ended the call and decided to get up. She had a quick shower while the coffee was brewing then found a cereal bar in one of her many empty cupboards; that would keep her going for a couple of hours. She really needed to do some shopping. She left the house, snapping off the brittle branch that had caused her such panic last night, and headed for her car. Her mind kept going back to Scott. He had been quiet and more thoughtful looking before the Mercer killings. It couldn’t just be the carnage he’d witnessed that was causing such angst. What else was going on in his life to warrant such a change in his personality?
He woke up in agony. A night spent slumped between two industrial bins at the back of a petrol station was not anyone’s idea of a comfortable evening. He ached in places he didn’t realize he could ache and he was chilled to the core. Slowly, he unfolded himself from the position he had been curled up in and managed to stand up amid the sounds of clicking bones. He stretched, yawned, scratched and breathed in a lungful of rancid exhaust fumes and petrol. There was a hint of pleasure; freshly ground coffee coming from the kiosk. He emptied his pockets and counted the money he pulled out – £47.63. That was all he had in the world. Less than fifty pounds between him and poverty. It needed to last.
He went into the petrol station and headed straight for the toilets at the back. He washed his face with the pink handwash above the sink. He took off his sweater and washed under his arms. He was beginning to smell and didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He looked in the mirror at his tired face, his blond stubble and unkempt hair. He could go another couple of days without shaving, but soon he would look like a vagrant, and he’d never get a lift to mainland Europe without drawing suspicion. He’d think of something once he was at Dover. There was plenty of time, he was sure of it.
He bought himself a large black Americano, as strong as he could stomach it, and a bacon sandwich. If the forty pounds he had remaining was going to last, he would need to shop more creatively. No more chain coffee shops. He went back to the bins and picked up his ‘London’ sign before heading for the motorway.
It was still early in the morning, but it was filling up nicely with commuters. Cars with just one person in them flew past without giving him a second glance, as did coaches and mini buses. His best chance of a lift would come from a lorry. He walked along the hard shoulder, sign in one hand, coffee in the other, cursing every single vehicle that failed to stop.
‘Bastard!’ he shouted at an oil tanker that had applied its brakes, slowed down, only to quickly speed up again and beep its horn.
People were twats. That was something he’d discovered a long time ago. Nobody cared about anything but themselves. He’d tried his best, but he’d been screwed over too many times. Is there no wonder he turned to crime? It started with a bit of shoplifting; he’d been good at it too. It soon escalated. His mother told him he was on a slippery slope. It wouldn’t be long before he found himself in a situation he wouldn’t be able to get out of. He should have listened. She was right. If the police found him now, he was fucked. He should never have taken a glove off. The bloody latex made him itch. He’d left a print behind. He knew it.
Sian didn’t attend the morning briefing. She sent a text to Matilda saying she couldn’t sleep and had called Rose Bishop to see if she could visit her early. Fortunately, Rose also had trouble sleeping and looked forward to having some company.
When Sian arrived, the briefing was almost finished. The main task of the day was getting into the Mercer house and finding out who the family really was. For someone to kill and destroy a whole family like that was personal. According to the neighbours, they were the perfect family. Matilda and her team, from experience, knew there was no such thing. There had to be something lurking in their past that someone would kill for.
Matilda was in her small office with DI Christian Brady when Sian knocked on the glass door.
‘Anything?’ Matilda asked.
‘I managed to get the name of the hotel Leah and her new husband are staying at in Paris out of her. I’ve contacted the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. They’re going to contact the British Embassy in Paris and send the local police round.’
‘That’s great work, Sian. Did she tell you anything else?’
‘No. She’s a mess. Her hands were shaking, she keeps crying, and I swear she’d already had a drink when I got there. I mentioned the photos and she’s going to try and come in later today to go through them with Finn.’
‘Is she married?’
‘Yes. Her husband had gone to work.’
‘How considerate of him,’ Christian said with sarcasm.
‘She took a few photos herself on her phone. She started showing them to me but began crying. I told her to email them over.’
‘I bet a number of other guests took their own photos too,’ Christian said. ‘It might be worth setting up an email address for people to send them to. We could get Finn to see what matches up.’
‘Good thinking, Christian. Call tech and get them to set it up. Also, I’m assuming they had an official photographer too, especially to take photos outside the church. We’ll need copies of those.’ Matilda looked up through the glass and saw the young TDC Finn Cotton at Faith’s old desk, staring intently at his computer screen. ‘We’ll use Finn for all the photos so nothing is missed. Sian, can you liaise with him?’
‘Not a problem.’ She was about to leave the office when Matilda called her back in.
‘Close the door, Sian,’ Matilda said. She lowered her voice. ‘While you’re both here, I need to ask a favour. Now, we all know how bad the scene was yesterday, but you two are my toughest officers.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Sian interrupted. ‘I was crying on Stuart’s shoulder for most of the night.’
‘I just went to bed early. Jennifer knows not to ask about work. I talk to her when I’m ready.’
‘I’m worried about Scott and Rory,’ Matilda said. ‘They were both quiet yesterday and this morning. I don’t want them bottling anything up. They’re also not the type to freely talk about how they’re feeling, especially Scott. Now, I think we should limit the amount of people going to the crime scene. Aaron went to the house but didn’t go inside, neither did Ranjeet. So we’ll keep them here. The less people caught up in this the better.’
‘I agree,’ Christian said. ‘Well, I’ll keep an eye on Scott and Sian can keep an eye on Rory.’
‘And I’ll keep an eye on the both of you,’ Matilda smiled.
‘But’s who’s watching the watcher?’ Christian asked, a menacing tone added to his voice.
Matilda’s mobile rang. It was ACC Masterson. She held it up and showed them both. ‘That’s who’s watching me.’
Matilda met with Crime Scene Manager Sebastian Flowers outside the Mercers’ house. He looked as if he had been there all night. Usually clean-shaven
