After You Die (32 page)

‘You shouldn’t be doing it at all.’ He pushed his fingers back through his hair, leaving a smear of blood glistening in the black. ‘How often are you cutting yourself?’

She glared at him, couldn’t believe he thought she going through some stupid, self-harming phase like a depressed teenager. Did he think she was that weak?

‘I’m not “cutting” for fun. I’ve got shrapnel in my legs. You know that. Look.’ She straightened her right leg and showed him the dozens of scars, watching him for revulsion that didn’t come and pity he wasn’t quick enough to smother. ‘It migrates to the surface and has to be cut out. Should I have done it myself? Probably not. Was I drunk enough to think it was a good idea? Totally.’

‘And that’s all it is?’

‘Give me your hand.’

Reluctantly he held out his cupped palm and she dropped the piece of creamy shrapnel into it. Five minutes ago she had only suspected what it was but as it slipped out of her leg she knew why the shape felt so familiar.

‘Now do you understand?’

It only took Bobby a couple of seconds to realise that what he held in his hand, bloodied and broken as if it had only just been knocked out, was a sharp sliver of one of Christian Palmer’s teeth.

Zigic wasn’t the kind of person who believed in the power of positive thinking, all that New Age claptrap about visualising your wants into reality, but as he stood in front of the murder board, a dozen faces looking back at him, he imagined the day’s work closing successfully; a solid name in the Suspects column, an in-situ photograph of the actual knife that killed Dawn Prentice, something to show for what they were all going to spend the next twelve hours doing.

Six a.m now. The sky lightening but the sun not yet properly risen and there was an autumnal chill in the air, mist hanging above the parkway when he glanced through the window, and all the lights switched on to chase away the gloom. They revealed just how unprepared his team were, dark smudges under eyes, sleep-creased faces and hastily pulled-on clothes. Except for Parr, who was hyper-alert and sharply dressed, visibly straining at the leash.

Ferreira and Wahlia looked the worst of the bunch. They’d arrived together carrying large takeaway coffees, Mel still wearing the day before’s outfit, her hair pulled back into a tight, high ponytail and her face scrubbed clean, no make-up to hide the effects of last night’s drinking. She was walking gingerly too and the obvious assumption was there to be made but he doubted it was the right one. Wahlia kept throwing her concerned looks that she studiously ignored, staring into space with an unlit cigarette between her fingers.

Was she up to directing a search of the village?

He was doubtful about that too but he had a plan of action prepared already and certain bodies allotted to certain tasks and he was just going to have to trust her to pull it together within the next half-hour. Better she was out in the field clearing her head than dealing with any of the remaining men they needed to question.

‘Okay, people.’ He clapped his hands together, did a fast sweep of the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘We’ve got a lot to do today and time is of the essence. Parr, Wheatley, Murray –’

Three heads nodded at him.

‘We pick up from where we left off. Dawn’s boyfriends are still the main focus for us and I want to clear this up by end of play one way or another. We’ve got –’ he glanced at the files lined up on the desk nearby – ‘sixteen men still to question, so uniform teams out for collection and turn them round fast once you’ve got them here.’

Colleen Murray stuck her hand up. ‘What about Arnold Fletcher? Are we considering him a viable suspect?’

Zigic gestured at the board, Fletcher’s name up there but not struck through. ‘Blood deposits have been found in his car but we’re waiting for more details from forensics before questioning him again. So, yes. Same goes for Warren Prentice and Benjamin Lange. All three have motives and none managed to give us satisfactory alibis, but we have limited lines of attack on Prentice and Lange until we find that murder weapon.’ He pointed at the cluster of freshly drafted uniforms. ‘Which is where you lot come in.’

As if on cue Kate Jenkins entered the office, dressed in loose clothes and sturdy boots, ready to hit the ground.

‘Kate, do you want to take over from here?’

He stepped aside and the focus of the group shifted from the murder board to the map of Elton she’d already marked up; a black dot for the crime scene and a green one for the kennels, the primary search area marked out with a thick red line. They would be in people’s front gardens, checking their bins and lifting grilles over the drains, ferreting out any hidey-holes big enough to secrete a six-inch kitchen knife in. A second, smaller team would be deployed to the grass track between Dawn’s and the kennels, an unlikely dump site for any killer except Warren, but Zigic wanted it checked while they had the resources. A third group were tasked to concentrate on the locus itself, make another sweep of the gardens and the surrounding scrub, dredge the small pond two fields away they hadn’t spotted on the first pass.

