by JANICE FROST
Caitlin entered the church and stood for a while looking at the window. It was late afternoon now, and in the gloom the glasswork looked dull and faded with age. Caitlin wondered if she would have been so moved by her window, had she first seen it like this. It was in need of rescuing, she thought. When she restored a piece of stained glass to its former glory, lovingly replicating the work of the original masters, it was like turning back the clock. She was making something true again.
Caitlin left the church and walked back across the field to the bus stop. A woman, who was pulling a small child on a sledge, informed her that she had missed the last bus. There was no alternative but to walk three miles to the next village to catch a connection. It was a long, dispiriting walk in the snow, and the bus, when it eventually arrived, was chilly. It broke down on the way to Stromford and it took a full hour for a replacement to arrive. Caitlin was chilled to the bone.
When she stepped off the bus in Stromford, her first thought was to find somewhere to warm up. She found a pub and ordered the soup of the day and a glass of wine, and then another. When a group of students invited her to join their quiz team, she accepted. She would order a taxi later. She left the pub at closing time. Twenty minutes later, she stepped out of her taxi outside the block where she shared a flat with her friend Angie Dent.
Caitlin fumbled for her keys outside the entrance to the block. It was late and she didn’t want to use the intercom. Angie might be in bed and she didn’t want to wake her up.
Suddenly, someone gripped Caitlin’s arm firmly. She swivelled round to see a familiar face peering at her from inside a hoodie. She was about to speak when the first thrust of the blade pierced her neck. Surprise, then shock, followed by a huge adrenaline rush that came too late, as the knife struck again, and again. And, finally, though its work was done, one more time.
Chapter 9
Neal broke the news to Ava when she walked into his office. It was eight forty-five, two days after Gray Mitchell’s body had been found outside the west front of the cathedral. As Ava plonked a takeaway coffee cup on his desk he greeted her with the words, “Don’t take your coat off. Night shift called in a homicide this morning. Darkwoods Avenue.” They had another body.
“That’s where Caitlin Foster and Angie Dent live, isn’t it?” she said.
Neal nodded. A pause.
“Caitlin or Angie?”
“Caitlin.”
“Are we taking the case?”
“I don’t think we have a choice. It may be connected to Gray Mitchell’s murder.”
“Cause of death? I’m assuming she wasn’t pushed off a roof.”
“She was stabbed. That’s all I know.”
“A robbery, maybe?” Ava said.
“No, I think we can rule out robbery. The victim was apparently found with a wad of tenners in her purse.”
“You really think the person who killed Caitlin also killed Gray Mitchell, sir? The methods are completely different.”
Neal merely looked at her. He tossed over his car keys.
“Let’s go take a look.”
“Sir . . . the interview with Ray Irons?”
“It can wait. Get PJ to contact him and meet me at the car in five.” Ava turned to go and he called her back. “Forgot your coffee,” he said. Her smile of gratitude lifted his mood. He took a sip from his own cup and composed a couple of quick emails before grabbing his coat.
“It’s still bloody freezing, isn’t it?” Ava said, slipping into the passenger seat.
“Snow’s had a bit of a fright though,” Neal commented, putting the car in gear.
Darkwoods Avenue was in a part of town known as South Darkholt. It had been a large village, incorporated over the years into the Stromford urban sprawl. The dark wood that had once been the source of its name no longer existed. The avenue, at least, was tree-lined, Neal recalled.
“You’d think Angie and Caitlin would have moved to the centre of town, wouldn’t you?” Ava commented. “They both work in the city and there’s not much out this way for a pair of twenty-somethings.”
Neal thought this an odd comment for someone who lived in an isolated woodland cottage four miles out of the city. He was glad Ava was no longer living there alone, and that her brother Ollie was a dog person. He was badgering Ava, a cat lover, to take in a rescue dog. People thought twice about breaking into properties when they heard a dog.
Nearly every garden along Darkwoods Avenue had outdoor decorations. These ranged from the subtle — a string of silver lights in a fir tree, to the tacky — a whole garden full of inflatable snowmen, flashing Santas and reindeer with glowing noses.
