Two bolts, a chain, and Talbot was in, the broiling street air still a welcome, freshening breeze.
Behind him, a small crowd lined the low garden wall. Water bottles in hand, pointing. If the police were breaking into houses on their street, they sure wanted to watch. Roberts closed the front door.
‘Whatever it is, we’re right on top of it. Right here.’
‘Unless the whole house is the same,’ said Talbot. ‘Who knows what went on.’
Gloved hand over his mouth, he walked through to the kitchen. Tentative, cautious steps. Hotter here, the contents of the waste bin adding to the noxious air they breathed. Used and half-empty glasses of water stood on the counter. Roberts, following behind, counted five of them.
‘Visitors,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch them.’ He tried the door to the courtyard. It swung open. ‘Who left this way presumably.’
Both officers stepped outside. Two chairs had been placed by the far fence, another empty glass on its side between them. Talbot climbed on to a chair, peered over the fence. The parallel terrace offered a choice of alleys to escape down.
‘And then over here,’ he said. ‘Two gardens and you’re out.’
He stepped down, and both men looked up at the back windows. All shut, all curtained. More deep breaths.
‘Right then,’ said Roberts.
He led the way back inside, a single route through the house. The kitchen, the lounge, the hallway. There was no doubt where the stench was coming from. Roberts sat on the bottom step, lifted a corner of the hall’s matting. There was about three metres of it, a thick, coarse weave of dirty brown nylon, running from the foot of the stairs to the front door. He revealed about a metre of the cheap, worn floorboards beneath. Ran a finger along a deep, battered groove that had been gouged in the wood, cutting across the grain. Talbot walked to the other end. Back to the door, he lifted what he could. It was enough.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
Together, they folded the matting back on itself, the underside encrusted with congealed and dried blood. A new intensity to the rotting smell caused both men to turn their heads. Roberts closed his eyes briefly. Exhaled.
‘Better do this.’
They exposed only what they needed to. Five lines of ill-fitting floorboards ran the length of it, most of their surface area now smeared in blood. Where the knots in the wood butted up against a join, most had fallen through. Disappeared long ago. Most of the holes were dark, empty, but towards the door a run of three showed a distinct lining of blue. A fabric of some kind, pushed up against the underside. Roberts and Talbot caught it at the same time, exchanged a glance. Stepping forward, the boards shifted beneath their feet. Left and right. Loose, like there was no glue, no nails keeping them in place.
‘Someone has been very careless,’ said Talbot.
‘Or someone didn’t care very much one way or the other,’ said Roberts.
He stepped to the edge of the hall, lounge-side, to the one board that appeared solid. He nodded Talbot towards the kitchen end, and together they lifted the middle floorboard. It left a hole one metre long by nine centimetres wide, and revealed a shoulder, an arm and a neck that had been sliced to the grey cartilage of the trachea.
Roberts reached for his radio.
77
8.20 a.m.
IT WAS ANOTHER dazzling morning and Hardin was sweating already. The city’s pavements and manicured green spaces were steaming, the high-rise, all-glass offices reflected the sun straight back at him. He adjusted his sunglasses, pushing them further up his nose. He crossed the street, the suitcase rattling in front of him. Four wheels and an upright handle made it more of a walking stick than luggage. It was his routine. The glad rags were pressed and packed. He would change at the cathedral, help the bishop with his service, then grab a taxi to get to the university on time. Maybe the bus if he could cope with the stares. And the heat.
He’d left his daughter sleeping, his wife a note. In it, he explained that the night had been reasonable considering the temperature, that he had last changed and fed their baby at seven. He had added that he was a little apprehensive about the ‘demo’ and hoped that he was doing the right thing. He asked for her prayers. And as a PS, that he loved them both more than he was capable of saying.
Hardin walked his route. He walked it with purpose to avoid looking like a lost tourist. Or a hungover delegate looking for his conference. He had been accused of both. Twenty-five minutes from house to cathedral. New town to old town. Modern city to ancient city. Coffee shops to cobbled streets. The shopping precinct was quiet, very few of the charity shops and estate agents that lined his way were open yet. Here and there rough-sleepers lay together in groups, sleeping bags and cardboard strewn in doorways. None of them looked up. He was grateful. He pushed on.
Earbuds in place, he listened to the local news station reporting from the campus three miles up the road. Their reporter had started to explain what she was expecting to happen on the protest – she had police crowd estimates, student and university quotes – but then broke off. Hardin could hear shouts, and the reporter explained that a large group of demonstrators had arrived. She described them as masked and purposeful. They were, she said, standing in front of the Senate Building, shouting at
