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05:36

Saturday 31 October

Dropping down to the ground from the back of the police van, Nasreen tucked the flask of tea into her hoodie pocket and headed back. Sent for the DCI’s tea again. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d requested to be assigned to Detective Chief Inspector Moast’s team. She wanted to prove herself on a major investigation, not fetch beverages. Perhaps there’d be a chance to make a real difference on this case. It was a particularly grim one. The body of Alun Mardling, slumped over his computer with his throat cut, had been found by his mother at around 4.30am, when she had returned from her night shift at St Thomas’ Hospital. Mrs Lucy Mardling had a job cleaning surgical instruments, but Nasreen couldn’t imagine any amount of blood and tissue would prepare you for this.

Closing her eyes, she was back in the hallway with DCI Moast, breathless from suiting up before the others. She replayed the scene in her mind.

‘Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore, this is Dr Jim Fisher.’ DCI Moast, his blue puffa jacket and jeans covered by his protective full body suit, signalled at the pathologist. ‘Nasreen is new to the team. Fresh blood.’

She nodded as Dr Fisher stood back to let them enter the room. At just over six foot, he was taller than Nasreen and the DCI, with smiling crinkly eyes behind thin wire glasses, and thick grey hair she could glimpse under his hood.

‘Glad to see you’ve finally got someone who knows what correct practice is, Ed.’ The doctor pointed at the disposable face mask Nasreen was wearing. She blushed. She didn’t want to get the DCI in trouble.

‘I’ve got my shoes and my bonce covered, Jim, what more do you want?’ The DCI’s grizzled jaw broke into a white grin. With his hood up over his cropped hair, he resembled a cotton bud. ‘You bods are finished anyway,’ he continued. ‘I just want to see the body in situ.’ They stepped into the small bedroom at the front of the house. ‘My, my, this is a mess isn’t it? You going to be all right with this, Sergeant Cudmore?’

Nasreen steeled herself to assess the scene. ‘Yes, sir. I’ve worked homicides before.’

‘Righto.’ DCI Moast pulled his notebook from his pocket. ‘The victim is Alun Mardling, aged forty-eight, a local bank manager at Canary Wharf.’

With her own suit hood up, Nasreen had to turn her head to take in the small room. The blue seventies-style curtains were drawn. The orange glow of the street lamp outside could be seen through them. A dusty lampshade with faded red and yellow cars on it hung from above. There was a desk, a chair and a computer, at which the body was slumped. The victim’s blood was splattered up and over the wall. Nasreen felt her gut contract and tears threaten at the back of her eyes. She reminded herself to stay clinical. Break it down into small manageable sections. The best thing she could do for the victim and his mother was help find who did this.

Blood was everywhere. Doused. Splashed. Flung. The room contained a slim pine wardrobe, with what she presumed was Mardling’s work suit hung on the outside. There was a matching compact pine bedside table, with Top Gear magazines and a box of tissues piled on it, and barely enough room for them to stand in here. Everything was covered in sprays of livid red. ‘Single bed, almost like this was a child’s room, sir?’ She looked at the faded blue checked duvet that was crumpled across the mattress. ‘No photos or pictures.’ She looked at the drab walls.

‘Apparently Mrs Mardling’s son, Alun here, moved back in with his mum after his marriage fell apart,’ DCI Moast said. ‘He was based in Manchester before that.’

‘Recently?’ asked Nasreen. This was a sad bachelor room.

‘About four years ago,’ said Moast.

‘Doesn’t look like he’s moved on much, does it?’ Dr Fisher said from the doorway.

The victim was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, his head and body slumped forward over his computer. His blood looked as if it had been dashed against the desk and the walls, indicating it had come out in high-velocity gushes. It was concentrated on the computer, desk and wall Mardling had been facing. ‘Was he attacked from behind?’ Nasreen asked.

‘Correct,’ said Dr Fisher. ‘His neck was cut with a sharp implement, probably a knife. I’ll know more when we’re back at the lab.’

‘So far we’ve found no murder weapon,’ said DCI Moast. ‘I’ve got the lads outside searching.’

Nasreen had seen something similar once after a gang hit. ‘The blood spatter is fairly aggressive,’ she said. ‘Like spurts. Did the perp cut the carotid artery, doctor?’

‘Very good, Sergeant.’ Dr Fisher pointed at the sliced neck. ‘He would have lost consciousness pretty instantly and bled out in minutes.’

What a horrible, violent end to a life. ‘Well, at least it was quick,’ said Nasreen. ‘Do you think the perp knew what he was doing?’

