with George Clooney rubbing sun cream on her back and whispering filthy stuff in her ear. Fair made the time fly.
It was a bit weird at first, being in another person’s house. She felt like a burglar or a peeping Tom, spent too much time thinking, Really, they thought that colour was a good idea? or Christ, look at the state of those curtains. She’d wonder what their houses said about people, thinking she was seeing their secrets, into rooms where visitors would never go, seeing what they had in their bathroom cabinets. She’d found all sorts. Hair dye, Viagra, incontinence pads. All the things that people needed to be what they wanted when the world wasn’t looking.
She quickly got past that, though. People were people and people were strange. That was the beginning and end of it. Wasn’t her business to wonder or to judge. The whole thing only worked if they trusted her. If she found women’s underwear in the man’s drawer then she’d shut it and forget it. If she found porn in the teenager’s bedroom then she’d leave it undisturbed.
Liz liked what she did. They were nice people for the most part, a couple of stuck-up arses and one or two proper weirdos but she could live with that. She got £27 for a three-hour cleaning shift and most of them rounded it up to thirty. Plus a wee bonus at Christmas, either cash or a bottle. Of course, her man usually helped himself to the bottle, but that was another story.
She was looking forward to her stint on Carlaverock Road that morning. The cold was chilling her bones but old Elspeth always had the heating on full blast and the house was like the Caribbean, even if George Clooney wasn’t there.
It was an old, rambling detached sandstone, much bigger inside than it looked from the street. Horrible carpets with floral patterns that made Liz want to throw up but loads of interesting things, knick-knacks on shelves and cabinets and the like. Elspeth wasn’t one for throwing anything out. She had all this stuff in its own place and hell to pay if any of it was moved. A right bugger to dust they all were too.
Liz knocked on the door, waited, then knocked twice more. Elspeth was in more often than not but sometimes she was at her son’s or he’d have taken her shopping. When she didn’t answer on the third knock, Liz used her key. It had taken Elspeth eight months before she’d trusted Liz enough to give her it. She was pretty sure it had been her son that had stopped her from doing it earlier. She and Elspeth had got on fine, would even take ten minutes sometimes and chat over a coffee at the dining table.
She pushed her way inside, dusting the frost from her feet and shouting out just in case. No answer though. A wee bit of her was quite glad, the house to herself and no lecture about moving Elspeth’s things about even though she never did. She was even happier that the son didn’t seem to be there; he creeped Liz out something terrible.
The heating was on, sure enough. It was on a timer and blasted out like the furnaces of hell for most of the day. Elspeth’s laddie had a bit of cash and was always telling her not to skimp on the heating because the cold would be the death of her. Elspeth took him at his word and was a one-woman global-warming machine.
Jeez, this house was musty. Not Liz’s fault because she had it as clean as it could be. It was just old and overheated and had the horrible carpets. It smelled.
She’d start in the hall, get the hoover as deep into the carpet as possible, maybe suck up the bloody pattern if she worked it hard enough. She sang a bit as she got into it. Kings of Leon, ‘Sex on Fire’. She’d never be able to sing it at home, her man would just go off on one. Empty house, it was fine.
She didn’t really know all the words to the song but that didn’t matter. She just repeated the first two verses a couple of times, going to the chorus whenever she got stuck. She did the same with ‘Hotel California’ and then ‘Mr Brightside’.
The carpet, the bloody carpet, ran all the way from the hallway up the stairs to the landing where the bedrooms were. A never-ending swirl of wall-to-wall seventies eye-ache. She’d wanted to burn this thing from the first minute she set foot on it.
She pushed the hoover round the landing then stopped, seeing cobwebs in the ceiling corners that were going to need a chair or stepladders to reach. She wondered if she could get away with them till next time, pretend she’d never seen them. Oh bollocks, she better do it.
She switched the hoover off and started downstairs to get the stepladder from the alcove. She’d only taken a few steps when she heard a noise. That’s all she could identify it as. A sound. She didn’t know what it was or where it had come from but it spooked her. Silly really.
She took two more steps and heard it again. There was someone else in the house.
‘Elspeth? Elspeth?’
Was it up or down? She stood and listened even though a part of her was tempted to head for the front door and get out. A big old house like this could get scary really quickly if you believed in ghosts like Liz did. No way Elspeth would have let her be in this long without speaking to her. She’d have been along to harp on about the dusting, for one thing.
There it was again. It was like the last swirl of water going down a drain. Had Elspeth left the bath running or was there a leak? It was upstairs, she was sure of that much now. Hell, she’d better have a look.
She trod slowly, quietly back up the stairs, listening but hearing nothing. The bathroom was off to the left and she warily edged the door wide and stepped inside with one hand on the frame, ready to close it again. There was no one inside. The bath taps weren’t running but she turned them off tighter just to be sure, then did the same with the sink.
