With the thin knife, she carefully carved the number 2 on his exposed chest. She then removed all her clothes, took a shower, helped herself to some clean clothes from Stephanie Chalmers’ wardrobe, and walked out of the front door.
Chapter 2
The first notification of the events at the Chalmers’ house was the blubbering voice of a child on the phone. ‘Daddy and Mummy are dead.’
The operator at the emergency control centre responded at once, immediately instigating a trace on the mobile phone.
‘Is there an adult there?’ was her first question.
‘Daddy and Mummy are dead.’ This time the voice more unsettled than before.
‘Can I have an address?’
‘Glenloch Road.’
‘Can you give me a number?’
‘Daddy and Mummy are dead.’
‘I need you to help me if I am to help them. What is the number in Glenloch Road?’
‘64.’
Even before the name of the street had been given, the police and the ambulance services had been mobilised. Glenloch Park had been identified as Twickenham, and triangulation based on the mobile phone masts in the area had confirmed this.
It would only be seconds before the mobile number had been identified and a registered owner and address confirmed.
Local police officers were the first on the scene, only one minute before an ambulance arrived. ‘It looks grim,’ Police Constable O’Riordan said over the phone to his superior.
‘Murder?’
‘Judging by the blood, I would say so.’
‘How many?’
‘One, definitely; the other one looks to be in a bad way.’
‘Ambulance?’
‘It’s here now.’
‘There’s a child here; he made the discovery. I would assume him to be the child of the house.’
‘Okay, I’ll send someone down to look after him. In the meantime, you know the procedure.’
The paramedic who had arrived with the ambulance had made a cursory check on the bloodied man lying on the floor in the kitchen.
‘Careful with the evidence,’ PC O’Riordan, a red-haired young man in his mid-twenties, said. Three years out of training and this was his first murder. He knew the procedure: secure the area, ensure that any evidence was left undisturbed before the crime scene examiner and his team had a chance to conduct their investigation, phone Homicide, although his superior, Sergeant Graves, back at the station, would almost certainly have dealt with that.
‘The woman is still alive,’ the paramedic, a middle-aged man, said.
‘Serious?’ O’Riordan asked, preferring not to look too closely. His first murder, his first time being confronted with so much blood. He had been trained to react calmly, although he had not yet attained the ability to detach himself from a scene of violence. He went outside and threw up, splattering some daffodils with his vomit. Taking a drink of water from a tap in the garden, he returned to the scene.
Detective Inspector Sara Stanforth was there. ‘What is your preliminary report?’ she asked the police constable.
‘Male, clearly dead; the female is still alive, although in a bad way.’
‘I can see that myself,’ DI Stanforth said. O’Riordan knew her from the police station. He had only spoken to her on a couple of occasions, and both times she had been unpleasant. He assumed that their third meeting would be no different. Sean O’Riordan, ambitious and smart, but still, as yet, only a police constable, did not appreciate her style, but he knew that she was efficient.
‘I arrived on the scene at 20.52 in response to a 999.’
‘Yes, but what else?’ Sara Stanforth said. A smartly-dressed woman, she was determined to succeed in an establishment clearly dominated by men. She knew of the glares from the men down at the station, men who should know better. Some had been friendly, especially Detective Chief Inspector Bob Marshall: so much so that they were now an item, having moved in together three months previously.
As for the others, some had been willing to treat her as an equal while the rest saw her as a bit of fluff, suitable only for making the coffee and whatever else. The whatever else she knew. Sara Stanforth knew she could be a bitch and overbearing, particularly in the station, but it came with the territory. She had to establish her credentials quickly before the typical male chauvinism took over.
‘Family name, Chalmers. The dead male is probably Gregory Chalmers.’
‘Probably?’
‘The young boy, his name is Billy, said that it was his father, and this is the house of Gregory and Stephanie Chalmers.’
‘Confirmed?’ DI Stanforth asked.
‘There are letters on a table in the hallway with their names on.’
Sara Stanforth had brought another woman from the station. She was with the boy, attempting to find out who he knew that could come and look after him. It was clear that he was a witness, but for now his well-being was more important.
‘And the woman is Stephanie Chalmers?’
‘According to Billy, it is.’
The crime scene was quickly being established, and the crime scene examiner was on his way. A neighbour, identified as a friend of Stephanie Chalmers, had come over and was tending to the young boy. His sister, known to be at a friend’s house, would be staying the night there.
‘Anymore you can tell us?’ Sara Stanforth asked the paramedic as he removed Stephanie Chalmers from the murder scene, knowing full well that the paramedic’s responsibility was to the seriously injured woman, not to the police.
‘Knife wound to the lower body, loss of blood. No more than that for now.’
‘We will need to interview her.’
‘At the hospital, but not today.’
‘When?’ Sara Stanforth asked.
‘Not for me to say. You’ll need to check with the doctor.’
It had only been a brief conversation, but DI Stanforth knew that the paramedic had been correct. However,
