Her fingers rise and fall. She doesn’t want to talk about it.
‘What happens next?’ I ask.
‘I creep up the stairs, trying to be quiet. The fourth step has a squeak. I step over it.’
Her breath quickens.
‘What is it?’
‘I hear something.’
‘What do you hear?’
‘A toilet flushing, then a tap running . . . in the bathroom.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘He’s upstairs. I have to hurry.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At the top of the stairs. My room is just there. I have to be quick. I have to get inside.’
Her hands go to her mouth.
‘What?’
‘I’m falling.’
‘Down the stairs?’
A long pause. ‘He’s lying on the floor . . . Daddy. Not moving. I’m on top of him.’
Her whole body is shaking.
‘What do you see?’
‘Blood. Everywhere. The floor is wet. I’m sitting in it. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. And I’m wiping my hands over and over, but I can’t get it off.’
‘Can you hear anything?’
‘A rushing sound in my head - it’s like the wind only louder and it fills every space and blocks out every other sound. I can’t make it stop.’
Sienna covers her ears.
‘Is there someone else in the house, Sienna?’
She’s not listening. I hold her face in my hands, making her focus on me. ‘Is there someone in the house?’
A whisper: ‘Yes.’
‘Can you see who it is?’
‘No.’
Fear floods her eyes. Suddenly, she’s on her feet, trying to run. I catch her before she can take more than two steps, wrapping my arms around her, lifting her easily. She’s fighting at my arms, her legs pumping. Mucus streams from her mouth and nose.
‘Shhh, it’s OK. You’re safe. You’re with me.’
Slowly the fear evaporates. It’s like watching an inflatable-pool toy spring a leak and sag into a crumpled puddle of plastic. I put her back on the sofa and she curls her knees to her chest, closing her eyes. Spent. Raw.
The interview has taken three hours but Sienna can tell me nothing more. Her emotions can’t be detached from her memories. I risk traumatising her if I keep pushing.
Whoever killed Ray Hegarty was still in the house when Sienna came home. SOCO found blood in the S-bend of the sink. The killer was cleaning up. Wiping the blade clean.
An intruder? A robbery gone wrong? There were no signs of forced entry, yet Sienna’s laptop is missing. Far more expensive items were untouched.
Ray Hegarty wasn’t expected home until Friday. Helen Hegarty worked nights. Sienna spent most evenings alone. Whoever killed Ray Hegarty was inside the house. Waiting.
Who were they waiting for?
16
The journey to London takes just over two hours by car. I leave after the morning peak and arrive before midday, pulling into a side street off Fulham Palace Road where I’m held to ransom by a parking machine.
Walking back to the main road, I head towards the echoing shadows of Hammersmith flyover past empty shops and ‘For Lease’ signs. London is bleeding. It’s like a virus that is spreading from the top down. No job is secure enough. No mortgage small enough.
London has changed in the past two years. People have changed. I thought it would be something violent and shocking that altered this city - an outrage like the July 7 bombings or our version of 9/11 - but it was something else: a financial meltdown, a banking crisis triggered on the far side of the world by poor people who couldn’t repay their loans.
As I get near the Thames I can smell the mud flats and brine. I’m visiting a friend - a former detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police called Vincent Ruiz, who retired five years ago.
Broad like a bear with a busted nose and booze-stained cheeks, Ruiz has had three marriages and three divorces. World-weary and fatalistic, I sometimes think he’s a walking, talking cliche - the heavy-drinking, womanising ex-detective - but he’s more complicated than that. He once arrested me for murder. I once rescued him from himself. Friendships have flourished on less.
We’ve arranged to meet at a pub on the river, not far from where he lives. The Blue Anchor is tucked in the shadows of Hammersmith Bridge where patrons can watch the rowers skim across the water and tourist boats chug west towards Hampton Court.
Whitewashed with a blue trim, the pub has nautical paraphernalia on the walls and Van Morrison on the sound system. Ruiz is waiting at the bar. He’s a big man with big hands. One of them is wrapped around a pint glass.
‘Professor.’
‘Vincent.’
‘A shirt like that deserves a drink.’
It’s another of Emma’s choices.
‘What would happen if I had matching trousers?’ I ask.
‘I’d have to make a citizen’s arrest. Don’t look at me like that - I don’t make the rules.’
Ruiz is in a good mood, telling jokes and stories. We shoot the breeze about family and rugby. He’s on the committee of his local rugby club, which had a winning season.
We’ve spent a lot of meals like this but mostly when Julianne was still with me. Ruiz would flirt with her shamelessly and call her high maintenance, while she treated him like a naughty schoolboy who refused to grow up.
We order. The waitress suggests the special, a vegetarian lasagne. Ruiz tells her he didn’t fight his way to the top of the food chain to be a vegetarian. He orders the rump steak. Medium rare. Mashed potatoes with butter not oil. Pepper sauce on the side.
The waitress turns to me. Her name is Polly.
‘I’ll have the Ploughman’s.’
She looks relieved. Ruiz orders another beer. He’s dressed in casual trousers and a sweatshirt. I seem to remember him making a promise when he left the Met that he would never wear a tie again unless it was to a rugby dinner or a funeral.
‘So how’s Julianne?’
‘She’s interpreting - working on a big trial.’
Ruiz waits for something more, sensing it, but I don’t want to talk about Ho-ho-ho Harry Veitch.
‘So why are you really here?’
‘I need your help.’
‘You’re in trouble.’
‘No.’
