Her breathing was shallow but rapid.
Clutching his lower abdomen, staggering, he waited until she emerged from the side of the bed and booted the right side of her rib cage, jerking her upwards, her body acrobatically rolling in mid air. She crashed down with a thud on to her back, her feet scrambling for grip on the carpet, her legs in a bicycle movement, heels scratching at the floor, desperately trying to push herself backwards towards the phone, consciousness shooting from her like steam from a coal-driven train.
She was helpless, an upturned crab. He stood above her. She raised her arms, in one final, futile, effort at self-defence.
Mimicking the wrestler in the ring, he dropped to his knees, ramming the knife into the left side of her chest as he crashed to the floor.
Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth, the veins in his neck pushing against the skin, trying to burst free, his right arm a blur as he knelt next to her, repeatedly thrusting the knife into her chest.
He stabbed and stabbed her lifeless body, a body that twitched involuntarily every time he rammed down the knife.
Gasping for air, his heart feeling as if it might explode, he dropped the knife.
She lay there, motionless, her eyes wide open and unblinking, a discarded ventriloquist’s dummy, staring at her own blood on the ceiling.
Kneeling beside her, as if in prayer, he rubbed his hands up and down his tracksuited thighs. Where had all the blood come from?
He pushed himself on to his feet, grabbed the knife, and stumbled towards the door convinced her eyes were following his every move. His heart was racing.
Her heart would never race again. Never beat again. No amount of electric shock treatment would bring her back. Her heart would remain as silent as the street he was about to step back on to.
Ed was scraping the ice off his windscreen, his ears numb, the thin black socks and leather-soled shoes offering little protection against the crunching frost under his feet.
The engine was running, and the heater was blasting out warm air, locked in a battle with the elements, fighting to warm the interior of the car and defrost both front and rear screens.
If today went according to plan, Crowther would at some stage be arrested for the rape of Kelly and from there the whole investigation could well be ‘boxed-off’.
Not wanting to pre-empt anything, he felt Crowther could be their man, so well did he fit the profile of a ‘Power Reassurance’ rapist as Sam had described. Last night he made a conscious decision to read more about the classification of rapists, and as a ploy to stop chatty strangers turning over on their sun beds to make idle conversation, he thought he might take the books to Skala, his favourite resort on Kefalonia. What holidaymaker wants to chat with someone reading textbooks on sexual offences?
He opened the driver’s door. His phone rang, sounding louder than usual in the quiet stillness of the village. What was so important that someone needed to call at 7.30am? He would be in the office within 20 minutes.
Bloody hell. Has Crowther escaped? Topped himself?
‘Ed. It’s Sam. We’ve got a job. Meet me at 18 Rothbury Close.’
‘What is it?’
‘Murder,’ she paused. He could hear her taking a deep breath. Her next words were much quieter. ‘Ed, the victim.’ Another deep breath. ‘Louise Smith.’
Ed gripped the top of the open driver’s door with his free hand and bowed his head. Louise had worked closely with him in the past. He saw her in the car park on Monday.
He conjured an image of her, picturing her broad smile, a smile that seemed to be drawn permanently on her face, infectious and warming.
He had never heard her speak ill of anyone, and everybody who was anybody knew she was a great girl. What the hell had happened?
‘You there, Ed?’
Wiping his eyes, his voice quivered: ‘Yeah, yeah. Just a bit stunned. What happened?’
‘Multiple stab wounds. Killed in her bedroom.’ Her speech quickened. ‘Found by her mum. Ed, how did this happen? This is a nightmare. It’s all my fault.’
There was a silence as Sam stifled a sob, and took another deep intake of breath, ‘Ed, there’s a ski mask in the bedroom.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Ed whispered, each syllable elongated, as if he was talking in slow motion.
Tears were rolling down Sam’s cheeks, her words barely audible over the sobs she could no longer hold back.
‘How have I got this so wrong, Ed? Here’s me talking about a rapist who wants a relationship, a non-violent individual, and there’s poor Louise, my mate, butchered. How could I have been so wrong?’
Ed felt his stomach churning, his forehead going clammy, that sickly feeling he associated with being on boat. His grip on the door tightened as he tried to unscramble his brain, to separate the thoughts of a murdered friend from the investigative ones that he must allow to come to the fore.
One thing was for certain, whatever had happened, it hadn’t anything to do with Terry Crowther. He was still in the cells.
‘Sam, we don’t know that they’re linked yet. Let’s see what we’ve got when we get there.’
Sam screamed: ‘Ed, are you fucking listening? There’s a ski mask there.’
Silence.
Sam, quieter now and breathing quickly in between sniffles, was the first to speak again.
‘That’s never been put out into the public domain. How many murderers do you know who put a ski mask on? What’s the point? If the victim’s dead, they can’t identify you.’
‘Okay. Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got when we get there. I can be there in 15 minutes. Are you alright to drive?’
‘I’ll be fine. See you there. Let’s meet outside,’ she said, her tone nasal now, like someone with a heavy cold.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Inside the Audi the only noise came from the windscreen de-mister. If the murder and rapes were linked, everything Sam had ever read must have been wrong. Either that or she had totally misinterpreted his behaviour.
