Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  ‘You could have stayed inside.’

  ‘I don’t mind the cold.’

  Climbing out, she shakes my hand. Holds it. Looks into my eyes. ‘You didn’t stop earlier.’

  ‘I saw you were busy.’

  Her hands go to the pockets of her overcoat. She’s short and round with a wardrobe of tailored trousers and men’s shoes. Dark shadows beneath her eyes betray her tiredness, but there’s something more.

  ‘I’ve come to check on the cat,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  Eighteen months ago the DCI dropped by unexpectedly and presented me with a box. Inside was a straw-coloured kitten, part of a litter that had been born in her barn a few weeks earlier.

  ‘I have a dog,’ I said.

  ‘You need a cat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You own a dog but you need something to own you. That’s what cats do. She’ll boss you around. Run the place.’

  The detective put the box on the floor. It contained six cans of cat food, a bag of cat litter and two plastic dishes. Reaching inside, she pulled out the kitten, which hung over her palm like a sock.

  ‘Isn’t she’s a beauty? She’ll keep you company.’

  ‘I don’t need company.’

  ‘Hell you don’t. You sleep alone. You work part-time. You’re home a lot. I got all the stuff you need. She’s vaccinated but you might want to get her neutered in about four months.’

  She thrust the kitten at me and it clung to my sweater as if I were a tree. I couldn’t think of what to say except, ‘It’s very thoughtful of you, Ronnie.’

  ‘If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll be a good ratter.’

  ‘I don’t have any rats.’

  ‘And you won’t.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Call her what you like.’

  Emma named her Strawberry - ‘because she’s coloured like straw’ - don’t ask me to explain the logic of a preschooler.

  When Charlie was kidnapped, Ronnie Cray was in charge of the police investigation. I think she blamed herself for not protecting my family. Some tragedies forge friendships. Others are touchstones for too many bad memories. I don’t know what I have with Ronnie. Maybe it’s a friendship. Maybe we’re sharing the guilt.

  Whatever the case, the detective has stayed in touch, calling me every so often to ask about the cat. Occasionally, she talks about cases that she’s working on, dropping in details she thinks might intrigue me. I don’t take the bait.

  One night she phoned from the scene of a hostage crisis where a man had barricaded himself in a house with his ex-wife who he’d doused with petrol. Ronnie asked for my help. I said no.

  Afterwards I sat up late watching Sky News, listening to the reports on failing banks, repossessions and market meltdowns, hoping the stories would stay the same. I also prayed, which is bizarre because I don’t believe in God. I’m not superstitious either, yet I crossed my fingers. I willed things not to occur, even though that’s impossible.

  I sat up all night watching the news, certain that if I maintained my vigil nothing bad would happen. I didn’t go to bed until the sun had come up and the beautiful TV couples were smiling brightly from their morning sofas. I had saved another life.

  Cray has stepped past me into the hallway without waiting for an invitation. She shrugs off her coat and tosses it over the back of a chair. I always forget how short she is until we’re standing side by side. I’m looking at the crown of her head. Her bristled hair is pepper grey.

  ‘I saw you on TV the other week,’ I say. ‘You’ve been promoted.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sleeping my way to the top.’ Her laugh sounds like gravel rash. ‘How’s the shaking business?’

  ‘Up and down.’

  ‘Is that a Parkinson’s joke?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She’s about to light another cigarette.

  ‘I don’t let people smoke in the house.’

  The lighter sparks in her cupped hands. ‘I appreciate you making an exception.’ She inclines her head as she exhales. The smoke floats past her eyes. I can’t hold her gaze.

  As if on cue, Strawberry appears, walking silently into the kitchen and sniffing at Cray’s shoes. Perhaps she can smell her mother. The DCI leans down and scoops up the cat with one hand, studying her eyes for answers.

  ‘She’s getting fat.’

  ‘She’s part sloth.’

  ‘You’re feeding her too much.’

  Cray drops Strawberry and watches her twist in the air, landing on her feet. The cat walks to her food bowl, looks unimpressed, and saunters off to find a suntrap.