It was a mistake Jenkins had highlighted, cursing herself for missing it, knowing how much damage an extra couple of days’ submersion in filthy water could do. DNA traces washed away, fingerprints corrupted.

A small, negative voice in Zigic’s head said, so what? Nobody would be stupid enough to dump a weapon without wiping it clean first. Especially not a murderer who had gone so far as to clean the banister they’d touched and rub their footprints off the carpet.

Jenkins finished her briefing and he thanked her as she walked away, seeing a sense of anticipation begin to stir through the room, feet shuffling, low murmurs of conversation, a sign that it was time to kick them loose.

‘Alright then, let’s get to it.’

Half the uniforms cleared out immediately, following Ferreira and Jenkins. The rest remained, divided into pairs centred on three different desks as they were briefed a second time by his remaining DCs, who all looked perfectly controlled and focused as they managed the assigned lists of Dawn’s lovers. It was the easiest job really and Zigic wouldn’t have minded spending a couple of hours doing that this morning, for the sense of movement if nothing else.

Instead he poured a coffee and took it into his office to catch up on the seemingly endless flow of paperwork that passed across his desk, always behind schedule, always urgent, because he didn’t want to see himself as some middle manager – even though he knew he was – and grabbed any excuse to leave it in favour of proper policing.

He was saved by an email from the lab. Opened it to find that the deposits in Fletcher’s car didn’t match Dawn’s blood group.

Zigic swore sharply. Maybe he hadn’t pegged Fletcher as a prime suspect but it was another possibility swept off the table, another maddening dead end they’d run straight into. Then again the blood had very likely come from him, being the same type and a rare one at that, and until they could establish why he’d been bleeding there were questions for Fletcher to answer still. Ones best asked direct.

Ten minutes later Zigic was sitting at the table in Interview Room 2, listening to Fletcher complain about the quality of breakfast they served in the station.

‘Milk was on the turn,’ he said. ‘But the beds are more comfortable than in my day. I’ll give you that.’

He looked as if he’d slept badly despite the bravado, thinning grey hair mussed up and dark rings around his deep-set eyes, and Zigic had noticed a slight hunch in his posture when he walked in.

‘Before we start, I must advise you that you have the right to request a solicitor at any point.’

‘And I’ll tell you what I told you before, I’ve not done owt and I don’t need one.’

Zigic nodded. ‘Alright. Why don’t you tell me how your car came to have blood all over the steering wheel and the gearstick?’

Fletcher scratched the dry skin at the side of his mouth. ‘I had a nosebleed. Couple of weeks back. Bad one. I got these polyps up my nose.’

‘It’s a lot of blood for a nosebleed.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘Why haven’t you had them treated?’

Fletcher smirked. ‘You been to the doctor’s lately? Three-month wait for a consultation and they keep pushing that back. Non-emergency, isn’t it? So I get to bleed like a tap every time I sneeze. Bloody David Cameron and his PFI cronies.’

‘You sneezed? That’s your story for how the blood got all over the inside of your car?’

‘It’s what happened.’

Zigic leaned back in his chair. ‘And how did it get on the underside of the console?’

Fletcher turned a beady eye on him. ‘Must have been on my hands.’

‘Must have? No, Mr Fletcher, if you’d sneezed we’d see the splatter. But we don’t. We see smears and handprints and tracks.’

‘I had it valeted,’ Fletcher said. ‘So don’t give me that bollocks.’

‘Blood is far more persistent than you’d imagine. Especially in those hard-to-reach spots.’

For a moment Fletcher looked scared, but he was an old hand at interrogation and he quickly cocked his head, seeing an out.

‘Doesn’t matter how my blood got there. It’s
mine
.’ His shoulders squared. ‘Your bosses might be steering us into a police state but we’re not quite there yet and the last I checked it’s not illegal to bleed.’

‘No, it’s not illegal,’ Zigic conceded. ‘But when a murder suspect shows signs of serious injury we have to consider whether that injury was inflicted by their victim.’

Fletcher scowled at him.

