Helena Grant finally arrived back at Bill’s at around 8pm. McKay had kept insisting she should head off, but she’d felt obliged to remain at the crime scene until they’d had a debrief with Jock Henderson. Not that Henderson had had much to tell them beyond what they already knew – that Prebble had been decapitated by several blows from a sharp instrument, most probably an axe. The killing would have required some significant physical strength, especially if Prebble was also being physically restrained. However, there were also signs of a substantial head trauma so Henderson speculated Prebble might already have been unconscious.
‘Aye,’ McKay said. ‘I’d have hated for Prebble to have suffered unduly.’
‘Makes sense, though,’ Grant said. ‘Prebble was no youngster but I’m guessing he’d have resisted strongly if someone was trying to cut his head off.’
‘Hell of a way to go, though,’ Henderson commented. ‘There are simpler and easier ways to kill someone.’
‘I’ll take your word for that, Jock.’ McKay had been chewing on his trademark gum. ‘But complicated and high effort seem to be the fashion these days. Christ knows why.’
Beyond that, there was little new. There were traces of blood in the hallway, presumably left by the killers on their departure, but fewer and less obvious than Henderson might have expected. They’d found a number of fingerprints in the house, the majority of which belonged to Prebble. The remainder would be collated and checked, with Sacha’s also to be eliminated. ‘Early days,’ Henderson concluded cheerfully. ‘There’s plenty to go at. Nice to have a proper crime scene to work on for a change.’
‘As long as we keep you happy, Jock,’ McKay said. ‘It’s my only goal in life.’
‘Well, there’s a very simple way you could do that just now. Let me get on with my work.’
Grant had left them to it, deciding there was little more she could contribute. She’d been unsure whether she should stay with Bill again tonight, or just return home so she could head into work from there in the morning. But Bill had been keen for her to stay, and she’d wanted to stick with their original plan as far as possible. She would go into the office in the morning, but McKay had made it clear that nobody would expect her early.
Bill had insisted on giving her a set of house keys so she was able to let herself in. She’d called Bill during the return journey to let him know she was on her way, and as she entered the hallway she could smell the pleasant aromas of dinner being prepared. ‘Bill! I’m back.’ Christ, she thought, I sound like the wife in a cosy sitcom.
She walked down the hall and peered into the kitchen. There was a pot boiling on the stove, but no sign of Bill. She made her way to the living room.
He was standing by the uncurtained window with his phone in his hand. He’d clearly just ended a call and was looked distracted. But as he turned towards her, his face broke into a smile. ‘Glad you’re back. I missed you.’
She immediately felt reassured by the warmth of his expression. ‘I’ve only been gone a few hours. You’ll have to get used to that.’
‘I suppose so. I’m sorry our weekend’s been interrupted, though.’
‘Me too. But you’ll need to get used to that too. It goes with the job.’ It occurred to her that, although neither of them had openly acknowledged it, they were already talking as if they were in it for the long haul.
‘I should know. I’ve written about it often enough. Isn’t that what usually drives the grizzled cynical cop to drink? Speaking of which…’ He gestured towards the coffee table which held an open, expensive-looking bottle of French red and two wine glasses.
‘Do I look that grizzled and cynical?’
‘We can grow grizzled and cynical together.’ He crossed to the table, slipping his phone into his pocket, and poured the wine. He lowered himself onto the sofa, and she moved to sit beside him.
‘All okay?’ she said.
‘Think so. Especially now you’re back.’
‘You seemed to be on the phone when I came in.’ She wasn’t sure whether it was even appropriate to mention this, given he hadn’t acknowledged it. She didn’t want to seem to be prying. On the other hand, she thought, if they were getting really serious about the relationship, surely anything he did ought to concern her.
‘Nothing important. Just more publishing stuff. There’s always something.’
‘Nothing bad, I hope.’
‘Nothing that won’t get sorted. It’s always the little things that are trickiest to resolve. Now, I should tell you about supper.’
‘You should.’
‘I’ve made a bouillabaisse. Or maybe a zarzuela. A fish stew, anyway. With all the trimmings, including roast potatoes. And then a creme caramel. Or maybe a Spanish flan. So very French, or possibly Spanish.’
‘It sounds very cosmopolitan.’
‘My cooking tends to be good but geographically imprecise.’
‘I can live with that. It sounds delicious either way.’
‘Won’t be long, anyway. How was your day? As grisly as it sounded?’
She’d told Bill only the barest minimum about why she’d decided to go to the murder scene, but she’d felt she had to tell him enough to justify her unplanned departure. ‘Fairly grisly, yes.’
‘God, this is… what, the third of these now?’
‘We don’t know if they’re connected. They’re all very different.’
‘But all bizarre. That can’t be coincidence, surely?’
‘We just don’t know yet. It’s important we don’t jump to conclusions. It’s been a challenge for us to make any progress at all over Christmas.’
‘I guess that might not be accidental. Perhaps the killer’s all too aware of how under-resourced you are over Christmas.’
‘That sort of stuff appeals to you crime writers, Bill, but it’s usually not that sophisticated.’ She was keen to move the conversation on, but she wondered if Bill did actually have a point. The killings they usually dealt with were far from sophisticated, but these seemed in a different category. Whatever the motives behind them, the murders had been meticulously planned. That planning might well have included timing the killings to coincide with one of the most challenging times of year for the police.
He smiled at her. ‘I can take a hint. You don’t want to talk shop.’
‘It’s been a hell of an afternoon and I’d rather just put it behind me.’
‘I know. My professional curiosity keeps getting the better of me. Sorry.’
‘No worries. But it would be nice to talk about something else tonight. Anything else, really. Anything that doesn’t remind me that I’ve got to throw myself back into it tomorrow.’
‘Don’t you enjoy it?’
‘Enjoy isn’t quite the word. I always thought it was what I was born for. But this weekend’s made me wonder if there’s more to life.’
‘There’s always more to life,’ Bill said. ‘Though I’d hate to see you give up the day job. I was hoping to gain some inspiration from you.’
‘I hope that’s not all you see in me.’
‘No, that’s just a very small bonus.’
‘I hope so, or you might find yourself disappointed.’
Bill had clearly got the message. ‘No expectations at all, except that you’re suitably appreciative of my food.’
‘No problems there, then.’
‘In that case, I’d better go and get it ready to serve.’
He departed for the kitchen and she sat sipping her wine. She’d noticed Bill had left his mobile on the table. She was momentarily tempted to pick it up, see if it was locked, perhaps check who he’d been talking to earlier before she entered the room. It wasn’t nosiness, she told herself. It was just wanting to know everything she could about him. She wanted to know him as fully as possible.
But she resisted the temptation. It would be wrong. It would suggest she didn’t trust him. And in any case, she smiled to herself, the phone was sure to be locked.