“Waste of bloody energy,” Neal grumbled.
“Where’s your Christmas spirit, sir?”
Neal ignored her comment. He wasn’t looking forward to the annual Christmas get-together at work. The expectation nowadays seemed to be to turn up in a ridiculous festive jumper. He had no desire to be seen with a carrot sticking out of his chest attached to a bloody knitted snowman.
“This is it,” Ava said.
Neal hit the brake, causing them both to jerk forward in their seat. The dregs of Ava’s coffee cup splashed over her jeans.
“Sorry.”
Angie Dent and Caitlin Forest lived at the very end of the street, in a small block of flats set back from the pavement. The front was landscaped, the rear backed onto a wooded area. A police patrol car was parked at the side of the block and the shivering duty officer greeted them with a nod and a wave.
“Who found her?” Neal asked.
“One of the residents, sir. He’s a nurse at the county hospital. Came off a twelve hour shift at six this morning and cycled home. Took him about twenty minutes. Stopped off at the recycling shed to get rid of a plastic bottle and caught sight of a rat. It was scurrying away from what he thought was a spilt bag of rubbish until he got a closer look.”
The PC’s eyes travelled to the body slumped against some blue wheelie bins, its head drooping lifelessly against its chest. His voice wavered. Neal and Ava looked away, giving him a moment to recover. Neal covered his nose with a handkerchief as he bent to take a closer look at the body. Mingled with the stink of rotten food was the sour smell of fresh vomit.
“My partner, sir,” the PC explained. “Brought up his breakfast. I sent him down the road to the café to get a cuppa. He’s a newbie and this is a bad one.”
Ava bent beside Neal. For the second time that week, they were looking at blood on snow.
“Her coat’s all but ripped to shreds,” Ava observed. “Looks like she’s been stabbed repeatedly.”
Neal nodded, regretting the bacon-and-egg buttie he’d had for breakfast. He wondered at Ava’s constitution. Maybe she’d skipped breakfast? She was already looking beyond the body at the crime scene, focusing on the way forward. He was doing it too. Solving a crime was an intellectual challenge, Neal thought. It was a creative act that required both intelligence and imagination. He wished his gut would back him up.
They were disturbed by a sudden scuffle. A bold rat poked its head round the side of the recycling shed. It disappeared, leaving a bad taste in Neal’s mouth. Rats had no respect for the dead — they’d rummage through the pockets of corpses for food and gnaw at the flesh itself. They often went for the eyes first. Caitlin Forest’s clothes or even her exposed flesh would probably show traces of their activity. Neal shuddered.
Neal stood up and scanned the immediate area.
“Nothing obvious at the scene, sir,” the PC said.
“Good work, Constable.” The older man looked tired. He had probably been nearing the end of a long shift when the call came through. Now he’d be stuck at the scene until reinforcements arrived.
“We’d better speak with Angie Dent, if she’s home, but let’s keep it short,” Neal said to Ava.
Neal tasked Ava with breaking the news to Angie, once the other PC had returned and could accompany her. “Radio down to say what situation you find up there,” h
e said. He wished he could go himself, but he had to remain at the scene.
* * *
The block of flats had a secure entry system and Ava waited a few minutes until Angie’s voice asked who was there. She told Angie that she needed to speak with her. Then she let Neal know Angie was okay.
Angie and Caitlin’s flat was up two flights of stairs. The stairs and corridors were carpeted, Ava noted, and well cared for. This was not a cheap let. Angie came to the door wearing jersey shorts and a camisole top. She looked from the PC to Ava, her eyebrows raised. Ava showed her badge and asked if they could come in.
Angie nodded and showed them into the living room, saying she’d be right back. She returned a few moments later wearing jeans and a hooded top.
“What’s this about?”
“It’s about your friend, Caitlin Forest.”
“What about Caitlin?” Angie glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece. “She’ll be on her way to work by now. It’s my day off today, so I asked her not to wake me.”
