No Safe Home

by Tara Lyons

  The sun was breaking through the earlier dark clouds and she basked in the slither of sunshine, miles away from the fumes of her past, and ran to catch up with Frankie. Together they skipped the length of the high street, targeting Mario’s, the Italian ice-cream parlour on the corner of the road. She had only brought her son here once before, not long after they’d moved to Hertfordshire, when he was missing home. Frankie had pestered her every week since to come back and now, seeing the smile beam across his angelic face, remorse attacked her for taking so long.

  “Imagine bumping into you,” a voice whispered behind her at the shop counter.

  Katy turned and faced Matthew, his gaze hungrily trailed over her unstyled hair and make-up free face. She mumbled an excuse for the casual attire, and sighed internally at her lack of style.

  “You must be Frankie,” Matthew said, smiling down at the small person now clinging to Katy’s leg.

  “How did you know?”

  “You told me, the other night in the pub.”

  Katy shrugged. “I guess we did speak a lot that night. What are you doing here?”

  “I was out shopping and thought I spotted you. I love ice-cream, mind if I join you?” Matthew asked Frankie. “Add a strawberry milkshake and our bellies will turn into creamy volcanoes,” he added, and exploded his hands into the air.

  Frankie giggled, and finally released his grip on Katy. Matthew winked in her direction before walking along the length of the counter with her son. They discussed superheroes and desserts – adamant if they chose the green mint choc-chip they’d become the Hulk. She chuckled, a comment she’d never thought to say to her son, yet one that invited such amusement.

  Katy ordered herself a coffee and took a seat at a table, watching the interaction between Matthew and Frankie. She thought of her own father and the close relationship she’d had with him. They had bonded over their love of literary characters, which hadn’t been surprising, considering he was an English teacher. It was thanks to her father Katy had learned to understand and appreciate Shakespeare, and the tales he wrote. After her father’s death, she threw all the classics away, a memory that now filled her with great regret. Brad swooping into her life was magical, and she had fallen for him as hard as Juliet had done for Romeo – if only their tragic ending had been a warning to her, she thought now.

  “We’ve got our civil war going on,” Matthew announced, as they rejoined her.

  She eyed the mountains of cherry ice-cream in front of her son and the blue bubble-gum choice in Matthew’s hand.

  “Ah ha! Captain America versus Iron Man,” she said, and crossed her fingers under the table.

  Matthew tipped his head and casually saluted; a wave of relief flooded her. Katy suddenly knocked her cup, splashing the boiling liquid onto the table; she hated the effect he was having on her. Frankie picked up the complimentary colouring pad and crayons and busied himself.

  “So, Matthew, I know you work in retail, but you didn’t mention where.”

  “Next, in the Howard Centre. They snatched me away from the competition.” He laughed. “I must have been doing something right, hey.”

  “Where did you work before?”

  “John Lewis in Oxford Street.”

  “Oh, that’s near where I used to work,” Katy blurted.

  “I specialise in marketing and promotions, so you wouldn’t have seen me on the shop floor. It’s more behind the scenes stuff.”

  “Are you finding it a big change from the bright, noisy city to this beautiful picturesque town?”

  “Well, everyone asks far too many questions here, but I agree the scenery is lovely.”

  A mischievous expression spread across his face, and Katy continued to fumble with the wet tissues as she mopped the table, unable to keep eye contact with the handsome man.

  “Mum, can I have another ice-cream? P-p-please?” Frankie interjected.

  “No, sweetie. There really will be an eruption of some sorts if I let you eat any more.”

  He frowned. “Okay, can Matthew come back to our house? I want to show him my Bumblebee Transformer.”

  “Erm… well…”

  “I’m sorry, buddy, I can’t,” Matthew interrupted her mumblings. “I’ve got plans tonight.”

  “Of course, yeah… so have we.”

  “Where are we going, Mummy?”

  “It’s home time, Frankie. Are you bringing those colours with you?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer as she collected their belongings.

