by Louisa Scarr
‘Yes, Sarge,’ they chorus in unison.
* * *
The day progresses slowly, work monotonous for all. Freya makes call after call to HMP Winchester, shunted round from department to department.
‘You need the probation service,’ the voice at the other end says. ‘If he’s been released.’
‘But that’s where I started!’ Freya cries out in frustration.
‘Sorry.’ She can almost hear the indifference at the other end of the phone. ‘Can’t help.’
‘Ugh,’ Freya says, putting the phone down. She turns to Mina, who’s sat resting her head on her hand, staring at the screen. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’ Mina sits up and rubs her eyes. ‘You’re going to be glad to get back to Butler, after working for Sergeant Smudge here,’ she remarks. Freya had told her about their night out on Wednesday, and the nickname given by his friends.
‘I like working for Butler,’ Freya replies, taking her mug. ‘You don’t get stuck doing this shit, for a start. Anyway, you know him. You were in training together.’
‘Yeah, but that was before,’ Mina replies. Freya knows she’s referring to his sister’s death and how Robin had changed, retreating into silence and an ever-worsening bad temper.
‘He’s much better now,’ Freya replies.
‘Must be your influence,’ Mina says, with a raise of an eyebrow.
‘Really, Mina,’ Freya laughs. ‘Stop trying to matchmake. Especially with Robin Butler. I’m happy being single.’
She takes their mugs off to the kitchen, and as the kettle boils, she thinks about what she’s just said. She isn’t, not really. She doesn’t mind being alone; she has plenty of friends to go out with at the weekend if she chooses, and work keeps her busy, but she misses that closeness. The sharing of secrets, the warm body to keep her company on the sofa.
But if it was down to that, then it would be Robin. They have their fair share of secrets between them, and more often than not it was him she would be sitting watching television with. No; she missed a strong arm around her at night. Legs wrapped together. Full body hugs and snogging.
She looks out into the incident room, at the rows of desks and detectives. Josh has arrived back and is laughing with one of the DCs as he takes his coat off. She watches him: the wide grin, the laid-back manner. It’s raining outside, and he ruffles his dark hair with his hand, trying to get the water out of it. Josh Smith is attractive; she’ll give him that. But does she want to go out with someone from this world?
Being female in the police force is hard enough. It has moved on from the blatant discrimination of the past, but some of the sexism remains. And sleeping with a colleague comes with stigma. Shagging your way to the top. Slut, tart, police bike. Slurs that are never applied to the men.
She gets another mug out of the cupboard and makes him a coffee, too, then awkwardly carries the three hot drinks back to their desks, plonking them down and shaking her burning fingers.
She gets a broad smile from Josh and finds herself grinning in response.
No, she tells herself, stop thinking of him like that. Just no.
‘Anything from the parents?’ she asks.
Josh pulls a face. ‘Bloody awful. Tyler Garratt and Mark Black, much as you’d expect. Rough as… well, you know. Didn’t give a shit. Said they have no idea where their kids had been.’
‘Weren’t they all supposed to have been at Mark’s?’ Mina asks.
‘Yeah, but Black’s dad said they would have been in the garage, and they don’t go in there.’
‘And Lee Cernis?’
Josh sighs. ‘Oh, bless them, not a clue. I spoke to his mum, and she was lovely. But thinks the sun shines out of Tyler’s and Mark’s arses, and is more than happy with Lee hanging around with them.’ He pulls his notebook out and flicks through the pages. ‘Says Lee was out from six p.m. Didn’t hear him come home, but she knows it was late. He was there in the morning at breakfast and he told her he got in about two a.m.’
‘On a school night?’ Mina remarks.
‘I asked that. But he’s eighteen. Free to come and go as he pleases, as long as she knows if he’s going to be there for dinner.’
Mina scowls. ‘I’m going to be locking my kids up until they’re at least twenty-five,’ she mutters.
Freya gives her a sympathetic smile. Her desk phone starts ringing so she answers it and speaks briefly to the voice at the other end.
