‘Open,’ says Cray. ‘Sienna ran. She didn’t bother pulling it closed.’
Stepping on to the first of a dozen duckboards, I follow her through the front door and along a passage.
‘
Cray looks at me. ‘Who wrote that?’
‘Oscar Wilde.’
‘Some of those Micks could write.’
Orange fluorescent evidence markers are spaced intermittently on the stairs, distinguishing blood spots. A camera flashes upstairs, sending a pulse of light through the railings.
I turn and study the front door. No burglar alarm. Basic locks. For a security consultant, Ray Hegarty didn’t take many personal precautions.
‘Who lives next door?’
‘An old bloke, a widower.’
‘Did he hear anything?’
‘I don’t think he’s heard anything since the Coronation.’
‘Any sign of forced entry?’
‘No.’
‘Who had keys?’
‘Just the family members. There’s the other daughter, Zoe. She’s at university in Leeds. She’s driving down now with her boyfriend. And there’s Lance, who’s twenty-two. He works for a motorcycle mechanic in Bristol. Rents his own place.’
The sitting room and dining room are tastefully furnished. Neat. Clean. There are so many things that could be disturbed - plants in pots, photographs in frames, books on shelves, cushions on the sofas - but everything seems in place.
The kitchen is tidy. A single plate rests in the sink, with a cutting board covered in breadcrumbs. Helen made a sandwich for lunch or a snack to take to work. She left a note on the fridge for Sienna telling her to microwave a lasagne for dinner.
Through the kitchen there is an extension that was probably a sunroom until it was turned into a bedroom. Refitted after Zoe’s attack, it has a single bed, a desk, closet and chintz curtains, as well as a ramp leading down to the garden. The en suite bathroom has a large shower and handrails. On the dresser there is a picture of Zoe playing netball, balanced on one leg as she passes the ball.
Walking back along the hallway, I notice the door beneath the stairs is ajar. Easing it open with my shoe, I see an overnight bag on the floor. Ray Hegarty’s overcoat hangs on a wooden peg. He came home, hung up his coat and tossed down his bag. Then what?
Something drew him upstairs. A sound. A voice.
Cray goes ahead of me, stepping over evidence markers as she climbs each step without touching the banister. The main bedroom is straight ahead. Two doors on the left lead to a bathroom and second bedroom. Sienna’s room is off to the right. Ray Hegarty lies face down on a rug beside her bed with his arms outstretched, head to one side, eyes open. Blood has soaked through the rug and run along cracks in the floorboards. His business shirt is stained by bloody handprints. Small hands.
Sienna’s room is a mess with her clothes spilling from drawers and draped over the end of her bed, which is unmade. Her duvet is bunched against the wall and a hair-straightening iron peeks from beneath her pillow.
I notice a shoebox, which has been customised with photographs clipped from magazines. Someone has pulled it from beneath the bed and opened the lid to reveal a collection of bandages, plasters, needles and thread. It is Sienna’s cutting box and also her sewing kit.
The untidiness of the room could be teenage-induced. I have one of those at home - messy, sullen and self- absorbed - but this looks more like a quick ransacking. A search.
‘Is anything missing?’ I ask.
Cray answers. ‘Nothing obvious. We won’t know until we interview the family.’
‘Where’s Helen?’
‘At the hospital with Sienna.’
Crouching beside the body, I notice blood splatters, some large and others barely visible, sprayed as high as the ceiling. A hockey stick lies near his right hand. Lacquered to a shine, it has a towelling grip in school colours.
I squat motionless in the centre of the room, trying to get a sense of the events. Ray Hegarty was hit from behind and fell forward. There are no signs of a struggle, no defence wounds or bruises or broken furniture.
Turning my head, I notice an oval-shaped mirror on a stand, which is reflecting a white square of light on to the bed, highlighting the small blue flowers stitched into the sheets.
I look at myself reflected in the mirror and can also see the door behind me. Stepping over the body, I partially close the door and stand behind it. Glancing towards the mirror, I can see Cray reflected in the open doorway.
Her eyes meet mine.
‘What is it?’
‘This is where they stood. The mirror told them when Ray Hegarty was in the doorway.’
‘But there’s hardly any room.’
‘The door was half-closed.’
‘Someone small.’
‘Maybe.’
Almost immediately I remember Sienna’s face bleached by the beam of the torch. There was something in her eyes . . . a terrible knowledge.
Louis Preston emerges from the bathroom, looking like a surgeon preparing to operate.
‘There are traces of blood in the S-bend of the sink.’
‘Somebody cleaned up.’
‘Forensic awareness is such an important life skill,’ says Preston. ‘I blame it on American cop shows. They’re like “how-to” guides. How to clean up a crime scene, how to dispose of the weapon, how to get away with murder . . .’
Cray winks at me. ‘What’s wrong, Preston, did some smart defence lawyer punch a pretty little hole in your procedures?’
‘I got no beef with defence lawyers. Some of my best friends are bottom feeders. It’s the juries I can’t abide. Unless they see fingerprints, fibres, or DNA, they’ll never convict. They want the proverbial smoking gun, but sometimes there aren’t any forensic clues. The scene is cleaned up or washed by rain or contaminated by third parties. We’re scientists, not magicians.’
Preston scratches his nose and looks at his index finger as though he finds it fascinating.
Meanwhile, I wander across the landing to the bathroom. A wicker laundry basket is tucked beneath the sink. The toilet seat is down. The shelves above the sink are neatly arranged with toothpaste, toothbrushes (three of them), liquid soap and mouthwash. The hand-towel beside the sink is neatly folded and hung over the railing.
‘They tidied the place,’ I say out loud.
Cray appears behind me.
‘Make any sense?’
‘Not much.’
‘Did Ray Hegarty make many enemies in the job?’
‘We all make enemies.’
It’s not an answer.
‘Any skeletons?’
Her voice hardens. ‘He was a good copper. Straight.’
A different SOCO appears at the base of the stairs. Calls to Preston. ‘I found a stash of porn in the shed. You want me to bag it?’
