Rose smiled to herself.
62
Paula Harrison’s face registered a range of emotions that Phil hoped he would never have to experience.
She stood in the doorway to her house, clutching the door. She stared at him, round-eyed. If she blinked, Phil thought, the tears would start.
And might never stop.
‘Adele…’
‘Can I come in, Paula?’
She let him in. It was the same as his last visit only more so. The mess was messier, the cartoons on the TV louder and more vivid, the sense of lost hope more palpable.
She chased Nadine upstairs, waited until the door closed, perched on the edge of the sofa. Looked at Phil. Preparing herself.
‘We…’
She cut him off. ‘It’s her, isn’t it? The body. Adele…’
‘I think you’d better prepare yourself for the worst.’
And she broke. Not just tears but her whole body seemed to crumple as if her bones had dissolved, leaving her unable to move, to stand.
‘I’ll…’ Phil went into the kitchen to make tea. Let her sob in peace.
He returned to find her dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose with a paper tissue. She kept dabbing, kept blowing until the tissue was too sodden to function then, seemingly forgetting about it, just let it drop to the floor.
‘How… how did…’
‘We believe the body we found is Adele. We still need to do other tests to be sure but I just wanted to warn you.’
She nodded absently.
‘You’ll be asked to make a formal identification of the body once we’ve confirmed it’s her. Is there anyone you’d like to come with you?’
She shook her head.
‘A family member? Friend?’
‘Adele was my family. All the family I had left…’
‘What about her father?’
A dark wave passed over Paula’s features. ‘He won’t be back…’ She glanced up at Phil, glanced away. ‘And, anyway, Adele hated him. She wouldn’t… wouldn’t…’ The tears started again.
Phil said nothing.
‘She was all, all I had…’
Phil looked at the pictures on the wall. Adele when she was younger with her brother. Both smiling, both looking like the summer would never end.
Both gone.
Phil didn’t know what else to say. He had no words that would make things better for her, no actions that could help. He phoned FLO, asked them to send Cheryl Bland round. She was on her way. Phil hung up, told Paula.
She nodded.
‘I think…’
But he never got to tell her what he thought. His phone went again. He answered.
‘Adrian here, boss. I’m with the CSIs in Suzanne Perry’s flat. Found something I think you should see.’
He looked across at Paula. Didn’t want to leave her alone. ‘Right now?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘What kind of thing?’
He hesitated. ‘I think you should come and see for yourself, boss.’
‘OK.’ He checked his watch. ‘On my way.’
He turned to Paula. ‘I have to go.’
She looked up at him sharply, as if she had forgotten he was actually there.
‘Cheryl Bland’ll be here soon. She’ll help you.’ He handed her a card. ‘Call me if you need to.’
She took it. Let it slip through her fingers to join the used tissue.
Phil saw himself out.
63
‘Up here, boss,’ said Adrian Wren. ‘And, like they say in
Phil didn’t correct him, knew the misquote was intentional. He was standing in the hallway of Suzanne Perry’s flat, a two-person CSI still working their way through, Jane Gosling supervising.
The flat was well on its way to looking like no one had ever lived there. The careful accretion of Suzanne Perry’s life – not to mention Zoe Herriot’s body – had been removed, broken down and analysed. It was something that always depressed Phil. Not for the first time did a murder scene remind him of a stage set when the actors had finished. This time it went even further. The play was over, the set being torn down. There was only the hope that another one would take its place.
Phil looked away, looked up towards Adrian’s voice.
The hatch to the loft was open. His DC was leaning over, looking downwards. ‘Get a chair, boss, and I’ll pull you up.’
Phil did so, struggling to be hauled into the square loft opening. Adrian, despite his scrawniness, was surprisingly strong. Phil knew he was a runner. Must have helped to build him up.
Phil reached the edge of the opening, let Adrian help him to his feet.
‘Watch your head,’ said Adrian. ‘And your feet. It’s been boarded over a bit, but not too well.’
On the floor were several old doors laid across the rafters, thick, wadded insulation sticking out between the gaps. Above his head, the ceiling was covered in cobwebs. Dust and dirt caught in the webby strands, strung like filthy grey hammocks between the beams.
Adrian gestured with his hand, pointed. ‘Along there.’
Phil looked. At the far end of the loft where the wooden beams ended in a triangular brick wall, there were no cobwebs, no dust, no dirt. It had been cleaned and cleared. The old doors had been moved together making a floor. Phil noticed now that the other doors over the rafters mirrored the layout of the flat below. A walkway.
Someone had been living here.
‘Christ…’
Adrian nodded. ‘I know.’ He moved forward slightly. ‘Don’t want to disturb it too much, the CSIs haven’t been along there yet. But, look, you can make out what’s been happening…’
He pointed again.
‘We became suspicious when we found some tiny cameras in the living room downstairs. Fibre-optic, good ones. Never know they were there if you weren’t looking for them. Well hidden.’
‘So you checked the other rooms?’
Adrian nodded. ‘Same in every one. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Tiny, with a wireless transmitter. So we checked the range, realised it wasn’t very far, looked around to see where the likeliest place to receive them would
