He wandered across the front lawn to the side of the house where there was a wooden door. He gave it a firm push. It swung open to reveal an alleyway leading to another wooden door. Along the side of the house were two dustbins, a few crates filled with empty wine and beer bottles and a stone flower vase teeming with spent cigarette butts. He walked along the alley, expecting at any moment to hear the dog, wondering what he'd do if it took him as an intruder and set about him. He'd not seen it the other night, merely heard it. And it sounded the size of a lion. He was not a dog lover and, from the attitude of most dogs he'd met, it appeared the feeling was mutual.
The heavy wooden door at the far end of the alley was open, too, sitting slightly ajar. Odd, he thought, for a crook like Stamey to leave the entrance to the back of his house so accessible. He looked back at the first of the doors. A Yale lock and two deadbolts, neither of which had been used. He walked through and found himself at the far corner of an enormous garden secluded by a high wall that ran around its entire perimeter. In the centre of a huge expanse of lawn was a swimming pool, covered by boards for the winter. To his right was a conservatory, beyond it a large, raised stone patio studded with garden furniture and a cover that shrouded a barbecue. At the opposite side of the garden was a stone feature or a fountain, which was switched off or no longer worked. But his eye was drawn back to the lawn.
Two bodies lay face down.
Foster hurried over. Both were dead. The first, arms out by his side, face down, was Martin Stamey, naked. The back of his head missing, ravaged by a bullet. Five yards to his south lay the body of a young boy in pyjamas -- presumably the son, though his face had been almost destroyed by being shot at close range. From each body lay twin trails of blood that slicked the lawn, leading to a set of French windows. One of the doors was wide open.
Using his mobile, he called Heather, told her where he was and to get in touch with the local force.
'What's happened?' she asked, bewildered.
'I don't know,' he said and put the phone down. That's what he needed to find out.
He went to the open door, stepped inside, parting the curtains. It was the room where he and Heather had sat and spoken to Stamey the other night. He glanced around. Nothing out of place. A door to the right led to the conservatory. Again, everything was intact. The large adjoining kitchen, too. He wandered back into the room, then into the hall, which led to the front door.
There was another room to the right. A sort of dining room with a large antique table, and a grandfather clock that ticked loudly. It smelled and looked as if it was rarely used.
He followed the trail of blood. It went from the French windows to the hall and up the wide, gradual steps. Foster's feet were cushioned by the thick carpet.
At the top he stopped. He listened. No sound, save the hushed sweep of traffic along the nearby dual carriageway and the ticking of the downstairs clock. In front of him was a bathroom. Empty. He turned left. There was a door on the right. From the picture of a young pop star on it he guessed it was the daughter's, a feeling confirmed when he opened the door and was met by the sort of paraphernalia he'd last seen in Naomi Buckingham's room. The bed was neatly made but empty. No blood trail.
A scarlet track led to the last door on this landing while another splattered path went up a set of stairs to an upper floor. The door was ajar. He opened it and caught a sight of the reflection in the mirrored doors of a set of floorto-ceiling cupboards. He took a deep breath and turned into the room.
Carol Stamey, spreadeagled and naked. At first he thought the sheet beneath her was scarlet but then realized from one clean corner that it was white and sluiced in her blood. There was a matting of red blood in her hair where the bullet had entered the back of her head. From the amount of viscera spread across the sheets he could see her husband had been killed beside her then dragged outside. He went upstairs; the boy's stained sheets told a similar story.
A few minutes later Foster stood in the garden as the crackle and bustle of a murder-scene investigation went on around him. He was oblivious to the fuss. As he stood there, trying to absorb what he had seen, a jet-black 4x4
pulled up as near to the house as it could. The young girl he'd seen watching television at the Stameys' house two nights before jumped out from the vehicle, dressed in her school uniform, worry and panic etched on her face. She began to run towards the house, followed by a dark-haired woman in her late thirties, who began screaming at her to stop.
As she rounded the top of the drive, Foster moved forward to intercept her. Her eyes caught his and she saw something there that brought her to an abrupt halt. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She pushed a wisp of brown hair from her face with a trembling hand, her mouth contorting. Christ, she can't be more than twelve years old, he thought.
'What's happened?' she said, her voice trembly and edgy. The brunette had caught up with them, throwing an arm around the girl.
Foster put his hands up. 'What's your name?' he said to the woman.
Amber Davidson,' she said. 'I'm the mother of Tracey, Rachel's best friend.'
What's HAPPENED?' the girl screamed. She tried to free herself from Amber's grip but it was too tight. Foster was grateful she was there.
'Rachel, there's been an incident.' He looked at Amber.
He hoped she was supporting the girl's weight as well as preventing her running away. She seemed to read his mind and brought Rachel closer into her. Given the number of policemen and the throb of activity around the house, there was no way he could delay the truth or let her near the scene. 'Your mum, dad and brother have been attacked,'
he added.
'Are they OK?'
He looked at the woman holding her. Then he looked back at the young girl. The words wouldn't come. But he didn't need to find them.
She guessed. 'Are they dead?'
He nodded his head slowly, sadly.
She continued to stare at him for a few seconds, saying nothing. 'No,' she said, shaking her head. 'No,' she repeated -- louder this time, swinging her head from side to side vehemently. Her body began to convulse, her arm flailing into Amber's face, drawing blood from her lip. Foster moved forward to help restrain her. He felt her nails rake down his cheek but he managed to wrap his arms around her. Two uniformed constables joined the struggle. Rachel started to scream wordlessly; then the fight and anger drained from her body and she fell limp. Amber held her and hugged her tight, allowing Foster to let go. He took one of the constables to one side. 'Get me a WPC and a doctor as soon as possible.'
Five minutes later Rachel was staring numbly out of a squad-car window with a blanket around her shoulders, a WPC at her side while they waited for someone to come to sedate her. Foster took Amber Davidson to one side.
'What happened?' she asked, her face streaked with mascara. She was tall and lithe, and her face tanned and healthy.
Foster shook his head. 'They've been murdered. We don't know the details,' he lied. 'Where was Rachel last night?'
'With me. She slept over. The girls had a dance class.
They often sleep over afterwards. Sometimes they sleep at ours, sometimes they sleep here . . . Oh, God.' She brought her hand to her mouth and her voice cracked as she contemplated what might have been.
'Why isn't she at school?'
'We got there and she remembered she'd forgotten her art project. We dropped Tracey off and came to get it.'
Out of the corner of his eye Foster saw a short but wiry old detective wander over. He did not look too pleased. Foster ignored him.
And everything was normal here yesterday?'
'Not really,' she said.
'How so?'
'The dog had been taken ill. He'd been violently sick.
Rachel was very worried when I picked her up because her dad had taken him to the vet's. I called later to