‘Thank you, thank you very much,’ she finishes. ‘Yes, please email anything you have through.’
She puts her phone down and faces the other two with a smile.
‘That was the Society of Saint James, one of the homeless charities in town. One of their volunteers identified our vic.’ Freya sits back in her seat, feeling a swell of satisfaction. ‘His name was Duncan Thorpe.’
22
Finn’s arrest creates a ripple of emotion around the hospital room. Finn alternates between confusion and disbelief; Josie continues to cry; Sophie has arrived and is redundantly trying to comfort her boyfriend.
Robin can only feel anger.
He turns to DI Craig, pointing at the door. ‘Can I speak to you for a moment…’ he says, trying to keep his voice level. ‘Please?’
He sees her taking in the chaos and, knowing her presence won’t be helping, she nods. In the corridor, she confronts Robin.
‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same if this was your case.’
‘He’s not going anywhere. You can’t interview him. You certainly can’t take him into custody. What’s the point?’
Craig stares back into the room. ‘He’s got two perfectly functioning legs. Yes, he’s confused, but there’s no medical reason why we can’t arrest him. We’ve had uniforms on the door, but you know as well as I do that we’ve had no power to stop him from walking out of the hospital. Now he’s under arrest, we can keep him here. Legally. We should have done so the moment he got out of that van – god knows why I didn’t.’
‘Have you got enough to charge him?’ Robin asks.
She pauses. ‘Not yet.’
Robin’s aware of what she’s not telling him: their evidence is still patchy. But now he’s been arrested, the police have the power to properly search his flat and workplace, even go through his computer. And who knows what they’ll find.
DC Grey is standing awkwardly a few metres away in the corridor. ‘Grey,’ Craig shouts, finding a suitable conduit for her frustration. ‘Have you chased the lab yet?’
‘No, no, I…’ and he scuttles off, mobile in hand.
‘Listen,’ Craig says sternly. ‘I can’t have you interfering like this. I am a DI, you are a DS. This is my case, my patch. You can’t be questioning my decisions in front of my team.’
Even through his anger, Robin knows she’s right. He would have had stern words long before Craig did, if someone had been undermining him in front of West. She outranks him, and his behaviour has been perilously close to insubordination. ‘You’re right, boss. I apologise,’ Robin replies, contrite, pushing his personal feelings aside. ‘Are you asking me to leave?’
‘No. I’m simply saying that you need to decide whose side you’re on. Either you want to get to the bottom of this case and have access to our investigation or you’re family, and you stay the hell away from me.’
Robin stops. He wants to clear Finn’s name. And the only way to do that is to play ball.
‘I want to find out what happened.’
Craig looks at him, trying to read his face for sincerity. ‘Fine,’ she says at last. ‘But if we find something that shows Finn is guilty of murder and this case goes to trial, you may be called to testify against your friend. You’re aware of that, right?’
Robin nods, silent. He’ll deal with that problem when the time comes. If the time comes.
Craig shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Then come with me and shut the fuck up. We have an appointment with a blood-spatter expert.’ She starts walking, and he follows. �
�I must be crazy,’ she mutters as they go.
* * *
The van is still cordoned off as a crime scene, SOCOs swarming round. Craig and Robin both show their IDs and are signed in by the scene guard; he hands them white suits, then points towards the silver vehicle.
‘She’s inside,’ he says, ominously.
They put on their PPE and head over. Both back doors of the van are open, and Craig bangs on the side by way of introduction. A short, stout woman pokes her head out.
‘DI Craig and DS Butler,’ Craig says. ‘You must be Hodgson?’
‘Susie,’ she says. ‘Come inside. If you can. Don’t touch anything.’
Craig leads the way and Robin follows. The three of them crowd into the van. It’s larger than Robin remembers from Wednesday, but just as shocking. The body has been removed, but the mess remains – blood over almost every surface, dried on the floor, spatters up the walls. How someone can make sense of this, Robin’s not sure, but that’s exactly what Susie does for a living.