‘It looks like a precision cut,’ said the doctor. ‘So either he knew his anatomy, or he got lucky.’

DCI Moast nodded and wrote something in his notebook.

‘And presumably the perp’s clothes would be covered too?’ said Nasreen.

‘I’ve told the lads to look for discarded clothing as well,’ said the DCI.

‘She’s a sharp one this one: I’d keep hold of her if I were you, Ed.’ Dr Fisher winked at Nasreen.

‘She’s too young for you, Jim,’ Moast said. Nasreen felt herself blush again. And then she’d been sent to fetch the DCI’s tea.

Had she spoken out of turn? Did the DCI think she couldn’t cope with the rigours of a ghoulish crime scene? No, she was sure DCI Moast made all his sergeants run round after him. Perhaps he drank sweet tea to help combat shock, keep his mind clear? They all did what they had to to cope with a crime scene like this. She understood sacrifices needed to be made. She’d better text Claire and cancel their planned cinema trip tomorrow. Claire had ditched her plenty of times to work late in her bid to make partner at her law firm. That’s why their friendship worked so well: they both knew the job came first.

Members of the public were gathering outside the crime scene tape, peering up at the terraced house. What was PC Thomas doing on the door? Where was PC Folland? This wasn’t protocol.

‘Mind your step, ma’am.’ Spindly Jamie’s usually pale face looked positively drained.

The toe of her boot nudged a puddle of sick on the floor. ‘Oh, Jamie. And inside the cordon.’

‘I couldn’t help it. It just…Do you think there’ll be a disciplinary, ma’am?’ He looked stricken.

She still wasn’t used to being called ma’am. It made her feel old. She’d paused too long now. ‘I bet Dr Fisher loves you!’

Jamie’s mouth turned down.

Drat, she’d meant that to be light-hearted. She tried to give him a reassuring smile. ‘I best go find the guv.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Jamie held the door for her.

Inside she gathered her thoughts. She needed to speak to the victim’s mother – she was with the relationship officers now. The SOCOs were out back looking for evidence of how the perpetrator gained access. DCI Moast favoured the alley that ran along the back of the houses. It wouldn’t be hard to vault the fence and enter through the garden. A robbery gone wrong? Perhaps. The perpetrator could have assumed everyone was asleep, come across Alun Mardling and, in the panic, killed him. There were no immediate signs of anything missing. Little sign of struggle. No evidence of forced entry. But she felt there was something disturbing about the way the man’s throat had been cut: too…sacrificial. The flask felt warm in her pocket – DCI Moast could wait a minute while she took another quick look at the body.

Nasreen took the stairs two at a time. She could hear people moving around, one of the forensics team must still be here. She reached the bedroom door and froze. But she wasn’t staring at the blood, she was staring at the person in front of it.

Was she a scene of crime officer? No. Ridiculous. She was just at Espress-oh’s. How’d she…? Where’d she…?

‘Freddie Venton, what the hell are you doing here?’

Freddie – and it was definitely Freddie with that bizarre red streaked hair and dark kohl circles round her eyes – dipped her chin, then her eyes rolled back and she crumpled.

Instinctively Nasreen rushed forwards, arms open, but someone got there first. She shuddered to a halt, before she ploughed into the uniformed back, the crown on the epaulette. It couldn’t be…‘Superintendent, sir!’ She stood straight. Heels together. Hands by her side. Palms sweating.

Superintendent Gray, his salt-and-pepper trimmed eyebrows meeting at the exertion, turned to face her. The rag doll Freddie in his hands. ‘Sergeant, do you know this officer?’

‘I…er…sir…I…’ How was this happening? What was he doing here? He must have responded to the call-out. Like them.
Staff shortages
.

‘Spit it out, Sergeant.’ Superintendent Gray’s hands, smooth from deskwork, with neat clipped nails, gripped Freddie’s shoulders.

‘We studied together.’ The words were out before she could stop them. Her cheeks burned red. She’d lied to the Superintendent. Her training kicked in. Counter the epinephrine. Frame the situation. Respond. ‘I’ll take her outside, sir, get her some air.’

‘Nas?’ Freddie’s voice was hoarse.

The Superintendent looked down at Freddie, his hair parting was ruler-straight. ‘Freddie, the Superintendent and I know it’s your first active crime scene. I’ll take you outside for some air.’ She tried to convey the severity of the situation with her eyes.
Play along.
Good grief, the girl was using the Superintendent’s arm to push herself up.