  The DCI takes a seat, ashes her cigarette in a saucer. ‘You don’t seem very happy to see me, Professor.’

  ‘I know why you’re here.’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  The statement comes out too harshly, but Cray doesn’t react.

  One part of me desperately wants to know what happened to Ray Hegarty, why Sienna was covered in blood, why she ran . . . At the same time I feel a swelling in my throat that makes my voice vibrate. I shouldn’t want to do this again. The last time it cost me almost everything.

  ‘You know this girl.’

  ‘She’s a friend of Charlie’s.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you?’

  ‘No. She was too traumatised.’

  ‘See? You know all about this stuff.’

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  Cray glances out the window where a swathe of sunshine has cut across the field turning the grass silver.

  ‘The man who died last night was a retired detective by the name of Ray Hegarty. He worked for Bristol CID for twenty years. He was my boss. My friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She makes a quick sucking noise and her eyes glaze over. ‘I thought Hegarty was a prick when I first met him. He didn’t want me on his team and he did nothing to stop the bullying and cruel pranks. He gave me every shit job he could find - the dirty bodies, death knocks, cleaning out the drunk tank - I thought he was trying to break me or force me out, but it was just his way of toughening me up for the bigger challenges.’

  Ophidian eyes blink through the smoke and her thumb passes over her lips. ‘He taught me everything I know. His rules. I guess I grew to respect his achievements and then to respect the man.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll work out what happened.’

  Anger in her eyes now, ‘If you’re having a mid-life crisis, Professor, buy a Porsche and forget about it.’

  ‘It’s not a mid-life crisis.’

  ‘Then what’s your problem?’

  ‘You know the answer to that.’

  Cray stands and hitches up her trousers. ‘In another lifetime I might sympathise with you, but not this one. You don’t have a monopoly on fucked-up families. I’ve got an overweight bad-tempered son who’s living with an ex-junkie and claims to be writing a book about how his parents’ divorce screwed up his life even though I was pregnant longer than I was married.

  ‘And now a man I respected is lying dead in his daughter’s bedroom and the kid is so traumatised she’s not saying boo to a goose. So you see, Professor, you won’t get any pity from me, but I will give you some advice.’

  Her cigarette hisses in the sink.

  ‘Suck it in, Princess, and put on your big-girl pants. You’re playing with the grown-ups now.’

  5

  Squeezed behind the steering wheel, the DCI sits forward so her feet can reach the pedals. Eyes ahead. Jaw masticating gum. She drives as if she’s travelling at speed, even though the Land Rover can’t hold fifth.

  A cigarette is propped upright in her fist. She blows smoke out of the far corner of her mouth. Speaks, giving me just the facts, the bare bones. Ray Hegarty retired from the force eight years ago and set up a security business - doing alarms, CCTV cameras, patrols and personal protection. He had offices in Bristol, Birmingham and Manchester.

&
nbsp; He had a meeting in Glasgow on Monday afternoon and stayed overnight before driving to Manchester the next day. He was supposed to stop overnight and fly to Dublin on Wednesday morning for two days of meetings but the trip was cancelled. Instead he drove back to Bristol and had a late lunch with a business partner.

  ‘Bottom line - he wasn’t expected home until Friday - not according to his wife.’

  ‘Where was Helen?’

  ‘Working at St Martin’s Hospital in Bath. Her shift started at six.’

  We pull up outside a house on the eastern edge of the village. Six uniforms stand guard, blocking off the street. Blue-and-white crime-scene tape has been threaded between two cherry trees and the front gate, twirling in the breeze like old birthday decorations. A large white SOCO van is parked in the driveway. Doors yawning. Metal boxes stacked inside.

  Nearby, a forensic technician is crouching on the front path taking photographs. Dressed in blue plastic overalls, a hood and matching boot covers, he looks like an extra in a science-fiction movie.

  Positioning a plastic evidence tag, he raises the camera to his eye. Shoots. Stands. When he turns I recognise him. Dr Louis Preston - a Home Office pathologist with a Brummie accent that makes him sound eternally miserable.

