Driving into Berwick, Mike decided to drop in at the murder scene before going to the station. A policeman was standing outside the door to the flat, in the process of chasing half a dozen nosy kids away as Mike pulled up.
'Hey, copper, is that right – the bloke who lives in there’s a murderer?' shouted one of the boys, no more than eight years old with a shock of red hair.
'Has he chopped somebody to bits?' asked a wide-eyed blonde girl of the same age, her voice rising with fright.
'On yer bikes,' the policeman replied, his eyes on Mike as he got out of the car.
Mike showed his badge. The officer nodded as he stepped to one side to let Mike through.
'Hey, mister,' the redhead shouted.
'I’ll not tell yer again,' the copper said, this time glaring at the boy.The kids scampered off, and Mike hid a smile as he opened the door. He noticed the bloody handprint on the door, plus two others along the hallway. The bedroom door was open and, as Mike stepped in to the bedroom, he bit down on a gasp. He found himself looking at a scene from a slaughterhouse.
The sheet had been taken away for DNA tests, but the blood had soaked through. Ninety per cent of the mattress was stained and still looked damp, showing just how much blood the victim had lost.
Mike stepped closer. The place smelled of blood and he wrinkled his nose.
'She’s obviously been murdered here,' he muttered, walking round the bed to the wall and back again, studying the bed from every angle.
'The vicious bastard.' He turned his attention to the rest of the room. Next to the bed, where a lot of the blood was, small chunks of white clung to the wall. He shuddered, knowing it was flesh, seeing in his mind the whip falling on the girl, pulling back ready for the next lash, scattering blood and tiny pieces of flesh in its wake.
Taking a deep breath he continued his survey of the room. Nothing looked like it had been disturbed in any way. Standard white furniture, probably flat-pack. A double wardrobe, a night stand with an alarm clock, and a large set of drawers, with a smaller set underneath the window.
There were blood and specks of flesh on every item.
Mike frowned as he looked at the trail of bloody footprints that led outside, probably the same person who the handprints belonged to. As if suddenly realising what he’d done, the bastard had panicked then turned and run, not caring what he touched or what sort of trail he left.
Leaving the house, Mike had a few words with the policeman outside before, grim-faced, he got into his car and headed for the police station.