‘Did Dawn put up a fight?’

‘I didn’t touch her.’

Zigic waited for more but Fletcher knew better than to run off at the mouth at a point like this. So he waited too and they stared each other out for a few seconds, Zigic thinking about whether he could divert some of the search team to Fletcher’s house, get in there before they’d be forced to release him tomorrow. The seconds drew on into minutes and Zigic realised with a prick of irritation that the man wouldn’t give up anything easily. He’d have to work for whatever information there was to be had.

‘Let’s go through this again,’ he said. ‘From the start. Last Thursday, tell me your movements.’

Fletcher started to speak, resenting every breath he was using, each word spat out like a bad taste, and Zigic listened, waiting for him to make a slip-up, contradict something he’d said previously, get the sequence of events wrong. Anything to give him an opening.

More unglamorous police work but sometimes it was the only way: grind a suspect down with repetition, bore them into betraying themselves or revealing something new.

And eventually Fletcher did.

‘Hold on,’ Zigic said. ‘You saw a kid coming out of Dawn’s house? What kid? What was he doing there?’

‘I dunno. Supposed he was one of Holly’s friends. He went down the side and came back. Ran off over the road.’ Fletcher’s hand swept through the air. ‘Near got himself knocked over.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Just some kid. ’Bout ten or eleven.’

‘Why didn’t you mention him before?’

Fletcher shrugged. ‘Didn’t think it was important. He weren’t there two minutes.’

Zigic paused the interview to go up to his office, returned with the photograph of Nathan, smiling over his birthday cake.

‘Is this the boy?’

‘Yeah, that’s him.’ He handed the photo back. ‘We done?’

‘For now.’

‘I can go, then?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Wahlia was on his feet when Zigic returned to the office, tapping a pen against his palm, that look he got when something needed dealing with and he couldn’t find anyone to do it.

‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve been checking out the nine-nine-nine calls across the weekend after the murder.’

‘Hasn’t that been done already?’ Zigic asked.

‘First pass, yeah.’ Wahlia tugged at the gold stud in his left ear. ‘Up to the Friday morning, anything associated with the address, but I wanted to be thorough. Saturday evening we’ve got a call placed from the phone box on the village green at eighteen forty-seven, requesting assistance. The caller reports an incident.’

Zigic swore. ‘Details?’

Wahlia turned the screen towards him and Zigic read the highlighted section:

Operator – ‘
What’s your emergency?’

Caller – ‘
I need the police. She’s hurt.’

Operator – ‘
Who’s hurt?’

Caller – ‘
You have to hurry.’

The operator repeated the question, didn’t get a reply, told the caller they needed more details and was given the address.

After that nothing. The operator left talking to someone who’d rung off, wanting to know who was hurt, was it serious.

‘This is two days after the murder,’ Zigic said, thinking aloud. ‘So we’re looking at somebody stumbling across the scene?’

‘Who doesn’t want to identify themself.’ Wahlia took a mouthful of Red Bull from the can on his desk. ‘Which means we’ve got a witness who doesn’t want to come forward for some reason.’

‘Arnold Fletcher just told me he saw Nathan there on Saturday afternoon.’

Wahlia’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘That’s not in his previous statement.’

‘Yeah, I was sceptical but looking at this … maybe he’s telling the truth. It would make sense – Nathan sees what’s happened, freaks out, runs.’

‘It’s an overreaction, isn’t it? What would you have done at that age? I’d have gone home and cried to my mum about it.’

Nathan wasn’t Bobby, though. And Julia wasn’t Mrs Wahlia.

‘There’s another possibility,’ Zigic said. ‘Maybe whoever killed Dawn expected the alarm to be raised on Friday or Saturday when the nurse arrived but when they saw no movement at the house they realised they’d have to do it themselves.’

‘Because of Holly?’

‘Yeah. Makes sense if it’s Fletcher. He doesn’t want Holly to die so he calls the police to find her and save her.’

Zigic pictured Arnold Fletcher in the old red phone box on the village green, making the call, saying the minimum, knowing Holly had spent the last two days alone in bed with the smell of her mother’s corpse rising through the house, scared and alone and already dying herself. Would he have waited to see the police car arrive? Wouldn’t he have needed to see it and know she was going to be okay?