  Matthew stood when she did, and lightly touched her hand. “But I would love to see you again. Both of you actually.” Katy smiled, her heart beating as fast as a marathon runner’s. “Look, I’m getting a taxi home now. I know you live near the pub, so I can drop you home first?”

  “Yes please, Mum. My legs are too tired to walk all the way back home.” Frankie stood between her and Matthew.

  “Okay, sure, why not? Thank you.”

  “I’ll call one. Meet you outside.”

  Katy slipped her son’s coat on. He looked tired and she was pleased it was only a ten-minute drive home. The last thing she wanted was Frankie falling asleep too early; he’d be up again at midnight thinking it was midday. Once they joined Matthew outside, a pang of unexpected sadness swept over her at the thought of them going their separate ways shortly.

  Conversation in the taxi was minimal. Katy wanted to ask Matthew about his plans, guessing he was off to a glamorous party where the women would be wearing sexy dresses that revealed just the right amount of cleavage, their hair expertly fashioned and make-up beautifully applied. The men would be in smart suits, circling the room and chatting about their successes, while the waiters would hover, serving canapés and champagne from silver trays in muted servility.

  “Katy,” Matthew said, pulling her from the daydream. “I meant what I said, about meeting up again, that is.”

  A giggle spontaneously escaped her lips and she nodded. “I’d like that too.”

  The car stopped and Frankie awkwardly clambered over Katy’s lap to pull the door open. He shouted goodbye to Matthew and jumped out.

  Matthew leaned in and gently pecked Katy on the cheek. “Hopefully I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, and looked over her shoulder out of the window. “Wait, is this where you live? I’m just on the other side of the park. It’ll be quicker to just walk through than drive around the one-way system.”

  He reached into his pocket, took out a note and handed it to the driver, telling the man to keep the change. Frankie sped off through the communal front door and Katy cursed that yet again, it had been left unsecure on the latch. There was no other exit, but she hated the thought of her son alone, and a spark of realisation suddenly hit her.

  “I’m sorry, Matthew, but I won’t be able to see you again.”

  He flinched, as though she’d slapped him across the face. “I don’t understand. I thought we had a good time.”

  “Oh, we did, I did. It’s just… I need to focus on me and my son right now. I don’t think it’s the right time to get into anything like… well, like this.”

  Her hand gestured between them both and she smiled, hoping Matthew understood what she meant. Panic bubbled inside her stomach with Frankie out of sight, and the desire to bolt threatened to overwhelm her.

  “That’s fine. I mean, I’m disappointed of course, but I understand. Maybe when you’re in a better place, give me a call,” Matthew said, and waved goodbye.

  Katy inhaled deeply, spun around and marched inside the building hoping he hadn’t noticed her crimson cheeks. She wanted to glance back, wanted to know if he was still there, but instead she raced upstairs to find Frankie sitting cross-legged on the floor outside their home.

  “I’m tired, Mummy.”

  “I know, sweetie. Early sleeps tonight I think.”

  While her son trudged into his bedroom, Katy carefully twisted and turned the keys, repeating the action three times until she was satisfied the door was locked; a securit
y measure in her haste she had failed to complete downstairs.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After a briefing with his team, Hamilton stormed into his office and phoned the pathology lab. Another day with no convictions, or information from Audrey about the two crime scenes, caused his hands to shake. Patience was not a virtue he possessed when it came to murder. He waited, pen tapping against the desk, while the assistant placed him on hold. The pathologist was in a meeting, but he persisted and demanded to speak with the woman.

  “Audrey Gibson –”

  “It’s DI Hamilton.”

  “Hello, Inspector. Say no more, I know why you’re calling. Let me get my files together.”

  The line went quiet, but Hamilton could hear the rustling of papers and low humming. He didn’t want to be the one to ruin the pathologist’s mood, but he would if need be. This was not the time for merry singing.

