‘I hear you have a dead male for me in flat number sixteen. Yes?’ Roddis still sounded irritated.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Donnelly.
Roddis turned to Sean. ‘Anything special you want from us?’
‘No. Our money’s on a domestic, so stick to the basics. You can keep the expensive toys locked away.’
‘Very well,’ Roddis replied. ‘Blood, fibres, prints, hair and semen it is.’
Donnelly and Sean were already walking away. Sean called over his shoulder. ‘I’m briefing my team at eight a.m. Try and get me a preliminary report before then.’
‘I might be able to phone something through to you. Will that do?’
‘Fine,’ said Sean. Right now he would take anything on offer.
It was shortly before 8 a.m. and Sean sat alone in his bleak, functional office in Peckham police station, surrounded by the same cheap wooden furniture that adorned each and every police building across London. The office was just about big enough to house two four-foot battered oblong desks and two uncomfortable chairs for the frequent visitors. Two ancient-looking computers sat one on each desk and the harsh fluorescent lights above painted everything a dull yellow. How he envied those TV detectives with their swivel leather chairs, banks of all-seeing all-dancing computers, and most of all the Jasper Conran reading lamps slung low over shining glass desks. Reality was mundane and functional.
Sean thought about the victim. What sort of person had he been? Was he loved? Would he be missed? He would find out soon enough. The phone rang and made him jump.
‘DI Corrigan.’ He rarely wasted words on the phone. Years of speaking into radios had trimmed his speech.
‘Mr Corrigan, it’s DS Roddis. You wanted an update for your briefing?’ Roddis didn’t recognize any ranks above his own, but his powerful position meant he was never challenged by his seniors. He decided the forensic resources assigned to each case, and it was he who knew the right people at the right laboratories across the south-east who could get the job done. Everybody, regardless of rank, respected his monopoly.
‘Thanks for calling. What you got for me?’
‘Well, it’s early days.’
Sean knew the lab team would have done little more than get organized. ‘I appreciate that, but I’d like whatever you’ve got.’
‘Very well. We’ve had a cursory look around. The entry and exit point is surprisingly clean, given the nature of the attack. And the hallway was clean too. Perhaps we’ll find something when we get better lighting and some UV lamps. Other than that, nothing definite yet. The blood spray marks on the walls and furniture have me a little confused.’
‘Confused?’ Sean asked.
‘Having seen the victim’s wounds, I’m pretty sure the blow to the head all but killed him and it certainly knocked him down. I have a blood spray pattern on a wall that would be consistent with a blow to his head with a heavy object.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘If the victim was prostrate when the other injuries were inflicted then I would only expect to find small, localized sprays, but I’ve got numerous others, over the carpet, broken furniture, up the walls. They’re not consistent with his wounds.’
‘Then he must have other wounds we haven’t seen yet,’ Sean suggested. ‘Or maybe the blood is from the attacker?’
‘Possibly.’ Roddis sounded unconvinced. ‘No obvious murder weapon yet,’ he continued, ‘but it will probably turn up when we get into the search properly.’
‘Anything else?’ Sean asked, in hope more than expectation.
‘There are plenty of corres: address books, diaries, bank books and so on. It shouldn’t be too hard to confirm the victim’s identity. That’s it so far.’
Sean may not have particularly liked Roddis, but he valued his professionalism. ‘Thanks. It’ll be a help in the briefing. Might keep the team awake.’ He hung up.
Reclining in his chair, Sean stared at the lukewarm cup of coffee on his desk. What would it mean if the splash patterns didn’t match the wounds on the victim? Had the killer been badly injured himself and the blood sprays came from his wounds? He doubted it, especially if Roddis was right about the victim being all but taken out with the first blow to the head. And if he was knocked down with the first blow, then what the hell were the other injuries about? The answers would come, he reassured himself. Wait for the full forensic examination of the scene, the post-mortem of the victim. The answers would come. They always did.
He stood and looked out of his window down at the station car park. He saw DS Sally Jones outside furiously smoking a cigarette, laughing and joking with a couple of girls from the typing pool.
He watched her, admiring her. A five-foot-three bundle of energy. Her slender athletic legs contrasted with her slightly stocky, masculine upper-body. He tried to remember if he had seen her fair hair not tied back in a ponytail.
He loved her ability to connect with people. She could talk to anyone and make them feel that she was their best friend in the world, and so Sean sometimes used her to do the things he would find impossible to do well. Speaking with grieving parents. Telling a husband his wife had been raped and murdered in their own home. Sean had watched in awe as Sally told people unthinkable things and then half an hour later she would be laughing and joking, puffing on a cigarette, chatting with whoever was close enough. She was tough. Tougher than he would ever be. He smiled as he watched her.
Sean wondered why she was still alone. He couldn’t imagine doing this job and then going home to an empty house. Sally told him she was clearly too much for any man to handle. He had often tried to sense some sorrow in her. Some loneliness. He never could.
He checked the time. She was going to be late for the briefing. He could call out the window and warn her, but he decided it would be more fun to leave it.
He walked the short distance along the busy, brightly lit corridor: doors on both sides; old and new posters pinned and stuck to the walls, uniformly ignored by passers-by all too single-mindedly trying to get to wherever they were going to stop and take notice of someone else’s appeals for assistance. He reached the briefing room and entered. His team continued to chatter away amongst themselves. A couple of them, including Donnelly, mouthed a greeting. He nodded back.
The team was relatively small. Two detective sergeants − Sally and Donnelly − and ten detective constables. Sean sat in his usual chair at the head of a rectangular wooden table, the cheapest money could buy. He dropped his mobile phone and notebook in front of him and looked around − making sure everyone was there. He nodded to Donnelly, who understood the cue. They’d been working with each other long enough to be able to communicate without the need for words.
‘All right, people, listen up. The guv’nor wants to speak and we’ve got a lot to get through, so let’s park our arses and crack on.’ The murmuring faded as the team began to sit and concentrate on Sean.
Detective Constable Zukov spoke. ‘D’you want me to grab DS Jones, boss? I think she’s having a smoke in the yard.’
‘No.