Of course it wasn’t unheard of for rapists to become killers, but this type of rapist?
What did I miss? What else could I have done to capture him? Could I have prevented Louise’s death? Prevented my friend’s death.
Peter Sutcliffe, the infamous Yorkshire Ripper, could have been caught earlier. No detective wants to be forever haunted by their failures; to be one of those SIOs who, had they acted faster, prioritised more effectively, identified the perpetrator sooner, could have saved the lives of innocent victims.
Sam shuddered at the thought. Was she responsible for her friend’s murder?
The blast of a car horn made her jump.
‘Shit,’ she shouted, as she swerved violently to the right, back into the outside lane.
Get a grip Sam.
She slowed down as she approached Louise’s house. The last time she parked here was for wine and Italian meatballs; a night with a few of the girls, more bottles of wine than meatballs, and a Sunday morning hangover that stretched into Monday.
A toddler, dressed in pyjamas underneath a blue ‘Angry Birds’ dressing gown, sat on his tricycle on the footpath, his red-raw hands gripping the handlebars. He looked bemused at all the police cars, tape, and strange people dressed in white paper suits. Behind him stood a group of men and women, no doubt swapping theories on what could have happened to that ‘poor girl’. Some were taking photographs on their phones, others were having excited conversations.
She pulled up outside the police cordon with no recollection of the journey, other than almost colliding with that car. Wondering whether the Press would beat Ed, she saw the Crime Scene Investigators' van and a young uniform police officer standing at the front door, clipboard in hand.
Every murder investigation invariably saw the newest member of the response team at the crime scene entrance keeping the log. It was a daunting task for many young officers who had to ask and record the name of everyone entering, often without knowing who they were but knowing they
would probably be senior officers.
Sat in the car, Sam spoke into her mobile. There was nobody at the other end. She needed a few minutes, needed to brace herself for what was to come. She inhaled, exhaled, all the time holding the phone to her ear. How many SIOs had she seen on the TV investigating the murder of a police officer? It was the murder they all dreaded.
Approaching the foot-stamping young officer, no doubt cursing his luck and wishing for the warmth of a patrol car, Sam thanked him for keeping the log and took the opportunity to explain its importance. The log recorded everyone who had been into the scene. That list could be invaluable at a later date. A stray hair at a crime scene – neither from suspect or victim - may belong to someone recorded on the log. Without knowing who had been there, identifying the origin of the hair would be nigh on impossible – all a smart defence lawyer would need to raise the spectre of an innocent man in the dock and an undetected offender still at large.
Nothing warmed the toes more than being told you were important.
The senior CSI came from inside the house to the front door and greeted Sam. Julie Trescothick, who had worked closely on a number of murder investigations with Sam, was wearing the regulation white paper suit with a hood, white face mask, and white paper boots.
She went to her van and retrieved two suits and two pairs of paper boots for Sam and Ed. Contrary to TV fictional dramas, nobody, irrespective of rank, ever entered a murder scene without wearing a paper suit.
As they waited for Ed, she gave Sam a brief overview of what had already been done.
Each room had been filmed, including the bedroom where Louise had been found. Still photographs had been taken and large metal plates placed on the floors throughout the house so officers could move about without standing on the carpets and contaminating potential evidence.
Sam thought of the square, metal plates. Cold stainless steel-looking and not much smaller than a paving stone, each about an inch high, set out like stepping stones, leading not across some picturesque stream but to a lifeless mutilated body which only hours before had been a living, breathing friend and colleague.
Sam used her mobile and asked for a Home Office Pathologist to attend, knowing they preferred to come to the scene before the body had been moved. It was important. They could test police theories and get a clearer understanding of what had happened.
Ed pulled up, nodded at everyone but no one in particular, and like Sam, began to fight his way into a paper suit.
‘Why are these bloody suits always so fuckin’ small?’ he muttered, balancing on one leg, trying to force his other foot through a white leg.
The suits acted like the trigger on a starter pistol. In silence, lost in their own thoughts, unaware of the stares from the neighbours, they both concentrated on pushing their emotions to one side. Now was the moment to let their investigative mindsets take over, to focus on both the scene examination and the scene interpretation.
Telling herself to forget it was a friend, Sam recalled the words of Albert Szent-Gyorgyi, the Nobel-winning Hungarian physiologist, who once said, ‘Discovery consists of seeing what everyone else sees, but thinking what no one else has thought.’
It could have been written for a detective.
‘See what everyone else sees, but think what no one else has thought,’ she mentally repeated to herself.
Walking towards the front door, they both knew that there would be time later to grieve the senseless killing of a bright, vibrant, young colleague and friend. That time wasn’t now. Not in her house.
They needed to be the voice of the victim. Louise Smith couldn’t tell them what happened in the last moments of her life, but if they collected the correct pieces, dovetailed them together, the jigsaw would form a picture as vivid as any account Louise could have painted.
No one had to remind them of their responsibilities, or the expectations resting on them from her family and an outraged public.