  ‘I hear they woke you, Ronnie.’

  ‘I’m a light sleeper,’ she replies.

  ‘Were you with anyone in particular?’

  ‘My hot-water bottle.’

  ‘Now there’s a waste.’ The pathologist glances at me and nods. ‘Professor, long time no see.’

  ‘I would have waited.’

  ‘I get that a lot.’

  Preston is famous for terrorising his pathology students. According to one apocryphal story, he once told a group of trainees that two things were required to conduct an autopsy. The first was no sense of fear. At this point he stuck his finger into a dead man’s anus, pulled it out and sniffed it. Then he invited each student to follow his lead and they all complied.

  ‘The second thing you need is an acute sense of observation,’ he told them. ‘How many of you noticed that I stuck my middle finger into this man’s anus, but sniffed my index finger?’

  Urban myth? Compelling hearsay? Both probably. Anybody who slices open dead people for a living has to maintain a sense of humour. Either that or you go mad.

  Turning back to the van, he collects a tripod.

  ‘I never thought I’d see Ray Hegarty like this. I thought he was bloody indestructible.’

  ‘You were friends?’

  Preston shrugs. ‘Wouldn’t go that far. Mutual respect.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Somebody hit him from behind and then severed his carotid artery.’ The pathologist runs a finger across his throat. ‘You’re looking for something like a razor or a Stanley knife. It’s not in the bedroom.’

  Cray helps him move a silver case. ‘When can we come inside?’

  ‘Find some overalls. Stay on the duck boards and don’t touch anything.’

  The two-storey semi has wisteria twisting and climbing across the front façade. No longer in leaf, the grey trunk looks gnarled and ancient, slowly strangling the building. There are stacks of old roofing tiles beside the garage doors.

  Two things stand out about the house. It’s the sort of place that should have had a long sweeping drive - all the proportions suggest it. Secondly, it’s partially hidden from the road by a high wall covered in ivy. Tall trees are visible beyond the slate roof and chimneys. The curtains downstairs are open. Anyone approaching would have seen the lights on.

  ‘Was the door locked or unlocked?’

  ‘Open,’ says Cray. ‘Sienna ran. She didn’t bother pulling it closed.’

  Stepping on to the first of a dozen duckboards, I follow her through the front door and along a passage.

  ‘Tread lightly, she is near

  Under the snow,

  Speak gently, she can hear

  The daisies grow.’

  Cray looks at me. ‘Who wrote that?’

  ‘Oscar Wilde.’

  ‘Some of those Micks could write.’

  Orange fluorescent evidence markers are spaced intermittently on the stairs, distinguishing blood spots. A camera flashes upstairs, sending a pulse of light through the railings.

  I turn and study the front door. No burglar alarm. Basic locks. For a security consultant, Ray Hegarty didn’t take many personal precautions.

  ‘Who lives next door?’

  ‘An old bloke, a widower.’

  ‘Did he hear anything?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s heard anything since the Coronation.’

  ‘Any sign of forced entry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who had keys?’

  ‘Just the family members. There’s the other daughter, Zoe. She’s at university in Leeds. She’s driving down now with her boyfriend. And there’s Lance, who’s twenty-two. He works for a motorcycle mechanic in Bristol. Rents his own place.’

  The sitting room and dining room are tastefully furnished. Neat. Clean. There are so many things that could be disturbed - plants in pots, photographs in frames, books on shelves, cushions on the sofas - but everything seems in place.

  The kitchen is tidy. A single plate rests in the sink, with a cutting board covered in breadcrumbs. Helen made a sandwich for lunch or a snack to take to work. She left a note on the fridge for Sienna telling her to microwave a lasagne for dinner.

  Through the kitchen there is an extension that was probably a sunroom until it was turned into a bedroom. Refitted after Zoe’s attack, it has a single bed, a desk, closet and chintz curtains, as well as a ramp leading down to the garden. The en suite bathroom has a large shower and handrails. On the dresser there is a picture of Zoe playing netball, balanced on one leg as she passes the ball.