Back in the hallway, she stood still. Hoping to hear something, and yet not. Was that a noise from the big bedroom, Elspeth’s room? Shit.
She pushed the door with the tips of her fingers and it eased slowly away from her. A cat, that’s what it probably was. A cat that had sneaked in. Or maybe a bird that had got in through the chimney.
‘Hello?’
Reluctantly, she inched inside. Ready to turn and run or to laugh at herself for being so stupid. There was no noise, no need to stay, best just to go. She was fully inside the door before she saw anything.
When she did, she stopped still, not knowing what to do, not sure she could believe her eyes. There was a scream stuck somewhere between her throat and her stomach but it couldn’t escape. She stumbled back a bit, her back slamming into the door and closing it behind her, shutting her in with the body on the bed.
She’d never seen so much blood. For one irrational moment, she wondered how the hell she’d get it out of the duvet.
It hit her, though. Elspeth, poor old Elspeth, was staring at the ceiling or the stars or heaven or whatever she believed in. She was in her nightie, it looked like it might have been the pink one but oh God it was so difficult to tell.
She was soaked in it. White as a ghost. Skin like milk. Lips pale as powder. Face battered.
Liz put a hand to her mouth, thinking she was going to vomit. She was terrified too, fearing the noise meant there was still someone else in the house.
She had to call the police. Except she couldn’t move. The phone was by the bed, by Elspeth’s head. She couldn’t go there. Her own phone, her mobile, God she couldn’t think. She leaned back against the door and scrambled to g
et the phone out of her pocket. Her hands shook as she punched in 999.
Police, please, Ambulance too. She told the woman the address and told her what it was. A murder. A big hole in her chest. So much blood. And there might be someone else still in the house. Hurry. Please.
The woman told her not to leave the room. The police were on their way.
Even from the door, Liz could see stab wounds, lots of them. Someone had ripped the woman to shreds. She found the courage to take a few nervous steps forward but could barely breathe. As she got closer, she saw the mess the old lady’s face was in and felt her breakfast rush to her throat.
Liz nearly soiled herself when the noise came again.
It was coming from Elspeth. What the hell was it? She went closer still, lowering her head despite all her senses telling her not to. She had to wait for what seemed like forever. There. A gurgle. Like water struggling to swirl down a drain.
She backed away, more frightened than before, picking up her phone again and calling them back. They really had to hurry. Please!
Taking her hand, she tried to find a pulse but didn’t really know what she was doing. Elspeth felt so cold.
‘Jesus Christ, Mrs Broome. Who did this to you?’
CHAPTER 49
Carlaverock Road was already a crime scene by the time Narey got there. She had to park at the corner of the street and weave her way through a gaggle of nosy neighbours and past uniforms on guard outside the Broome house and another inside the front door.
The ambulance was still outside, rear doors wide open, waiting to accept its passenger then make a quick getaway. Narey knew that meant the paramedics were treating her where she lay or else they’d have been in the Queen Elizabeth by now. At least she’d get a chance to see it as it was.
She took the stairs two at a time, hearing chaos above her, orders being shouted. Rico Giannandrea was standing at the bedroom door, deep in conversation with a uniformed constable before sending him downstairs with instructions to get the neighbours further back from the property.
‘She alive, Rico?’
‘Last I looked, yes. It’s touch and go though. She’s lost a hell of a lot of blood and they’ve already had to use the defibrillator to keep her going. They’re trying to make sure she’s strong enough to move but they say there’s no guarantee she’ll make it out of here.’
‘Thanks for calling me, Rico. I appreciate it.’
‘It’s your case, boss. We all want you to get this guy.’
‘We don’t know it was him. Unless you’ve got more than you’ve told me.’
Giannandrea allowed himself a smile. ‘Nothing other than guesswork and you’re right, shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Baxter says she’s lain there for a few hours. He estimates around twenty-five entry wounds plus severe trauma to the face.’
‘Christ.’
‘He reckons the attacker used a long-bladed knife and there’s one missing from a holder in the kitchen that fits the description.’
‘Where’s Broome?’
‘I’ve sent a car to his offices to pick him up and bring him here. I haven’t heard back from them yet so he might be on his way.’
‘Good. I want to see his face. First though, I want to see his mother.’
The bedroom was a buzz of controlled chaos. Paramedics hovered over the bed, working quickly, while another readied a stretcher. There was an oxygen mask over Mrs Broome’s face and a tube in her mouth but Narey could still see the damage that had been inflicted there.
She moved closer, drawing a disapproving look from a squat, dark-haired male paramedic who was standing over the old woman. Her clothes had been cut open so they could treat her, stemming what was left of the blood flow. The wounds to her chest and abdomen were deep, visceral and frenzied, unmissable even soaked in rusty red.
