Fortunately for me, there’s no traffic to contend with today. Not between numbers 50 and 47 Strathmere Road. I leave my house, walk twenty yards down the road and cross. There are two marked cars and two unmarked parked outside, all with the distinctive OU- registration plates, known to criminals across the south of England to be a pretty good sign of an unmarked police car.
The frosty morning air is sharp and bitter in my nostrils, but I like it. It’s invigorating. A thought strikes me. I’ve lived in Strathmere Road for nearly two years but I’ve never once spoken to a single neighbour. To be fair, everyone seems to keep themselves to themselves around here, and I’m no different. I guess it’s the way of the world in the modern age. No skin off my nose.
‘DI Thomas,’ I say as I flash my warrant card to the uniformed officers at the end of the path leading up to number 47. I don’t recognise either of them, but one of them gives me a bit of an odd look, presumably having seen me come out of my own house only a few doors up. They stand aside and let me through.
At the end of the path, the front door is ajar, so I let myself in and I’m immediately bombarded by the sound of police radios, the crackling and static between messages fills my head, confusing me a little and reminding me of my dream as I wait for the paracetamol to kick in.
The decor in the house is smart but dated. I recognise the layout immediately, as it’s almost identical to my own house. The whole estate consists of the same sort of template semi-detached houses, each with their own small personal modifications from successive owners over the past fifty years or so.
Number 47 has exposed floorboards downstairs. I’ve never really been one for exposed floorboards, but I must admit they look quite nice here. My hall carpet’s getting on a bit, and I briefly wonder whether I should go for the same look in my place.
In the living room, a uniformed PC is looking through a stack of bills and letters on the coffee table. ‘Morning,’ he says, noticing my presence. I nod at him.
I head upstairs, to where most of the activity seems to be. A forensics officer recognises me and says hello. I’ve seen him at a few crime scenes before but I don’t recall his name. I’ve never been much good with names. ‘Female occupant, killed in her own bed. According to the driving licence in the handbag downstairs, she’s Hayley Williams, aged thirty-two.’
I nod, realising that this is the first time I will have met any of my neighbours. And what a way to do it. ‘Any signs of forced entry?’ I ask.
‘The lock on the back door seems to have been tampered with. It wasn’t a great lock, to be honest, and according to her next-door neighbour, the side gate is always left unlocked.’
I groan inwardly. Why people have such inadequate locks fitted to their doors always amazes me. Then again, being in this business it always seems remarkably easy to get past a locked door when you know how.
‘What’s the neighbour’s name?’ I ask.
‘Mrs Medway,’ he says. ‘She made a point of saying that this is a very low crime area. Last recorded burglary on Strathmere Road was in 1982, apparently.’
‘How do you know that?’ I ask.
‘She told me.’
I let out a small chuckle. ‘A wily old woman, I’m guessing? Early seventies, horn-rimmed glasses?’
‘Naturally,’ he says, smiling. We both know it’s amazing how many people who we come across actually fit into these sorts of stereotypes. What I don’t tell him, though, is that I have the added advantage of having seen her a few times from across the street.
I look into the bedroom. The woman who was once Hayley Williams is lying in her bed, seemingly completely unaware of what had happened to her. She looks incredibly peaceful, considering the state of her. Half of her skull is missing, the cream bedspread decorated with blood and brain tissue.
As my eyes drift from the immediate scene to the window, I swear blind that out of the corner of my eye I see her sit up and look at me. The officer next to me says nothing. Great. I’m hallucinating again. This isn’t the first time this has happened when I’m tired. After all, the human brain is a master of deceit.
‘Pretty hefty weapon, if you ask me,’ the forensics officer says, pulling me from my delirium. ‘Sharp but heavy. My bet would be a pickaxe or something of the sort. A gardening implement, maybe, but not a small one. We’ll know better once we’ve had a proper look, but I’d put my money on a pickaxe for now.’
‘Christ.‘Any sign of the weapon?’
‘Nope. Looks like she didn’t know anything about it, either. No sign of a struggle. Killer must’ve been stealthy.’
‘Good for him,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Probably a friend or relative. Someone who knew the layout of the place. What do we know about her? Any spurned ex-boyfriends?’
‘Not much at the moment. You’d have to ask the chaps downstairs. They’re going through her personal effects as we speak.’
I go to leave but stop and turn around in the bedroom doorway. ’When you said the lock was tampered with, what did you mean exactly?’
‘It’s not been barged open as such. It looks as though it’s been opened, but not with the original key. A pretty professional job, not much mess. She wouldn’t have heard a thing. Probably some sort of lock bumper. Again, you’d have to ask the lads downstairs.’
I nod silently and leave the room.