Craig and Robin go to stand at the cleaner end of the vehicle, next to the driver’s cab, bending down slightly to fit in the decreasing headroom. Every inch of the tiny space has been utilised to its full extent. The area near them, where Finn had been sitting on Wednesday, is crowded with computers and other technical equipment. A small, seated area is at the far end, with a table and two low stools. Robin remembers Sharp’s body lying under that table.
‘So,’ the crime scene investigator begins. ‘You want the headlines?’
Craig nods. ‘Please.’
‘We took the body away yesterday, but you can see the void where it was situated.’ Susie points to the patch of clean floor, and the clean line of dark red. ‘The rest is a complete mess. We know the victim died from a wound to his neck, but even without that knowledge I could have made a pretty good guess that was what happened.’
‘How?’ Robin asks.
‘Volume and distribution of the blood. It’s a huge amount.’ She gestures round the van. ‘Especially to come from one person. And up the walls, across the ceiling. Most of it is smeared and smudged. The pair obviously moved around and spread it everywhere. I’ve seen their clothes – both soaked in it. And we have contact stains all over. I’m not surprised, given the space in here.’
She points to a long smudge up the wall. ‘Handprints, possible finger swipes with some ridge detail – don’t know whose yet – plus marks from fabric where they might have fallen against the wall. Footwear marks in blood, here,’ Robin looks at the clear tread pattern, ‘and here. Your victim was wearing size ten boots, so these are probably his. Yours,’ she adds, pointing to Robin. ‘Here. You didn’t contaminate the scene too much, thankfully. And here’s another mark from you. Your knee, right? I read your statement.’ Robin nods, remembering the nauseating feeling that he was wading in someone’s blood.
Susie carries on, pointing to the floor under the footplates. ‘And your offender,’ she says. ‘Trainers, here.’
Robin and Craig look at the distribution of the marks. Sharp’s are grouped closest to where his body fell, while Finn’s are all over the place. It looks like he was moving backwards and forwards across the van, each time walking through the blood.
‘And these?’ Craig asks, pointing up the window.
‘How much do you know about projected blood stains?’ Susie says. They both look blank. ‘You used to call it arterial spray.’
‘Start from the beginning.’
‘So, when an artery is damaged, the blood is emitted in a jet, if you like, which will hit any nearby surface or simply fall to the floor. These spots of blood on the floor are arterial rain.’ Robin winces at the term, although given what he’s seeing, it’s appropriate. ‘They project out by some distance. You can also see the separate spurts on the walls, landing dependent on how the victim is moving. Following?’
Craig and Robin nod obediently.
‘So, I can estimate it started here,’ she points to the wall, ‘then he turned to his left, distributing the blood in the pattern you can see here.’
Robin stares at the wall. He can see five distinct arcs of blood drops – some intact circles, others dripping down, running together.
‘Then he must have fallen, smearing and smudging as he went. The majority of the blood is pooled under the table, where the body was.’
She stares at the large dark red stain, her eyes narrowed. ‘I estimated about five litres in here. He bled out, right?’
‘That’s what the pathologist said, yes.’
‘Thought so. That’s most of his blood volume, right there, on the floor.’
‘Christ,’ Craig says under her breath. She inhales slowly, deeply, then faces the CSI again. ‘Any sign of anything else? Cast-off or impact spatter?’
Robin knows what she’s asking. Looking for the telltale signs of a weapon being brandished, or someone being beaten.
‘No, nothing. And that would tie up with the body, right?’
‘Right,’ Robin says, with a glare at Craig. Why is she looking for something that isn’t there? Aren’t things bad enough as it is? ‘And whose blood is this?’
‘DNA not back from the lab, but given the analysis on the victim’s clothes, my guess is this all belongs to Simon Sharp.’
They thank the investigator and walk silently away from the van. Out of the cordon they pull off their suits, Robin wrenching the mask from his face.
‘Christ,’ Craig says again. ‘Imagine being there when that happened.’