There were defensive wounds to her hands and cuts to her shoulders. There were severe contusions to her head, dark purple bruises and her nose had been broken, one cheek too. The facial damage harked back to Lainey Henderson, to Jennifer Buchanan and to Leah Watt.
It was an annihilation. This was done by someone who didn’t know when to stop. This had been done in a fury. This had been personal.
Narey’s eyes strayed beyond the obvious wounds, seeing the white of the woman’s thighs in contrast to her bloodied trunk and wondering about other atrocities.
Her thoughts were disturbed by a gurgling noise as Broome’s mother protested, causing the paramedic to adjust the tubing into her mouth and offer reassurance. It struck Narey that it was the first sign she’d seen or heard that the victim was indeed alive. Barely alive, though, and who knew for how long. There were a hundred questions she was desperate to ask her but they all boiled down to just one.
Please let it have been him, she thought. Please let it be him.
‘Okay, let’s move her.’ The paramedics were done, as confident as they could be that she could and should be moved. ‘Everyone out of the way, please. Everyone.’ The repetition was for Narey’s sake.
‘Is she going to make it?’
The paramedic just shrugged and pushed past. They didn’t have time to chat, no matter who she was.
Narey stood at the top of the stairs, watching Elspeth Broome being manoeuvred carefully down the stairs and to the waiting ambulance. She took a breath then sought out first Baxter and then Giannandrea.
Two Soups was stomping unhappily around the ground floor. The necessities of keeping the woman alive had meant the paramedics taking priority over his SOCOs and the subsequent trampling all over his crime scene. His job was so much easier when the victim wasn’t still breathing.
There were no signs of a forced entry to the house, he told her. No windows broken, no lock forced. It seems whoever did it had been let into the house or had a key.
Giannandrea was on the phone as she approached and he held up a finger to signal to her to wait. His brows were knotted, jaw set. Something had changed.
‘And what time was that? Shit. Get a hold of his mobile number from them. And leave someone at the house until I tell you otherwise.’
There was a further reply on the other end of the phone, frustrating Narey’s desperation to discover what was going on.
‘What is it, Rico?’
‘The two uniforms I sent to Broome’s office have come up empty-handed. He wasn’t in the office and staff said he hadn’t been in today although he should have been. He had some important meeting scheduled for ten o’clock. When he didn’t show, they eventually called him at home and on his mobile but got no answer. They emailed and texted him but no reply.’
‘Have they checked his house?’
‘Our boys have just been there. It’s locked up and no one’s home. His car isn’t there either. He’s disappeared.’
‘So, do we know when he was last seen or spoken to?’
‘His assistant says she spoke to him last night. He was at home then, seemed to be nothing out of the usual. Broome had said he was having an early night and would be in the office early this morning but didn’t show.’
‘That it?’
‘One of his neighbours thinks they saw him leave in his car about eight this morning. More than enough time to have got to his office.’
‘Or to here.’
‘And up early enough that he might have read the newspapers before he left or at least seen the headlines online.’
‘You think he saw Tony’s article and then came straight over to see his mother, demanding to know why she’d said those things?’
He lifted his shoulders. ‘We know the guy’s got a temper. Might have been enough to set him off.’
‘It was the first thing I thought when you called to say she’d been attacked. Why couldn’t I have married an accountant or a plumber, Rico?’
‘Two reasons. One, you don’t know how to make life easy for yourself. And two, you don’t want to.’
‘Do you never get fed up always being right? Anyway, I need you to go get a DC to the hosp
ital, Kerri Wells would be good. Make sure she tells me as soon as Mrs Broome is well enough to talk. If she ever is. And make sure that the examiner checks Mrs Broome out for any indications of forced sexual activity. Bruising, vaginal tearing, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh Jesus . . .’
‘We just need to check.’
She left the house to a salvo of photography and her name being called. The press was there en masse, smelling a new twist to the story that had already fed them so well. She searched their ranks, looking for one face behind the battery of cameras and one body amid the flurry of notebooks and digital recorders.
There he was. Back left, his lens trained on her like she was a stranger.
She pushed on past the uniformed constables, ready to barge her way through the media throng to her car. The calls were relentless.
‘Inspector, can you confirm that the victim is Elspeth Broome?’
‘Inspector Narey. Over here.’
‘Inspector, can you tell us if this is a murder enquiry?’
‘Inspector, can you give us a statement, please?’
She would normally go straight by them, ignoring their pleas and leave them out there in the cold. This time she didn’t.
‘Okay, I’ll take a few questions. However, I cannot confirm any identities until the next of kin have been notified.’
It took them by surprise and there was a momentary holding of breath before they exploded into voice again, each of them fighting to be heard. She made a show of looking around as if deciding whose question to take, but she’d already decided.
She pointed at him, a dozen pair of eyes following her finger, seeing Winter in the firing line.
He hesitated, aware he was venturing into a minefield and was in danger of being blown up in full view of his colleagues and rivals.
The Photographer Page 23