  “Ah ha, here it is. Sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector.”

  “Listen, Audrey,” he said, faking a smile, hoping it softened his tone. “I fully appreciate how busy you are. I know you have many more cases on the go, other than mine, but I really need a forensic lead on the bedroom killings, so I can go out and catch this son of a bitch before he strikes again.”

  “And I thank you for your understanding, Inspector.”

  Hamilton noted Audrey’s sarcastic tone, but ignored it when she sighed heavily and continued speaking.

  “I was going to get in touch with you today. I apologise that you’ve had to make the call first, but this case isn’t cut and dried, Inspector. Let me start by saying, both the male children died in the same manner; suffocation was determined from the pillows we found resting on their faces. There was no evidence of any other foul play, or injuries.”

  Hamilton couldn’t disguise his relief, thanking God and rubbing his fingers against his temples. While still a horrific fate for all concerned, it was comforting to know the children hadn’t suffered greatly.

  “It’s the female victims who held the attacker’s interest,” Audrey continued. “Please understand, the level of putrefaction that took place on the first victim’s body made things much harder to establish. We have confirmed Scarlett Mitchell’s identity by her dental records. I estimate time of death at approximately three weeks.”

  “One of your team members said it could have been up to a month ago, because of the missing fingernails?”

  “Three weeks can also be enough time for the demise of fingernails, Inspector, which is exactly why I am always wary of giving information out at a crime scene. There’s much to be considered, with this victim, factors such as age and weight, temperature and insects –”

  “Okay, I understand,” Hamilton interrupted, wincing at the thought of the Mitchell home and the smell of rotting eggs. “Continue with what you were saying before.”

  Audrey sighed. “The victim’s organs had begun to burst, but not liquefy… those killed by asphyxia generally do decompose more rapidly. Both Scarlett Mitchell and Emma Jones suffered fractures to their hyoid bone which, considering its location in the neck is quite rare. Therefore, there is an indication that the amount of force inflicted was –”

  “Are you saying they were both strangled?”

  “It’s easier to confirm with the second victim, given the speed at which her body was found, but yes, it’s the cause of death I have reported for both cases. We also found a pubic hair in Scarlett’s mouth; it was caught between the teeth so it was pulled from the root. We’re running tests for a match. It’s another marked difference from the second victim, Emma Jones, where there’s no trace of hair transfer, but she had experienced deep vaginal injuries.”

  “Did you recover any sperm traces?”

  “No. However, we did recover a piece of thread under her fingernail. Now, it doesn’t match the top she was wearing, or the trousers on the floor, nor was there a match from the clothes her son was found in.”

  “So, it could be from the attacker. She could have fought back?”

  “Possibly, Inspector, but it’s a wool fibre. Woollen items are so widely available it would be impossible to pinpoint where it came from without having the original item to study. Gosh, it could be a hat or a jumper or –”

  “A balaclava,” he interrupted again, his train of thought now focused on the attacker.

  “Yes, but that’s indeterminate at this point. Give me something to work with. If you recover an item, I could match or discount it, but I can’t guess its source. However, as we didn’t find any unknown fingerprints, I have sent the wool off for analysis, along with the pubic hair.”

  “Okay, well at least this is something we can work on.”

  “You’ll have to give me at least a week for the DNA results, Inspector, but I will call you the moment they’re in. I want you to catch this monster too.”

  As though the woman on the other end of the line could see him, Hamilton raised a hand in surrender. “I know, of course you do and thanks, Audrey. A match is vital information to this case, so I’ll wait patiently. Well, I’ll try at least.”

  “A watched phone never rings, Inspector,” she said with a giggle, and ended the call.

  He told Clarke to follow him as he marched back through the office, out of the building and into his car. During the short drive to Pimlico, he updated his partner about the pathology report and explained the need to revisit the first crime scene. The victim’s laptop was in Fraser’s possession, and a full inspection had been carried out by the crime scene investigators, but Hamilton wanted to get a feel for who this woman was – what type of a person was she, and how she lived her life? Was there something of significance in her home that could tell him something about the attacker?