Robin doesn’t want to. The idea of watching, as someone bled to death in that way, is horrifying. He can understand why Finn’s brain is as scrambled as it is. Killer or not, it would have been traumatising to see. Flailing around the van, blood pumping from his neck.
Being covered in it, soaked in it.
Watching your friend die.
23
By the time Freya and Mina arrive at the homeless shelter, dinner time is in full flow. The dining hall has rows of tables, all the plastic chairs occupied, the chink of cutlery against crockery. A smell reminiscent of school lunches fills the air: overcooked vegetables and roasted meat.
Freya stands at the edge of the room, while Mina makes enquiries. She feels wary eyes on her, instantly able to mark her out as law enforcement. The people at the tables are hunched and shabbily dressed. Few talk, all eat as quickly as they can, shovelling precious food into their mouths.
Mina turns away from the man she’s been talking to. A tall, thin bloke – one of the helpers at the shelter – wearing a stained white apron and hairnet.
‘Dave here was the one who identified Duncan,’ Mina explains.
Dave nods. ‘I’m sorry to hear of his passing,’ he says. ‘Duncan was a good bloke.’
‘Can you tell us more about him?’ Freya asks.
He shakes his head. ‘As I told Detective Constable Desai, I don’t know about family or next of kin,’ he begins. ‘Like most people here, Duncan didn’t speak much about his past.’
‘Did you know anything about him?’
The man directs them away from the main dining hall, and they move to stand in the quieter corridor.
‘I know he was in the army, in his youth. And then inside for a stretch, maybe a few times.’ Freya nods; they’ve already run his background. ‘He was trying to turn his life around. Without much success. A lot of the ex-forces guys have the same root problem.’
‘Which is?’ Freya asks, but she can guess. She’s heard it too many times.
‘The places they’ve been to, the things they’ve seen. It’s more than any person should have to cope with. But when they don’t have a strong, supportive family to help, or they don’t feel they can open up and deal with it, they need to look for other ways to survive. Some turn to drink, drugs. Some turn to violence.’
‘Doesn’t the army provide support?’
‘They do, but they’re overloaded. Most are men, I’m afraid. They retreat into themselves, lose the support of thei
r loved ones or just walk away, not wanting to be a burden. Which means they end up on the street. Or in prison, like Thorpe.’
What Dave’s saying backs up what Freya has found. Once they had a name, she could find out more about Duncan Thorpe. A stint inside when he was twenty-nine, for manslaughter. Reading between the lines, it sounded like a pub fight gone wrong: local lads squaring up to a group of squaddies, out drinking in a dodgy pub. One ended up dead, after having been on the receiving end of Duncan Thorpe’s fist. Out of the army, and into jail.
And it all went downhill from there. Not long after release, he was back in again. Breaking and entering, this time. Nothing since, but it’s not hard for Freya to see how Thorpe’s life had gone off the rails.
Dave looks back out into the dining hall, thinking. He sighs. ‘Duncan came here more often than not. We don’t allow alcohol or drug-taking on the premises, so I wouldn’t know for sure, but I believe drink was his problem. Plus, I know he experienced flashbacks, traumatic memories. I would often see him wandering the halls here at night, unable to sleep.’ His face turns downwards. ‘So, I’d guess there was some pretty serious PTSD. Undiagnosed, of course, but when you’ve seen it so many times…’ He shrugs. A caring man, worn down with helplessness. ‘When did you say he was found?’
‘Wednesday morning. After the storm.’
He nods grimly. ‘We were rammed that night. Nobody wanted to be outdoors. We only have so many beds.’
Mina places a reassuring hand on Dave’s arm. ‘You can’t help everyone.’
Dave looks down, his face miserable. ‘Yeah, but Duncan was one of the ones that stood a chance. If he’d had the support he needed, he might have been okay.’ He looks up, watery eyes meeting Freya’s. ‘He might still be alive.’
* * *
Mina and Freya walk out of the shelter, back into the warm spring day.
‘All those people,’ Mina says as they wander back to the car. ‘But for the grace of God, you know?’
