DS Clarke gazed at the pictures in the front room of the Walker’s house, while DC Reynolds tried to calm Suzanne in the next room. They’d bagged the phone up as evidence and would soon be on their way back to the station, just as soon as DC Reynolds stopped playing the role of counsellor. It was that Scottish accent of hers, he was sure of it. There was just something instantly soothing about it.
He looked down at the bagged-up phone and grimaced. He was starting to fear that perhaps Teigan had been mugged and attacked. Possibly worse. But he reminded himself not to jump to conclusions. Her phone could have fallen out of her pocket on the same day that she decided to do a runner.
He’d already jumped to conclusions once, when he had seen Suzanne Walker’s name on the PNS. However, he’d ended up just feeling sorry for her, after reading that the INTEL was simply that she’d had the misfortune of discovering her father’s dead body and had had to call it in to the police. She was only nineteen years old, suddenly orphaned after already having lost her mother at the young age of twelve. Poor woman had had a rough life. Then she’d gone into social work — as if that was ever going to be an easy job.
From the corner of his eye, he kept checking for the creepy cat. He’d been warned it didn’t like men, and he wasn’t a cat fan at the best of times. He focussed back on the pictures. There were lots of them. Professional ones taken of Suzanne and Teigan, as well as family photos that had been put into frames and scattered around the house. The one in the “Like Mother, Like Daughter” frame must have been taken on an iPhone, as the print was ever so slightly fuzzy. But even through the slight blur he could see the genuine love on the faces of Suzanne and Teigan.
He thought about the picture he had taken of Emily and Kacey on Kacey’s first Christmas, just three years ago. She’d been six months old, propped up between Emily’s legs in that little elf costume Emily had insisted on buying. It was ridiculous, but he had to admit that she looked cute. Emily had been looking down at her with nothing but love in her eyes. He should take more pictures to capture those precious moments. He knew all too well how quickly they slipped from grasp.
He frowned as he rubbed his temples. It had been a long night, last night. He’d got the standard lecture from his mother-in-law when he arrived home. “She”ll grow up faster than you realise, and these moments will pass you by,” which had left him feeling suitably depressed. After trying to get to bed at a reasonable time, he’d been woken by Kacey’s howls. Another nightmare. Another night spent curled up on her pink fluffy rug trying to soothe her back to sleep.
He shook his head and sighed, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. Perhaps tonight would be a better night. He wandered through to the middle room and eyed the stairs. He just couldn’t picture it — Suzanne standing at the top of the stairs and just assuming Teigan was safe in her bedroom. It’s not like he knew her well, but he’d already established that she was a bit of a control freak. Why would she even let her daughter have a lock on her bedroom? He’d never allow it. Then again, Kacey was only three years old. He might feel entirely different when she was Teigan’s age. Part of him wanted Kacey to stay exactly as she was, forever. But he knew the only thing worse than your child growing up is your child not growing up.
“Sarge?”
He wandered through to the kitchen, nodding politely at Suzanne, who now sat in the middle room, head in her hands. “Everything all right?” he said in a low tone.
DC Reynolds spoke casually, but with wide eyes, hinting something at him. “Yes, I’m just making Ms Walker a cup of tea.” She jerked her head in the direction of the lower left-hand cupboards and widened her eyes even more. She looked slightly mad, but he got where she was going with it. He followed her eyeline and spotted it. It was faded, but there were three small drops of blood, slightly bigger than a thumbnail, staining the floor right along the edge. They looked like they’d been cleaned, but not soon enough after they were spilled, leaving a faint stain on the lino.
She then pointed to just behind him, where the carpet ended, and there was a step down into the kitchen. On the edge of the carpet, he noticed a few more specks of red.
“Did you want sugar in that tea?” she called through to Suzanne, keeping up the pretence.
DS Clarke turned to Suzanne, who was still sitting with her head in her hands. For the first time since that hit on the PNS, he suddenly felt suspicious of this woman. Could someone really play the part of agonised mother so well? She’d been the one who’d called them back out after finding the phone — why would she do that if she’d been involved?
“Ms Walker,” he said as he strode through to the middle room, as Suzanne lifted her head up to meet his eyeline. Her hair was perched on top of her head in a messy bun. There were dark bags under her eyes, and somehow her face looked thinner. “I’m going to call our forensics analyst out, just to cover all bases. Whilst he’s here, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Her face changed from emotional exhaustion to bewilderment. “Forensics of the house? How will that help?”
“We just need to cover all bases, Ms Walker. Especially in light of the potential boyfriend who gave her the bracelet. You work long hours, so, for all we know, this boyfriend could have spent time in the house with Teigan before you returned home.” He turned around to DC Reynolds, who was hovering in the doorway with the tea for Suzanne. “Could you make that call, Reynolds?”
“Of course, Sarge.” She put the tea down next to Suzanne and headed through to the front room to make the call.
“Is there somewhere you can go in the meantime, Ms Walker?”
It took three hours before a forensic analyst was available, and it was Jason, the team’s most inexperienced. DS Clarke audibly groaned when he saw him getting out of the car.
“Jeez, he can’t be that bad, Sarge, else he wouldn’t have the job!” DC Reynolds said as she munched on a Special K cereal bar. “Want some?” she offered.
“No, thanks. It’s not that he’s bad — he’s just a bit slow. I would have preferred someone else. Especially as it’s a Saturday night.” He’d promised his mother-in-law he would be back by eight that evening. Fat chance of that happening now.
DC Reynolds shrugged. “Well, you get what you’re given, eh.”
A full hour later, Jason called them through. “Careful, careful — you’ve both got your shoe covers on, right?”
“Yes, Jason. Christ, I have done this once or twice before, you know.” DC Reynolds snorted at his own response.
“Just checking, Sarge. So, you’re right that there are some traces of blood here. We’ve got a few specks just here on the edge of the carpet.” He pointed to the tiny flecks of red, which had been highlighted by a bright yellow numbered card. “Then, if you follow it through to the kitchen, there were those little faded ones on the edge there as you saw, but I’ve also found blobs of highly concentrated bleach in particular patches on the lino, all the way through to the bathroom at the end. I’ve swabbed them, expecting to find more traces of blood underlying the bleach.”
Clarke felt his frown deepen — he could feel the onset of a migraine tugging at his temples. If you were washing the floor, you wouldn’t do it in patches like that. Unless there was something in particular to clean away. “But, why would some of the blood be properly cleaned and the other bits left?”
Jason shrugged. “Well, it’s possible the little droplets by the edge were missed at the time, then spotted later and cleaned up then. But because they were left for longer, they’ve caused more of a stain. The other areas of bleach were slightly larger, but not huge, maybe just under half the size of your palm.” He looked at DS Clarke’s hands, then down at DC Reynolds’ hands. “Or, more like hers, actually. They’re dainty little things, aren’t they?” he chuckled to himself.
DC Reynolds ignored him. “So, a few droplets half of the palm of a small hand, and a few the size of a thumbnail?”
“Indeed,” Jason nodded his head. “Not exactly a murder scene. It’s a small amount, maybe from a minor injury or a substantial nosebleed, for instance.” Clarke couldn’t avoid noticing that Jason seemed somewhat disappointed that there wasn’t more blood. “I mean, if you were looking at an obvious murder scene, you’d be expecting at least this much blood …” Jason started gesturing with his hands, but Clarke’s focus was fading. It was seeping into his mind. The memory of that day. The way the blood had pooled out from under the car, slowly revealing her fate inch by inch.
“Yes, thank you, Jason,” he cut back in. He rubbed his head and sighed, as the beginnings of the headache had already started to take hold.