can we go home yet?’ he’d been saying, without any hope.
And then they had turned the corner of Bargate and walked into a small crowd of people on the pavement between the Unicorn pub and Marks and Spencers. They were arguing with a policeman and each other as they waited for an ambulance to arrive.
In the middle of the crowd, a man had been lying on the floor, covered with a sheet that someone had brought out from the pub. Only the soles of his boots were showing, tilted at an unnatural angle. The wet pavement around him had reflected the Christmas lights, breaking up their colours into fragments of rainbow, as if the man had been lying in the middle of an oil slick.
That was all Ben could take in before his mother hurried him away. There had been no blood to see, no injuries, no staring eyes or offensive bodily fluids. It had been the boots and the angle of them, impossible in life, which had told him the man was dead.
And now, in Rebecca Lowe’s home, it was the small things again that conveyed the story of violent death. Not the blood or the stains on the kitchen floor, or even the distinctive smell. It was the way her head had tipped too far back and lay at an angle that would make it difficult for her to breathe if she were alive. It was the position of her right hand, still curled in a spasm as it clutched at the floor, the fingers digging so hard into the tiles that her nails had splintered and broken, and the pale varnish lay around them in flakes of glittering dust. And it was the single blue sandal, turned the wrong way up, lying on the floor a few inches from the victim’s foot. Her toes were pointing towards it, as if she had been reaching to retrieve her sandal in her last moments, but had failed.
Some of the team had been allowed into the house, entering via the integral garage into a passage where they could access the lounge and dining room, and reach the stairs. Cooper had been waiting in the garage for ten minutes with other officers until the door had been opened, and there hadn’t been enough oxygen in there for them to share. He’d have given anything for a bit of fresh air right now.
Inside the house, Cooper paused in the hallway and looked into the lounge. Fitted carpet lapped from wall to wall, and from doorway to doorway, flowing out into the hall in an unbroken sea of Wilton. Thick curtains covered the windows – in fact, not just the windows, but the whole wall from floor to ceiling, a great blanket of brown velvet designed to shut off the room from the outside, as if the double glazing wasn’t enough to do the job on its own.
He imagined that everything in the house had been sealed: the fireplace would have no chimney, the doors would be insulated, and no doubt the roof space was layered with fibreglass. Parson’s Croft felt like a warm cocoon.
To Cooper, it seemed unnatural to think about hiding away from the outside world to such an extent. If you were going to cut yourself off from the sun and fresh air like this, you might as well be in prison. And in any case, when a killer had come looking for Rebecca Lowe, her house had given her no protection at all.
An hour earlier, Cooper had found Diane Fry at the rendezvous point on the outer cordon, outside the front gate of Parson’s Croft.
‘Ah, Ben,’ she’d said. ‘How nice to see you. Well, this is what is technically known as a crime scene. There’s usually at least one involved in a major enquiry, such as the murder case we’re currently investigating.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘I tried to call you this morning. Your phone was off.’
‘This morning? I was in a cave,’ protested Cooper.
‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’
Cooper looked at the house. All the windows on the ground floor were lit, and the front door stood open. A safe pathway had been marked out by the scenes of crime officers, who he could see moving around inside the house in their white, hooded scene suits.
‘The body is in the kitchen, at the back of the house,’ said Fry.
‘Do we have an ID?’
Fry checked her notebook. ‘The victim’s name is Rebecca Lowe, aged forty-nine. She lived alone. Her assailant seems to have gained access to the house via the back door, which leads into the utility room, next to the kitchen.’
‘An intruder? Was it a burglary gone wrong?’
‘We can’t tell at the moment. There’s no sign of a forced entry. The back door was unlocked when the victim’s sister arrived at the house.’
‘Who’s SIO?’
‘Mr Kessen, of course.’
Cooper could see Detective Chief Inspector Oliver Kessen sitting in the back of the scenes of crime van, studying a video. Some senior investigating officers would want a clean sweep at this stage. In fact, one or two SIOs would pack up the entire room where the victim had died and send it back to the lab. They had a nagging fear that something would be missed at the crime scene. But DCI Kessen was said to be more focused. By watching the initial video of the scene, he’d be hoping to build up an early hypothesis, so that the number of forensic tests could be limited.
They stood aside to let a group of officers go past, including a SOCO in a scene suit carrying an aluminium step ladder.
‘What’s the ladder for?’ asked Cooper.
‘To reach the kitchen ceiling.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The ceiling,’ said Fry. ‘Blood splatter on the ceiling. Wake up, Ben.’
‘Right.’
A flutter of tape by the open front door marked the inner cordon preserving the scene itself. Contamination was the big fear, so everyone was being kept at arm’s length for now, including surplus detectives.
‘Blood splatter,’ said Cooper. ‘So what are we looking at as a weapon?’
‘Kitchen knife, probably.’
‘They’re much too handy.’
‘Apparently, Mrs Lowe had an entire block full of them,’ said Fry. ‘But now they’re scattered all over her kitchen floor.’
Cooper watched the Crime Scene Manager enter the van to talk to Mr Kessen. As far as the forensic team were concerned, contamination was something that occurred only after the scene had been preserved. Before that, anything else that went on should have been ‘normal procedures’ – the desperate attempts to save an injured person’s life, the anxious search for the body of another victim or for a violent assailant who might still be on the premises. Normal procedures.
He turned to Fry again.
‘When did we get the call-out?’
‘Eleven thirty-eight.’
‘I was long since out of Peak Cavern by then. You should have got through to me.’
‘No, it was earlier that I tried to phone you.’
‘Earlier? But –’
‘Not now, Ben.’
And then she was away, striding across the edge of
