DS Clarke was crouched over the piece of paper, chewing on the pen between his teeth. His mind was whirring, positive he was on the edge of an answer. He gestured to Rebecca to get the phone when it started ringing, not wanting to disrupt his chain of thought.
“Sarge?” Rebecca hesitated — she’d already been shushed several times. “It’s Crossley from Toxicology, about the blood sample.”
DS Clarke’s head shot up from the piece of paper he was using to brainstorm. He grabbed the phone from Rebecca.
“DS Clarke speaking.”
“Hey, Clarke. Sorry about the delay, but finally got that blood sample on the Walker case sorted.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t Suzanne’s blood on the kitchen floor — her sample didn’t match.”
Clarke’s skin pricked with suspicion. She’d lied about cutting her finger on the knife. And she’d lied about having siblings. What else had she lied about? “That’s definite, is it?”
“Yep, it’s definite. The results suggested the blood belonged to a relative, though, so most likely Teigan Walker.”
“Jesus …” Clarke rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “You couldn’t have gotten this information to me sooner?”
“No. We have procedures and protocols, just like you lot do. And a long waiting list. I don’t think five working days is too bad, if you ask me …”
“When there’s the life of a fourteen-year-old girl at stake, it’s too bloody long.” He hung up the phone. “Bloody bureaucracy.”
“What’s going on?” Rebecca shuffled over to him. “Was the blood …?”
“Yeah. It was Teigan’s.”
Her hand shot to her mouth. “Oh, shit. So, what does that mean?”
Clarke paced around the room, picking up a marker pen and wiping clean the whiteboard. “It means we’ve been focussing on the wrong bloody person. Monty Shepherd probably had nothing to do with this. Teigan was injured in her own home, by her own mother, the morning she disappeared.”
“Surely not,” Rebecca said. “There must be some other explanation. I just can’t believe she would be capable …”
“Let’s focus on the facts, not what you want to believe about character.” Clarke was pacing around the room again, furious at himself for letting go of his initial gut feeling, for not catching her lies sooner. “She did something to Teigan that morning, I’m sure of it. There’s way more to Suzanne Walker than meets the eye.”
Rebecca nodded, twiddling with a stray strand of hair. “What about what the system flagged up? When her dad died? There could be more information about the case in the old files.”
Clarke wagged his finger in agreement. “Yes, yes, good thinking — get that file. And I’ll–” The office door swung open, to the stern face of their DCI.
“Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant, but we have a problem.” DCI Fitzpatrick walked in, wearing his navy blue suit and a tie pin.
“Fitzpatrick, sir, what’s the problem?” Clarke braced himself and could feel Rebecca doing exactly the same just to the left of him.
“Problems, actually. Plural.”
“Oh.”
“Problem number one —” DCI Fitzpatrick brandished a print-out of a news article and pressed it into Clarke’s hands. “A little birdy has outed your suspect Monty Shepherd.”
Clarke’s eyes scanned the article, picking up on “monster,” “pervert in a suit,” and “dangerous.” His gaze flickered to the byline. Nancy Thompson. He groaned.
“Oh, it gets better.” DCI Fitzpatrick perched himself on the edge of the table, his arms resting on his muscular thighs. “We spoke to Nancy, and guess what? She was commissioned to look into Monty Shepherd and to out him. Any guesses who by?”
Clarke gritted his teeth. “Suzanne Walker.”
“Ding,ding, correct answer.”
“What?” Rebecca grabbed the article out of Clarke’s hands. “No way.”
“Yes, way, Constable.” DCI Fitzpatrick flashed her a disapproving glance. “So, you might want to look into whatever the hell Ms Walker thinks she’s doing, as she’s created a fucking ambush. Monty Shepherd’s face is all over the Internet, he’s been forced out of his workplace, already had his car keyed. Various people swearing to ‘kill the sick bastard.’ I’ve had to send police protection down there, a resource I didn’t have, frankly.”
“Shit.” Clarke’s head was hurting already. “What’s problem two?” He barely dared to ask.
“Oh, you’ll love this. So, while you two have been scheming to force a confession out of a potentially innocent man, Suzanne Walker has been hiding this in her closet.” He pulled out a Polaroid picture. “Literally, in a box in her wardrobe.”
Clarke took the faded picture from him. It was old, from when Polaroids were actually in fashion. It captured the moment a little girl was blowing out candles on what looked like her twelfth birthday cake. Next to her was a man, presumably her father, looking down at her, eyes full of an intense love. At first he thought the birthday girl was Suzanne, but then he spotted a pregnant teenager in the corner, half cut out of the picture. Suzanne. So the little girl must be Steph. Even half cut out, Suzanne’s expression sent a shiver down Clarke’s spine. Her cold stare was fixed on her father. A look of absolute contempt.
“How did you get hold of this?” He tore his eyes from Suzanne’s scowl and looked up to Fitzpatrick.
“Ha, well, that’s the funny part. Apparently, she and her ex, Ray, bumped uglies the other night.”
“What?” Clarke and Rebecca both exclaimed in perfect unity.
“Yep, she chucked him out the next morning, but he managed to find this before he left. He realised what it might mean and brought it in. Looked pretty guilty about it.” DCI Fitzpatrick gestured at the Polaroid. “Turn it over, that’s the important part.”
Clarke turned it around, to reveal the word KARMA written on the back, and a date.
“That date,” Fitzpatrick said with a knowing smirk, “is the day her father died.”
Clarke looked from Fitzpatrick to Rebecca. “Get me that file on her dad’s death, Reynolds. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”