It was the first time she had entered the house and found it empty of life. The cluttered living room and kitchen were just as she remembered, the walls plastered with images she knew as intimately as her own body. The air stale as ever, a blend of nicotine and Old Spice she associated with her grandfather since the first time she snuggled onto his lap. Now her former home stood vacant with only the husk of an old man sitting in a chair, his head tilted back as if asleep. But this wasn’t her Wally. Not anymore.
Emily turned away, arms crossed protectively over her chest, struggling to push aside her own grief and assume the role of Detective Inspector. The investigating officer had introduced himself as DI Pratt. Ironic but it matched. He’d assessed the situation in textbook fashion (no evidence of assault or forced entry) and accepted the pathologist’s initial pronouncement of death by myocardial infarction (heart attack) because it was convenient to do so. Why waste police resources when there were muggers using knives two streets away? Same old, same old.
She stood by the window, looked back again at the body in its chair, forcing herself to confront whatever it was that seemed to be screaming at her brain. What?! I know there’s something, but what?
O’Brien was in the kitchen, giving her some private space and talking quietly to a man with an air of mournful exasperation. Pratt was around the same age as Emily, dressed in a well-worn grey suit and tie, but with oddly casual shoes.
‘Miss Whitney Hollings at number ninety-six has given us the photograph you mentioned. The vehicle does look like a recent Audi model but there’s no registration visible. However, she says she thinks she can remember the number. We’ve passed it on to ANPR, so hopefully we might get a match.’
‘Very good, Pratt. It’ll almost certainly be a rental, but at least it’s something.’
An excited voice from the living room cut through the despondent air.
‘Sir! Would you come in here, please sir?’ She was stood directly in front of Wally’s corpse, her hands poised but hesitant. ‘If he had a heart attack, why is he not clutching his chest? Or doing something else? He’s too relaxed.’
The two men followed Emily’s gaze to the position of Wally’s arms, perfectly aligned with those of the chair.
‘What if someone held him down, while another smothered him with a cushion? Can we check for bruises on his forearms? I think there’s a reason why he’s sat like that.’
O’Brien glanced at the man by his side, saw his expression take on more animation. ‘You’re the I.O.’
Pratt nodded. ‘Shall we?’ Spreading his own arms in invitation, he took a step closer to the corpse. Emily did the opposite.
‘There,’ said O’Brien, peering closely as Pratt pulled up Wally’s sleeve to just below the elbow. A patch of discoloured skin about an inch wide spanned the thin arm two inches above the wrist. Something about its appearance bothered him. ‘Try the other one.’
Pratt remained silent, a puzzled frown on his face as he let go of Wally’s left sleeve and followed the same procedure with the right.
‘Identical. How do you see it?’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Pratt slowly. ‘But something isn’t. He didn’t get those marks from anyone leaning on his arms. Just hold on a minute, sir.’
He left the room to speak to the officer manning the front door, while Emily’s curiosity won over, urging her to examine the bruising herself. O’Brien watched her come to the same conclusion.
‘They tied him down.’
There was no emotion in her voice, and before O’Brien could add anything further Pratt was back with a penlight torch. The two men knelt down to view the underside of Wally’s chair.
‘See it? There’s some scratches right there.’ He directed the light at some pale marks on the wooden arm, then examined the right-hand side. ‘And on this one too. It’s my bet forensics will find flakes of old varnish on the carpet below. I’d say that happened recently, wouldn’t you?’
‘Agreed. Someone used cable ties to strap him to the chair.’ O’Brien took a deep breath. At least the diversion to Bootle had come up with positive evidence of homicide. A box ticked for Operation Pentland. ‘You’ll get your pathologist to concur on the bruising?’
‘I will. I’ll also get photos of this before we move the body. DI Blake, my apologies. It looks like you got your murder after all.’
*
Emily had accepted Pratt’s apology with a nod but said nothing more. She offered no objection to O’Brien’s announcement that they needed to continue their journey to Manchester, and spoke little as they made their way towards the M62. O’Brien drove. He pressed her for more information. ‘Tell me your thoughts on Lee Meredith.’
Emily didn’t answer at first, her focus remaining somewhere beyond the windscreen.
He was about to try again when she spoke without shifting her faraway gaze. ‘He’s mid-fifties, well-built and a smart dresser. When I saw him seventeen years ago, he was very particular about his appearance. I’d also credit him with being highly intelligent. He’s quick with numbers and fiercely loyal to Gris. Very well connected, and because he’s on Gris’s payroll I’d say he has a lot of doors open to him. I often wondered if he’d track me down after I joined the police. And if he did, who else knows?’
‘You think Gris or Meredith have someone on the inside?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ve always thought it possible. That’s why I never raised it at a high level. Gris once had the whole of the Home Office at his feet. The higher you go, the easier it is to misdirect an investigation. I even waited before contacting you.’
‘Why was I in favour?’
‘Because Operation Ascot got pulled. And because I did remember the nice guy at Peter Beard’s retirement. You had something about you I felt I could trust.’ She turned to look at him for the first time. ‘I was sorry about the interruption from the other officer.’
‘Christ almighty.’ O’Brien glanced to his left and caught the glimmer of a smile that did a lot to ease the tension from that morning. ‘You’re a bloody case, you are.’
Feeling more relaxed herself, Emily broached a question.
‘What’s our priority in Manchester?’
‘We’re going to meet a couple of men who may have another insight into activities under the direction of Peter Gris. A few days ago, in Salford…’
He was interrupted by a phone alert over the car radio; a number flashed up on the instrument panel. O’Brien tapped a button.
A male voice said, ‘Sir? I got a hit from ANPR on that Audi.’
‘Yes? Go ahead.’
‘Registered to a rental firm in Bury, North Manchester. Just spoke to them and they said it’s out on loan for a month since the eighth of August.’
‘Paid in cash?’
‘No, sir. Credit card in the name of Eric Vinke.’