  Walking back along the hallway, I notice the door beneath the stairs is ajar. Easing it open with my shoe, I see an overnight bag on the floor. Ray Hegarty’s overcoat hangs on a wooden peg. He came home, hung up his coat and tossed down his bag. Then what?

  Something drew him upstairs. A sound. A voice.

  Cray goes ahead of me, stepping over evidence markers as she climbs each step without touching the banister. The main bedroom is straight ahead. Two doors on the left lead to a bathroom and second bedroom. Sienna’s room is off to the right. Ray Hegarty lies face down on a rug beside her bed with his arms outstretched, head to one side, eyes open. Blood has soaked through the rug and run along cracks in the floorboards. His business shirt is stained by bloody handprints. Small hands.

  Sienna’s room is a mess with her clothes spilling from drawers and draped over the end of her bed, which is unmade. Her duvet is bunched against the wall and a hair-straightening iron peeks from beneath her pillow.

  I notice a shoebox, which has been customised with photographs clipped from magazines. Someone has pulled it from beneath the bed and opened the lid to reveal a collection of bandages, plasters, needles and thread. It is Sienna’s cutting box and also her sewing kit.

  The untidiness of the room could be teenage-induced. I have one of those at home - messy, sullen and self-absorbed - but this looks more like a quick ransacking. A search.

  ‘Is anything missing?’ I ask.

  Cray answers. ‘Nothing obvious. We won’t know until we interview the family.’

  ‘Where’s Helen?’

  ‘At the hospital with Sienna.’

  Crouching beside the body, I notice blood splatters, some large and others barely visible, sprayed as high as the ceiling. A hockey stick lies near his right hand. Lacquered to a shine, it has a towelling grip in school colours.

  I squat motionless in the centre of the room, trying to get a sense of the events. Ray Hegarty was hit from behind and fell forward. There are no signs of a struggle, no defence wounds or bruises or broken furniture.

  Turning my head, I notice an oval-shaped mirror on a stand, which is reflecting a white square of light on to the bed, highlighting the
small blue flowers stitched into the sheets.

  I look at myself reflected in the mirror and can also see the door behind me. Stepping over the body, I partially close the door and stand behind it. Glancing towards the mirror, I can see Cray reflected in the open doorway.

  Her eyes meet mine.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This is where they stood. The mirror told them when Ray Hegarty was in the doorway.’

  ‘But there’s hardly any room.’

  ‘The door was half-closed.’

  ‘Someone small.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Almost immediately I remember Sienna’s face bleached by the beam of the torch. There was something in her eyes . . . a terrible knowledge.

  Louis Preston emerges from the bathroom, looking like a surgeon preparing to operate.

  ‘There are traces of blood in the S-bend of the sink.’

  ‘Somebody cleaned up.’

  ‘Forensic awareness is such an important life skill,’ says Preston. ‘I blame it on American cop shows. They’re like “how-to” guides. How to clean up a crime scene, how to dispose of the weapon, how to get away with murder . . .’

  Cray winks at me. ‘What’s wrong, Preston, did some smart defence lawyer punch a pretty little hole in your procedures?’

  ‘I got no beef with defence lawyers. Some of my best friends are bottom feeders. It’s the juries I can’t abide. Unless they see fingerprints, fibres, or DNA, they’ll never convict. They want the proverbial smoking gun, but sometimes there aren’t any forensic clues. The scene is cleaned up or washed by rain or contaminated by third parties. We’re scientists, not magicians.’

  Preston scratches his nose and looks at his index finger as though he finds it fascinating.

  Meanwhile, I wander across the landing to the bathroom. A wicker laundry basket is tucked beneath the sink. The toilet seat is down. The shelves above the sink are neatly arranged with toothpaste, toothbrushes (three of them), liquid soap and mouthwash. The hand-towel beside the sink is neatly folded and hung over the railing.

  ‘They tidied the place,’ I say out loud.

  Cray appears behind me.

  ‘Make any sense?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Did Ray Hegarty make many enemies in the job?’