Ava was surprised that Angie didn’t seem concerned. Most people confronted by two police officers this early in the morning, would be fearful. Then again, Angie had obviously just woken up. Maybe she wasn’t firing on all cylinders yet. Then, suddenly, she was.
“Has something happened? Has Caitlin had an accident on her way to work or something?”
“I’m sorry, Angie. Maybe you’d like to sit down?”
Angie sat. “Oh my God,” she said, hand over her mouth. “Just tell me what it is.”
“Caitln’s dead. I’m sorry,” said Ava and sat down beside Angie. The PC stood behind the sofa, pale and awkward. Ava asked him to fetch a blanket and make some tea.
“Did Caitlin come home last night?” Ava asked, wrapping a throw around Angie’s shoulders — all the PC had been able to find.
“Keep it round you,” she told Angie. “For the shock.”
“I . . . don’t know. I had a stomach ache — my period — and had an early night. I went to bed around nine o’clock and I slept all night. What happened?”
Ava took a breath. “There’s no easy way of telling you this, I’m afraid, Angie. Caitlin was murdered.”
Angie stared at Ava, pulled the throw around her and buried her face in it. Ava touched her shoulder, then went to join the PC in the kitchen. He had managed to boil the kettle and was opening cupboard doors, searching for teabags. Ava went over to a tin on the worktop, took out three tea bags and held them out to him. “Hope you’re not applying to take your detective exam any time soon,” she said.
She looked out the window. It was on the side of the building, giving a view of some trees and a sloping grassed area. Then there was a high wooden fence, behind which lay the garden of the last house on Darkwoods Avenue before the block of flats. The living room was at the front of the building, looking out onto the road. The other side of the block, where Neal had parked the car and where the recycling shed was located, was windowless.
Ava took the cup of tea to Angie. “Did Caitlin often stay out late, or not come home at all?”
Angie shrugged. “Sometimes. She didn’t have a regular schedule.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“She was seeing Marcus Collins, but it wasn’t common knowledge. I’m not sure why they were making a big secret of it, maybe cos they worked together.” She took a sip of tea. “What happened to Caitlin? Was it — you know — quick?”
It was what people always wanted to know, of course. Ava understood why people asked, but the answer was never going to be good — or even truthful. Police officers, like medics, had to be circumspect with the facts. Ava suspected that most people wanted reassurance, rather than the truth.
“Caitlin was stabbed. In the neck and chest. She would have lost consciousness quickly,” Ava said. To her relief, Angie seemed satisfied.
“You need to find who did this,” Angie said. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. She certainly didn’t look like someone who had slept all night, but Ava knew shock sometimes did that to a person. She also knew not to make promises she couldn’t be sure of keeping.
“We’ll do our utmost to ensure that whoever did this to your friend is brought to justice,” Ava said, ashamed of the cliché.
“Like you brought Gray’s killer to justice?” Angie said.
“The investigation into Mr Mitchell’s death is still receiving high priority. We’re not miracle workers, Angie, but we don’t give up.”
“Sure you don’t,” Angie said.
Ava cleared her throat, knowing her next question would hurt. “I need to ask you about your whereabouts last night, Angie. I’m sorry. It’s a routine question.”
“Yeah, right. I was here, alone. Caitlin was supposed to be coming straight home from work. We were going to watch a movie, but she must have changed her mind.”
“Did she seem upset last time you saw her? Was it unusual for her to stay out without telling you?”
“No and no. We do our own thing. We don’t usually tell each other what we’ll be doing.”
“But you were planning on watching a movie?”
Angie sighed. “Only if neither of us had anything better to do. Caitlin obviously did.”
“Thank you. Think about having someone to stay with you for a bit,” Ava said. “We’ll see ourselves out. You should get some rest.” She and the PC left.
* * *
“That wasn’t much help,” she said to Neal. “Angie’s feeling hurt and bitter. Vulnerable too. Can’t blame her, really.”
