After You Die (12 page)

Ferreira already had the report open on screen, running through it so fast he was sure she couldn’t be taking it in properly.

‘Have you seen this?’

‘Not yet,’ he said, going to collect the sheets of paper from the printer. ‘Hold on a minute.’

‘There’s blood on the banister and the treads.’

Zigic grabbed a seat at an empty desk, knowing that if he didn’t they’d end up shouting at each other across the office. He scanned through the part she was looking at, a couple of pages in.

‘No clear footprints,’ he said. ‘How is that possible? There was blood all over the kitchen, they must have tracked it right through the house.’

‘Jenkins reckons somebody tried to clean up afterwards.’

Zigic skipped ahead to where she was. Jenkins’s notes described finding flecks of white cotton on the treads of the stairs, smears up the banister, destroying any fingerprints laid down on the painted wood. The bloodstained towels used for the job dumped in the linen basket. She’d retrieved a few strands of hair from them. It was a start.

‘They didn’t panic,’ he said. ‘Doing all that would have taken time.’

He imagined a figure moving through the house, slow and methodical, checking every surface, calmy removing themself from the scene. Who behaved like that after committing such a violent crime? What kind of person could hold it together, think ahead, be logical, see the crime scene the way a copper would and anticipate their actions well enough to frustrate the coming forensics officers?

The efficiency of it disturbed him more than the violence of Dawn Prentice’s murder.

Or, rather, the understanding that one person could switch so quickly between the two mindsets. It suggested they wouldn’t make mistakes further down the line. No drunken slips to a family member, no guilt gnawing away at them.

‘Whoever did this was confident they wouldn’t be discovered in the act.’ Ferreira leaned away from the screen. ‘Suggests they were familiar with Dawn’s routine, don’t you think?’

‘We need to know when her home help was due in,’ Zigic said. ‘Where are we with that?’

‘Waiting for a call back,’ Wahlia told him. ‘She was using a small independent health-care company. They don’t seem very organised.’

Or concerned, Zigic thought. Five days since Dawn was last seen alive, shouldn’t Holly’s nurse have visited during that period? He didn’t know much about how home help worked but he was sure that somebody in Holly’s condition would have been visited more than once a week. Meaning the nurse would have gone to the house, seen the mess next door and the crime-scene tape, but not come forward.

‘Chase them up, Bobby.’

‘I only called them an hour ago.’

‘Call again.’

Zigic went back to the beginning of the report and read it through properly, finding that the contamination of the site was even more serious than it looked. The kitchen was so heavily covered in debris that any future prosecution would be open to difficult questions about where each particular piece of evidence originated. And, just as Jenkins warned, the emergency services had managed to wipe out or obscure most of the useful footprints on the bloody kitchen floor.

There was no sign of the murder weapon. The whole kitchen had been searched, every available knife taken and examined, but none bore traces of blood or matched the dimensions of the wounds on Dawn’s body. None fitted the two empty slots in the knife block either – one six-inch blade missing, the most likely weapon, but a smaller five-inch one was gone too and the lack of explanation for that bothered him.

The rest of the house had remained more or less clean, the worst of the blast damage restricted to the kitchen and the living room – photographs of that showed an old-fashioned carpet and wallpaper, a new modular sofa which matched neither and the remains of a bookshelf toppled by the force of the explosion. No signs of blood in the room and if it had seen any violence there was no way of telling.

‘Holly’s room was clean,’ Ferreira said. ‘No blood traces, no signs of disturbance.’

Zigic looked up from the file. ‘Was her bedroom door closed or open?’

‘Open when I got there.’

‘But before that?’ Zigic asked. ‘Did the uniforms go in there?’

‘Fire crew was first in the house, they were looking for people to evacuate … I get you. Hold on, I’ve got the bloke’s number, I’ll find out.’

Zigic drank the rest of his coffee as he went through the file again, wanting everything fixed in his head. Ferreira was waiting on hold, impatiently turning her lighter around between her fingers and tapping it on the desk.

He got up and went to the gents, took a detour to the technical department to check where they were with Dawn’s phone and laptop and found the offices deserted. The tail end of the lunch hour, they’d be back soon at least. He realised he hadn’t eaten yet either but didn’t fancy whatever was in the vending machines or the canteen and couldn’t be bothered driving out to pick something up.

Ferreira was finishing her call when he returned to the office, thanking the man on the other end, checking one last time that he was absolutely and definitely sure what he’d seen.

‘Closed,’ she said, as she put the phone down. ‘His mate found Dawn, he went upstairs to check the bedrooms – this was the middle of the night, of course – Holly’s door was definitely closed. He saw her, assumed she was still alive, but couldn’t move. Then when he went to pick her up … she was cold.’

‘Okay.’ Zigic went over to the board again. ‘So, we’ve got no blood traces in Holly’s room and nothing suspicious on the door handle and the door’s closed when emergency services arrive.’

‘Did the killer even know she was in the house then?’ Ferreira asked. ‘If it was some bloke who was there for Dawn it’s possible he wouldn’t have known Holly existed.’

‘But they went upstairs to use the bathroom. They took the time to wipe down the stairs. You do all that but don’t check the other rooms?’