Nor did they need reminding just how difficult this particular scene was going to be. They both took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Sam blinked hard.
Concentrate.
Louise’s voice and laughter played out in her head. She visualised Louise drunk, barefoot, running to answer the door when the hunk across the road dropped off more wine.
Concentrate.
The hallway had a staircase with one turn, and the banister and spindles, painted in gloss white, appeared at first glance to be spotlessly clean. A door on the left led into a small study, which contained a light oak rectangle desk, the type that is delivered flat packed, and a black mock-leather swivel chair. On top of the desk were some letters and papers, and an Apple laptop, the lid closed, which was charging from a four-plug adaptor on the floor. A photograph of Louise, in uniform, with her classmates from training school was hanging on the centre of the wall.
The plain, white door on the right led into a neat lounge with a stone fireplace and a multi-coloured fabric retro settee.
At the bottom of the hall was a large dining kitchen. The kitchen sink and drainer were empty, and the worktops clean with the usual appliances on top. The glass-topped table had six metal framed chairs around it. One window was swinging open, the casement stay banging on the outside of the windowsill.
Nothing downstairs gave any indication whatsoever of the horrors that waited upstairs, with the exception of a missing knife from the block on the workbench.
Sam looked at the block and saw it was the largest knife which had been taken. That always seemed to be the case in domestic homicides. How many people had she interviewed for killing their wife or husband where the weapon was a knife? Every one of them described grabbing the first knife that came to hand but it was always, without fail, the biggest in the block. With total disregard to the law of averages, none of them ever found their hand falling on the potato peeler. Why? Because they all knew exactly which knife they wanted. Choice not chance. It looked like it would be no different here.
Climbing the stairs, Sam chewed the inside of her bottom lip as she saw blood smears on the staircase wall, blood that had undoubtedly come from the clothing, or a body extremity, of the fleeing killer. Scientific tests would establish the origin of the blood.
All the rooms upstairs, with the exception of one, were undisturbed.
Sam walked into Louise’s bedroom, looked quickly at what was in front of her, and then fixed her eyes on the window, fighting back the tears.
Ed, close behind, saw his dead colleague laid there and inhaled deeply, holding the air in his lungs, giving himself a couple of seconds to absorb, and recover from, the wave of sadness.
Each looked at the other and nodded, a silent acknowledgement that it was time to go to work.
Louise’s bedroom had become an abattoir. She was on the floor, lying on her back, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, strands of her hair across her face. The carpet around her was heavily bloodstained and there were trails of blood on the floor leading from Louise’s body back to the bed.
Carefully walking around the room, stepping on the plates, they both kept their hands in their pockets, even though they were wearing gloves. It was a habit passed on from generation to generation of murder squad detectives.
They could clearly see the sheets strewn over the bed, covered in deep red, almost brown, stains. There was blood on the floor, and on the cream wall, next to the side of the bed furthest from the door, suggesting the attack had continued there, probably as Louise tried to get off the bed and escape.
Julie Trescothick joined them, and pointed out the faint footprint impressions in the carpet, which appeared to be similar to the soles of training shoes. Clearly they didn’t belong to the barefoot Louise.
The splattered blood on the ceiling ran from above Louise, back towards the bed, the blood nearer the bed being much less concentrated, the overall pattern similar to paint thrown from a child’s brush on to paper. They both knew that for blood to fly off the blade and hit the ceili
ng in those linear formations needed very fast, very long, up and over arm movements. A forensic scientist would provide expert witness testimony on the Blood Pattern Analysis, but Sam and Ed could see what had happened.
Sam shuddered, and her thoughts turned to Louise’s mother. She had met her once, many years ago at some function. To her shame, she couldn’t remember her name. From memory, she was older than she expected, giving birth to Louise quite late in life.
What effect had walking into this bloodbath, seeing her beloved daughter lying there carved to pieces, had on her? She would never recover. How could she? That vision would haunt her until her dying day.
‘Christ, how many of these do I have to see?’ thought Sam. Her mind altered course, a yacht tacking in a new direction, and she thought of her beloved father, and the numbness she had felt when she saw his body in the mortuary. He had been cleaned up before she got there and looked asleep. Only the cold stiffness of his body as she held him in her arms betrayed the fact that he wasn’t sleeping. Louise hadn’t been ‘dressed’ for identification by her mother.
Like Sam, Ed had seen these nightmares too many times, and nothing affected any of his senses any longer. His eyes didn’t turn away in horror, and the smells of death no longer made his stomach to retch.
Louise had clearly tried to escape but cornered, alone, fighting for her life, she had lost a mismatched battle. That he knew her added to the tragedy before him, but having stared into the abyss of human depravity so many times, he was no longer shocked.
Julie brought them back from their private thoughts by pointing to a front door key, which had been on top of the duvet, caught up in the concertina folds. Near the pillow was a black ski mask.
Sam and Ed stood still in the middle of the bedroom and looked around, their eyes taking in everything before them, their minds trying to process everything they saw and, more importantly, make sense of it. What they were trying to do was interpret the scene, to better understand what had happened.
Be My Girl Page 21