Nasreen had gotten onto the Fast Track Programme. She’d put up with her colleagues’ inappropriate cracks. She’d faced down gang members, and once a man wielding a machete, she was damned if Freddie Venton was going to be her undoing. ‘I really think you…’

Freddie pulled her arm away from Nas. She felt shaky, but there was no way she was leaving. She had to stay and get the story. Even with
that
there in the room. ‘Odd, isn’t it…’ Freddie’s words came out in a gasp. Fear ripped through her body like the knife through the dead man. She looked away from the gore.
Must bear witness.
Glimpses of a T-shirt and boxer shorts made it through the red. The thing – once a living breathing man – looked like it was dressed for bed. A hand still lay on the computer mouse. ‘Odd, isn’t it…that…this…happened at the computer?’

‘Plenty of people spend their free time on the computer.’ Nasreen seemed to have a problem controlling her eyebrows.

Freddie focused on them going up and down. Up and down. Her breathing slowed. She gestured toward the desk, and then dropped her arm when she saw it shaking.
Focus on something else
. ‘Was he looking at porn?’
Porn Addiction: A Very Modem Problem
.

‘You noticed his hand then?’ said the uniformed cop who’d caught her.

Freddie located the shoulder – carefully avoiding the neck area.
Think about something else.
His other arm was lowered, elbow bent, his hand was…‘It’s in his boxers! Oh my God! He was knocking one out – what a way to go!’

The copper gave a little chuckle.

Think about something else.
‘It’s not kiddie porn is it?’
Paedophile Butchered in Revenge Attack.

Nasreen tersely replied, ‘There’s nothing to suggest…’

‘Let’s take a look.’ The uniformed copper pulled a latex glove from his pocket and picked his way toward the desk.

Freddie ignored the expression of incredulity on Nasreen’s face and looked straight ahead at the screen. Taking a pen from his pocket, the copper gently nudged the mouse. The monitor hissed with static and blinked into life. Not porn. Not a video. But a background of skull and crossbones images, overlaid with text boxes. Familiarity soothed Freddie.

The uniformed copper peered at the computer. ‘Is that Twitter? That site where people talk about what they had for lunch?’ he said.

Freddie clung to the normality of it. ‘It’s a microblogging site, good for keeping abreast of the zeitgeist, gathering ideas, and building work contacts.’
Don’t stop.
Her mind and mouth babbled in panic: ‘I wonder why he was spanking the monkey while looking at Twitter? I’ve heard of people checking their phones during sex, but this is like dissing yourself.’

‘What do all these @ signs mean?’ The uniformed copper was still peering at the screen.

If she could keep him talking for a few more minutes, she might get more info for her pitch. Freddie stepped forward.

Nasreen audibly inhaled. ‘Be careful not to touch the victim or disturb any of the evidence.’

‘I’m sure Miss Venton knows what she’s doing, Sergeant,’ the copper snapped.

Freddie was thankful his tone obliterated the word victim that seemed to hang in the air.

‘Twitter is a social media site. Each user has a “Twitter Handle”, which is unique to them. They all start with an @ symbol. Mine is @ReadyFreddieGo. They’re also called “@names”.’

‘I see,’ said the copper.

In order to read the tweets on the computer, Freddie had to lean over the body. She could hear it dripping. She focused on the screen: Alun Mardling. That is…
was
…his name. ‘So this is the account of Alun Mardling. His Twitter Handle is @MaddeningAlun23.’ She turned away from the computer and the body to look at the copper. ‘You can follow people, other users, from your Twitter account. Their tweets – what they’ve posted online – appear in what’s called your “timeline” in real time.’ The copper’s brow furrowed. ‘For example, if I’ve followed Nasreen on Twitter and she tweets to say she is at Espress-oh’s in St Pancras, it will appear on my “timeline” when she tweets it.’ Nas scowled at her. Freddie pushed on. This was allowing her head to clear and her stomach to settle. ‘I can re-post Nasreen’s tweet, or share it, so it is seen by my followers in their timeline by doing what’s called “retweeting”.’

‘Do you invite people to follow you and accept invitations like they do on LinkedIn?’ The copper looked thoughtful.

‘No,’ said Freddie, focusing on him and not the body. ‘You can follow anyone on Twitter and you can also send anyone a message by using their @name. By looking up an account, say Alun Mardling’s @name, I would be able to read what he’s posted without following him. I would also be able to talk to him by using his @name in a tweet. This would then appear on his notifications.’