She closed the door, shrugged off her jacket and headed for the shower. Blood on her hands. That was something not everyone could cope with. But right now, for her, it felt good. The sight of blood was exactly what she needed.
14
Friday
By the following morning, a scene-of-crime team had moved into the Hollands’ house. SOCOs were checking any items with a smooth surface. Doors, worktops, kitchen utensils, anything the offenders might have touched. If they had, there was a possibility of the items being fingerprinted.
Cooper had managed only a few hours’ sleep before he found himself back in Riddings. Last night already seemed like a strange dream. By the time he returned, much of the circus had been and gone, leaving a team conducting the forensic search and an examination of the garden in daylight.
DI Hitchens was there, marshalling resources, snapping at people on the phone, urging the press office to restrict the amount of information released to the media. If they weren’t careful, there would soon be a danger of panic,.
‘It appears there was an earlier 999 call,’ said Hitchens when he saw Cooper arrive. ‘The call handler told the householder to follow the usual procedure for a burglary report.’
‘Don’t touch anything that the offenders might have touched.’
‘Right.’
Cooper nodded. The instinct of most householders was to tidy up. Clear away the broken glass, close the drawers, mend the damaged door hinges. And wipe away those fingerprints from the windowsill, of course. In retrospect, they realised their mistake. But by then it was often too late.
‘It wasn’t given a high enough priority, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
Sarah Holland wouldn’t have been thinking logically anyway. Not once her husband had been taken away in the ambulance, with a paramedic frantically working on him all the way to the hospital.
‘People are getting very jumpy, Ben,’ said Hitchens.
‘I know.’
‘At times like this, people start to see crime all around them. And the press – I think they’ve gone mad. They’re just reporting stuff off the internet as if it was fact. Blogs and so on. Some of the rubbish going round takes the breath away.’
Hitchens turned away to take a phone call. When he finished, his face was grim.
‘Any news?’ asked Cooper.
‘Martin Holland has died in hospital.’
‘Damn. What was the cause of death?’
‘There were no visible injuries. It seems likely he had a heart attack. The post-mortem will tell us for sure.’
Cooper remembered Mrs Holland talking about her husband walking on the edge for exercise. Good for the heart, isn’t it? He ought to have realised that Martin Holland had a heart condition. He was the right age, and came from a fairly sedentary profession. A classic case. A cardiac arrest just waiting to happen.
‘Did Mrs Holland see anything?’
‘A masked figure. She hasn’t been able to give us any further description. She’s too upset.’
This was the woman who liked the idea of having a criminal as a neighbour. A Mafia lover, Gavin Murfin might have called her. Maybe she’d watched The Sopranos too often on Channel 4. It was a middle-class attitude towards crime. He bet she’d never experienced serious crime herself in her life. Not until now.
‘Mr Holland confronted the intruder, then.’
‘That’s the way it seems. But there was no actual physical contact, so far as we can tell.’
‘That’s very different from the attacks on the Barrons, sir.’
‘Probably they were just disturbed sooner. They got scared off and legged it.’
‘The Savages aren’t the type to be scared off,’ said Cooper.
‘We’ll see.’
‘I don’t think it’s all down to the Savages,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make sense for them to come back to the same area so soon. It doesn’t fit in with their pattern.’
‘So what, then?’
‘I think someone has been exploiting the panic over the Savages. I think the answer lies much closer. Here, in Riddings.’
Hitchens looked at him. ‘Prove it, Ben.’
‘If only I could…’
The DI nodded. ‘Everything comes down to “if only”. By the way, Murf is here somewhere. Make sure he’s not causing a nuisance, will you?’
Hitchens walked away to talk to the crime-scene manager, and Cooper cautiously entered the house. The slate floor in the hallway was scattered with plastic wrappers, the detritus of the paramedics’ attempts to stabilise Martin Holland before his trip in the ambulance.
The spotlights were on in the kitchen, illuminating the Shaker-style units with a harsh, cold light. The cat’s basket by the Aga was empty. Cooper wondered where the Persian was. Probably taken offence at all the strangers in the house, and gone to hide in the garden.
Normally a neighbour would step in to look after any animals in a case like this. He wasn’t sure there was a neighbour in Riddings who would think of it. Next door, Valley View was empty, while Russell Edson and Richard Nowak seemed unlikely sources of support.
‘Cute,’ called Murfin from a doorway.
‘What?’
‘This downstairs bathroom.’
Cooper looked in, and saw a cast-iron rolltop bath with clawed feet, his and hers hand basins.
‘And look at this,’ said Murfin from the hallway a minute later.
‘What now?’
‘Mail. They get mail. Proper letters in envelopes, with their name and address typed on them. Most people only get advertising leaflets through their letterbox these days. That’s what’s been keeping the Royal Mail in business since the internet was invented.’
‘Are you doing anything useful, Gavin?’
‘Yes, keeping everyone’s spirits up.’
Cooper watched the SOCOs dusting the door handles and laying down stepping plates in the hall.
‘We’re not being much use here,’ he said.
They retreated to the garden. Cooper found himself standing near the miniature version of the Devil’s Edge. He noticed that a stone had fallen off the top and lay shattered on the drive.
‘Actually, I got a letter the other day,’ said Murfin.
‘Oh? Good news?’
‘They sent me my pension statement. It was like a first draft of the inscription on my tombstone.’
‘Gavin, you really enjoy being miserable, don’t you?’
‘It’s the only pleasure I get.’
‘That must be why you insist on supporting the Rams, then.’
Murfin sniffed.
‘Why don’t these people have guard dogs?’ he asked.
‘Guard dogs?’ said Cooper.
He’d seen plenty of dogs in Riddings, but none of them looked much use for guard duty. The fashion seemed to be for geriatric golden retrievers and pampered spaniels. Not a German Shepherd or Rottweiler in sight.
‘It’s a good question, Gavin. I don’t know.’
