Soraya nodded,wiped her face and stood. ‘It would be good to get it out of the way.’
They travelled in near silence for theduration of the ten-minute journey to the other side of Tenterden. Sorayahad asked him for a progress update and he responded vaguely, never liking toreveal too much to clients mid-way through a job. Normal family historieswere littered with unpredictable twists and turns; this case was anything butusual, so to reveal what little he actually knew would be a futileexercise. When they arrived at the quiet estate, Morton parked as closeto Peter’s house as he could. All the drama from Wednesday was totallyover. The house now resembled all the others in the street.
Soraya fumbledin her handbag, pulled out a large bunch of keys and opened the door, steppingwet footprints onto the worn doormat. The house was deathly silent anddark, all the curtains having been pulled to keep out prying eyes. Sheflicked the light switch in the hallway but nothing happened. ‘Bloodyhell, they’ve turned the power off already. Can you believe it?’
‘They don’twaste time, do they?’ he replied, inexplicably feeling the need to whisper.
Soraya enteredthe lounge and opened the sun-bleached, ruby curtains. ‘That’s better.’
Morton followedher into the lounge, an uneasy feeling unsettling his stomach. He wantedto leave before he had even begun. ‘Do you know where his personal paperswould be?’
Soraya shookher head. ‘Bedroom maybe? It’s the front bedroom upstairs. I’ll take a look in here.’ The bedroom was the one place he didn’t wantto look – Juliette had informed him that it was in this room that Peter haddied.
Morton enteredthe dim hallway, placed his foot on the bottom stair and looked up, wonderingif he really wanted to see upstairs. He thought of Juliette and what shewould do – bound up the stairs, two at a time, like a curious puppy – thenbegan the ascent. With slow deliberate footsteps, Morton climbed theshadowed stairs.
At the top, hewas confronted by three closed doors. He gently pushed open the firstdoor, revealing a surprisingly clean and modern bathroom. Coldrick hadseemed much more of a grimy avocado suite man, he thought. He movedacross the landing to the second door and turned the handle: he found a smallbox room with Dr Who curtains and matching duvet set on a child’sbed. Morton cast his eyes over an open-fronted bookshelf crammed withchildren’s books, toys and stuffed toys; Fin’s room was an unlikely locationfor the copper box.
He backed outonto the landing and then opened the remaining door: Peter Coldrick’sbedroom. The scene of the crime. Instantly, he was struck by thesmell. Six days on and a potent acrid mix of rusting iron and fresh seasalt rushed into his nostrils. He covered his mouth to stop himself frombeing sick. He couldn’t imagine it being something that the SOCO guyscould ever get used to. He guessed that was why they were always suitedup like Michelin men whenever they were called to crime scenes. Like therest of the house, the room was filled with a muted darkness. Keeping hismouth covered, Morton cautiously entered the room. As he moved to openthe curtains something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Thebed. Whoever had their finger on the trigger Tuesday night, had pulled itright here. A shallow indentation in the smooth, cream duvet betrayedwhere Coldrick had sat; confirmed by the disgusting quantity of dark – almostblack – blood which splayed out in a perfect formation across the pillows andheadboard. No Bodily Fluid Removal Team had swept through, changing bedlinen, vaxing the carpet or touching up the magnolia walls: everything was justas it had been the day a cold metal bullet passed through Peter Coldrick’s lefttemple into his brain.
Morton pulledopen the curtains and tentatively inhaled, filling his nostrils with the staleair that smelt like a stagnant pond. With a little stretch of hisimagination he could attribute it to the house having been closed up forseveral days and not from the spilling of several pints of PeterColdrick’s blood. He supposed that everyone involved in the deathindustry passed their way through the various stages of desensitisation. How else could a coroner slice open Coldrick’s head like it was a boiled egg todetermine that his brain weighed 1637kg? It must be a fine line betweencoroner and psychopathic killer, he reasoned.
He began theuncomfortable task of rooting around a stranger’s belongings, tugging opendoors and drawers around the room, casting his eyes over the contents foreither the copper box or anything else which might help the case. Heopened the cheap, flat-pack bedside cabinet and rifled through a lifetime’sworth of junk. He found nothing. The only two other items offurniture were a large oak wardrobe and a chest of drawers, which he quicklydiscovered was filled with clothes, towels and an abundance of hot water bottlecovers. He pulled open the wardrobe. Inside were rows ofmulti-coloured jumpers, all carefully ironed. Morton didn’t think thatColdrick was the type to even own an iron, much less use one, judging by thestate of his clothing the day that he had met him. A solitary black suitbook-ended the run of clothing, which Morton guessed would be the final pieceof clothing Coldrick would ever wear. He’d never understood the idea ofdressing a dead person in a perfectly good suit and he made a mental note totell Juliette his last wishes when he got home: cardboard coffin; woodlandburial; naked; no flowers. At the base of the wardrobe were a pile ofancient blankets and three tatty suitcases. Morton pulled the cases outand, at the back of the wardrobe, noticed a small copper box the size of apaperback. Was this the copper box Coldrick had mentioned in theanswerphone message? It had to be. He lunged at it and pulled itout of the wardrobe. The lid was emblazoned with an intricately decoratedcoat of arms. He carefully prised open the lid. Empty. Completely empty. Whatever Coldrick had found inside was long gone.
‘Morton,’Soraya yelled from downstairs. It was an ‘I’ve found something’ kind of
