They heard the hammering before they reached Reg’s cottage. Michael, stooped forward—the only way he could get any relief from the pain in his side—stopped at the end of the path to the common.
‘How did you know she’d be here?’ Marquis asked.
‘Just a hunch.’
‘You go round the back.’ He directed the two officers who had accompanied him and Marquis on the police RIB from Guernsey. ‘Keep your heads down—don’t want to spook her—but be ready in case she runs when we confront her.’
They nodded, jogged ahead.
‘Sir, no offence, but you don’t look like you’re in a fit state to confront anyone.’ Marquis had been fussing since they left Guernsey. ‘I can handle this.’
‘I’m sure you can. But I need to be here. I can’t explain why.’ He didn’t want to think about the reasons for this recklessness. His need to control the outcome of this investigation, to make sure nothing slipped by him. To see his final case through to its conclusion. He forced himself to stand up straight.
‘Come on.’
They walked to the front door. Knocked. The hammering inside continued.
‘What do you think is going on in there?’ Marquis looked nervous.
Michael knocked again. Pushed open the door.
The linoleum on the kitchen floor had been rolled up, exposing bare wooden floorboards, many of which had been smashed to pieces, leaving jagged-edged holes dotted all over the room, splinters of wood littering the remaining floor. Helen Groves was not there. The hammering was coming from the back of the house. One of the bedrooms.
Marquis went first; Michael followed, peering into the holes as he stepped towards the door that led to the back corridor. If she was looking for something, she obviously hadn’t found it yet.
They followed the noise, past the main bedroom, where he could see through the open door that the floor here had had the same treatment as the living room. He stopped in the doorway of the spare room. The bed had been pushed to one side and a woman, presumably Helen Groves, was crouched down, back to them, attacking the floor with a particularly vicious-looking claw hammer.
‘Ms Groves?’
She stopped. Didn’t turn round.
‘Ms Groves, I’m DCI Gilbert. This is DC Marquis. Can you put the hammer down, Ms Groves?’
She stood. Turned to them, hammer by her side. Her knuckles were white she gripped it so tightly. She looked at Michael, who was panting, sweat on his brow, bent over, hand pressed protectively over his side. Then to Marquis, who was young and fit, and who, Michael knew, was a hell of a lot braver than he looked, but perhaps, with the freckles, the mop of bright red hair, was not the most intimidating of adversaries.
‘The cottage is surrounded, Ms Groves. We’ve two officers at the back. I’ve more only a phone call away. If you could just put down the hammer, tell us what you’re doing here, maybe all this is unnecessary, eh? Did Luke ask you to come here, to find something for him?’
She dropped the hammer. Sank to the bed. Put her head in her hands. No tears, though. No wailing.
‘What are you looking for, Ms Groves?’ Michael stepped over the broken floorboards and picked up the hammer.
She took her hands away from her face. Splinters of wood clung to her hair, and her skin was grey, and her eyes—her eyes were dark and terrified. This, Michael thought, was what broken looked like. Not an ageing cop with a few stiches and a sore head but this woman. Whatever she had seen, whatever she had done, it had destroyed her.
Michael sat in the back garden surveying the house. Marquis emerged from the back door, dust in his hair, something black and greasy on his hands.
‘There’s no space in the roof—it’s completely flat. She’d already torn up the floorboards in every room. I just had a feel around the back of the boiler, the pipes in the bathroom. It’s a tiny place—we went through it with a fine-tooth comb the first time. Whatever she was looking for isn’t in there.’ He walked over to the guinea-pig hutch. ‘Who’s been feeding them?’
‘One of the neighbours.’
‘Shouldn’t we take them to the animal shelter or something? They smell pretty bad.’
Michael joined him at the chicken wire. ‘Mangy little things. Never liked them myself. Luke said they used to be his dad’s pride and joy.’ He stopped. ‘Don’t suppose anyone thought to search in here, did they?’
Marquis shook his head. ‘Don’t think so, boss.’
Michael opened the latch on the door to the enclosure, poked his head into the animal’s sleeping quarters. The bedding of shredded newspaper was wet through and covered in droppings. Michael rapped on the wooden base, setting the guinea pigs out in the run to squealing. Definitely hollow.
‘Where’s that hammer?’ His voice echoed in the small space, and the urine-soaked air caught in his throat. He pulled his head out and took a couple of breaths, waited for Marquis to return.
‘Here.’
Michael took a few more deep breaths before sticking his head back inside the hutch. He prised one of the wooden slats with the hammer’s claw. It was damp and pliable. Came up easily. He pulled up another. And another. Handed them back to Marquis. Reached into the space below. Felt earth. Gravel. Plastic. It took a bit of an effort for him to pull up the package. It was wrapped in old, thick bin liners and brown packing tape. He dropped it onto the grass at Marquis’s feet.
Marquis pulled at the tape, tore at the plastic. ‘Photos, boss. And looks like letters. What is all this?’
Michael walked over to the wrought-iron chair and sat, a little heavily, wincing, yet again, as the stitches in his side pulled.
‘I’m hoping, Marquis, that it’s all the bloody answers.’