Neal agreed. He looked at the small unassuming block of flats where Caitlin Forest had lived with her friend. There used to be a shop there, he remembered. The site had lain vacant for a while after it closed, attracting the usual spate of low-level criminal activity — vandalism, graffiti, kids swapping recreational drugs, the odd bit of soliciting. The reasonably priced flats had been snapped up quickly by first-time buyers. Angie and Caitlin were tenants, he knew. The flat was managed by an estate agency on the owner’s behalf. He hoped that Angie would not now be made homeless.
The entrance to the flats was at the rear of the building, out of view of the street and overlooked by bedrooms whose curtains would probably have been drawn by the time Caitlin returned the night before. The refuse and waste recycling shed, which was more of a three-sided timber shelter, also at the rear. It too was out of sight of the street, its open side facing away from the flats. Had someone followed Caitlin home or lain in wait for her here? Either way, killing her out in the open would have invited risks. But not from the CCTV, Neal noted. The camera had been installed purely to survey the residential parking spaces.
“And get someone to find out who to contact about looking at the CCTV footage . . .” he heard Ava saying to one of the PCs. Well, maybe it had caught something.
“What do you reckon this time, sir?” Ava said. No doubt her mind was racing like his. “Angry lover, colleague, friend, knife-wielding maniac . . ?”
“Whoever it was, he or she was brutal if not very efficient,” Neal said. “Stabbed in the neck. No doubt aiming — not very successfully — for the jugular, hence the repeated stabbings. The wounds to the chest look like they were frenzied.”
“Complete overkill. Gray Mitchell’s murder was so different. It’s hard to see how there can be a connection between them, other than the fact that the victims were acquainted.”
“Aye,” Neal said. He looked at his watch. “When were we supposed to be seeing Ray Irons?”
“He’s at home all day.”
“Let’s go, then.”
* * *
Even though the main roads had been clear for a couple of days, they made slow progress through the city centre. Shortcuts would have taken them through side roads that would still be icy. With a sideways look at her boss, Ava turned the stereo on. It was on CD.
“Hey! One Direction. This is sooo not your taste in music,” Ava commented. “Has Maggie been in the car recently?”
Neal didn’t answer. He had spent a lot of time in his teens with a guitar-playing uncle who’d been heavily into singer-songwriters of the sixties and seventies.
“Who’s that old man you listen to a lot, again?”
“Leonard Cohen,” Neal said. He felt under no obligation to apologise for his taste in music.
“I downloaded a couple of his songs a couple of weeks ago but I thought they were a bit depressing. I prefer something a bit more upbeat. Have you heard any . . . ?”
And she was off, talking about groups she liked, concerts she’d been to, the contents of her iPod shuffle. Archie wanted one of those for Christmas. He would have to ask her advice.
The voice of the SatNav brought them both back to business. “In a quarter of a mile, take the left turn.” As they curved round a bend, a wintry urban landscape unfolded before them: half-cleared pavements and white gardens, snowmen and churned-up snow.
“You have arrived at your destination,’ the disembodied voice announced.
“Not quite,” Ava said. “It’s a bit further along, sir. Number sixteen.”
Neal parked opposite Irons’ house. It was a thirties-style semi with a concreted front garden sporting two cars, one half-covered with tarpaulin and missing its rear wheels.
The house itself looked reasonably well-maintained. A flagpole extended out from an upstairs window, but today, at least, there was no fluttering Union Jack. From somewhere inside the house came the sound of a dog barking. A couple of slats in the vertical blinds at the front bay window moved as Neal and Ava walked up the path to the front door. They didn’t need to knock.
“Inspector Neal and Sergeant Merry,” Neal said. Irons was in his fifties, Neal knew, but he looked slightly younger. The one-time skinhead now had a surprisingly full head of hair for a man his age, though it was pure white. He was heavily built and looked like he worked out, though his sizeable gut was probably more fat than muscle. Neal thought of Gray Mitchell’s slender frame and decided he’d shown courage in taking on the bullish Irons.