  The putrid smell still overpowered the small flat. Hamilton and Clarke used their tops to cover the odour, pulling them high over their noses so their hands were free to roam.

  “An initial door-to-door investigation took place, didn’t it? Hamilton mumbled through the material of his jumper.

  “Yes, but not much is useful information. Scarlett Mitchell only lived here for six months and no one really knew her.” He stopped to flick through his notes. “The only thing that caught my eye from the files was the elderly neighbour across the hall. She was adamant a man entered the flat late one night, maybe a few weeks ago, but she couldn’t be sure.”

  “What, that’s the only information uniform took from her?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. A tad shoddy if you ask me.”

  “There should have at least been a follow-up! I’ll be sure to find out who took the original statement from the neighbour and give them a bloody good talking to.”

  Hamilton groaned, and made a mental note to drop in on the witness before they left. He asked Clarke to tackle the two bedrooms while he strolled around the open-plan kitchen and living room, eyeing every wall hanging, photograph and fridge magnet. There was a huge difference between this home and that of the second victim’s, Emma Jones… for a start it was homely. There was a collection of home-made drawings clipped onto the fridge and dust clung to the many frames around the room. Hamilton collected a photograph of Scarlett, her son and an unidentified man. The Mitchells may not have lived here long, but there were personal possessions everywhere. With the foundations of a full life in this home, he speculated as to why no one knew the woman.

  The shrill squeal of a passing train’s wheels against the metal tracks made the hairs on Hamilton’s neck stand to attention. He slowly turned in a circle, and although his eyes drifted over everything in sight, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. Clarke burst into the room wafting a piece of paper in the air.

  “Check this out, gov. A death certificate for a Mr Fred Crawford.”

  Hamilton peered at the photograph he still held. “I wonder if that’s this guy,” he said, and the two men exchanged potential evidence. “Hmm, well it’s clear this man didn’t die of natural causes… traumatic injuries to the abdomen it says here.”


  “It was in our victim’s bedside cabinet. Bit bare in there really, just a few of Scarlett’s clothes and women’s bits. It was definitely just her and the kid living here.”

  “Call the team and have Fraser or Rocky find out who this Fred Crawford is. I want full details by the time we’re back in the office. Tell them we’ll bring lunch with us.”

  Hamilton returned the certificate to his partner and left the room. He had a quick look in the bathroom and hallway cupboard, but saw nothing of interest. He hovered outside the child’s bedroom and took a deep breath before stepping inside. Losing a child was an unexplainable and gut-wrenching ache, and Hamilton couldn’t decide if it was comforting to know Scarlett Mitchell would never feel the pain he did.

  “Everything done, gov. Fraser is on the case with our mystery man,” Clarke interrupted his thoughts.

  “Okay. I don’t think we’re going to find anything in here,” he said, scanning the room of Roald Dahl books and Lego sets. “Let’s pop in on the neighbour before we head back.”

  After waiting what felt like a full five minutes, Karen Taylor finally opened her front door. Clearly a frail woman, stooped over with the aid of a walking stick, she wore her white hair in a tiny pony-tail at the top of her head. Once the introductions were made, she slowly led Hamilton and Clarke into her living room. If he had thought the victim’s home was filled with personal possessions, Karen’s collection trumped that. Books, photographs and ornaments were crammed on shelves, above the fireplace and in an oak glass cabinet. An identical cabinet filled the opposite wall and was adorned with at least a hundred thimbles of different colours and designs. The coffee table was piled high with an assortment of magazines and, although there was a mountain of belongings, it looked clean and welcoming.

  “Can I get you gentlemen a drink?”

  “No thank you, Ms Taylor.”

  “Oh, please call me Karen,” she said, slowly lowering herself down into the beige armchair covered in a flowery design.