‘And risk being seen by someone?’ Ferreira asked. ‘No. Look, if nobody’s come to see what the hell you’re doing. If they haven’t heard the commotion and got involved, you wouldn’t automatically go looking to get yourself witnessed.’

Zigic stared at Holly’s photograph, thinking of her hearing feet coming up the stairs, water running in the bathroom. Was she used to that? Hearing Dawn’s temporary boyfriends in the house?

‘The other explanation is they knew Holly was there and that she couldn’t do anything about it,’ Ferreira said. ‘So they just left her alone.’

‘To die?’

Ferreira nodded. ‘This is fucking sickening. Christ, if they did know she was there, and they knew what kind of state she was in – that’s worse than what they did to Dawn.’

‘And it’s not murder,’ Zigic said bitterly. ‘When we find this bastard, we’re not even going to be able to charge him over her death.’

‘Manslaughter?’

‘Does that feel like enough to you?’

She walked away, over to the window where she’d left a half-smoked cigarette sitting on the sill. ‘Maybe the autopsy will turn something up.’

‘You saw her,’ Zigic said. ‘She wasn’t murdered.’

Not in a way the law would regard as murder. Manslaughter maybe. Neglect most likely. It would all hinge on whether they, and the CPS, could prove that the killer knew Holly was in the house and too severely incapacitated to survive without her mother’s care. Westman knew that. Warren knew it too – but Zigic seriously doubted that he’d let Holly suffer.

Nathan? The boy was a void still. Until they could get some kind of handle on his history and personality it was impossible to even guess at what he might do.

Wahlia’s phone rang and he snatched it up, mouthed ‘social services’ at Zigic when he looked over.

It was a quick conversation, minimal input from Wahlia’s end after he told the woman what he needed and assured her it would be off the record. A promise he couldn’t actually keep. Two minutes later it was over and he shook his head at Zigic.

‘They’ve got no record of a boy being lodged with the Campbells.’

‘She must be mistaken,’ Zigic said. ‘He might be there under another name.’

‘No boy of any name.’ Wahlia was still frowning at the phone. ‘They’ve got the girl, Caitlin Johnson. She’s been with them just over two years. But no boy.’

‘Maybe he’s been brought in from out of the area,’ Ferreira suggested.

‘No, she’d have a record of him. The different regions have to liaise.’ Zigic stared at Nathan’s name in the Persons of Interest column, the letters almost pulsing. ‘If he’s been deliberately kept off the official database it’s because he’s high risk. Question is – who to?’

Mr Talbot – Caitlin’s head of year – didn’t look much like a teacher. Or nothing like the teachers Ferreira remembered from school. He was young and smartly suited, hair well barbered, wearing a light stubble over a deep tan. Middle management, she would have guessed, if she’d seen him on the street. Financial sector, something in law perhaps. Mid-level now, but ambitious and capable enough to move up quickly.

She guessed that was what heads of years were, though. Aspiring top-level management, temporarily holding an unwanted but necessary teaching position. He looked like someone who thought in buzzwords and bullshit concepts.

‘I’m surprised Caitlin’s in today,’ Ferreira said. ‘What with everything that’s going on.’

Talbot shifted his weight in the leather chair, eyes flicking away to his computer screen for a split second. Ferreira would have laid money Caitlin Johnson was barely on his radar half an hour ago. He’d boned up before she arrived, now he was going to play the conscientious
loco parentis
.

‘The staff have been made aware of the situation,’ he said, smoothing one manicured hand down his purple silk tie. ‘In the barest terms, of course. Mrs Campbell and I thought it would be best for Caitlin to come in. Maintain her routine.’

‘And how’s that going?’

‘Caitlin’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘Her teachers are all very happy with how she’s progressed since she enrolled her. We’ve got high hopes for her GCSEs and beyond.’

‘That must be unusual. Considering her background.’

‘Most children thrive with stability.’ He smiled, something queasily earnest in the look he gave her. ‘She has a dedicated learning support assistant too. Mrs Fraser, you’ll meet her in a moment.’

‘If Caitlin’s a good student why does she need an LSA?’

Talbot paused, hand straying to his tie once again. ‘Mrs Fraser was assigned to help Caitlin with more social issues. She’s quite a self-contained girl, which is only natural given her – well – experience. We’d like to see her come out of her shell a little more.’

A soft hand tapped on his office door and Talbot told them to come in, standing to make the introductions. Ferreira stood too, as a middle-aged woman in jeans and Fair Isle jumper entered the room, trailed by what Ferreira first took to be a teenage boy.

Caitlin was tall for her age and heavily built, in black uniform trousers and a sweatshirt two sizes too large. Everything about her appearance was designed to camouflage her femininity. She wore no make-up and her brown hair was severely cut, very short and razored underneath, her fringe hiding half of her face. The only girlie touch was a pair of silver-and-topaz studs in her ears.

She was a girl who didn’t want to be noticed, Ferreira thought, and wondered what in her previous life had led her to believe that was the safest option. If she didn’t know Caitlin was in care she might not have considered the underlying reasons but now she guessed at a history of abuse, too much history for a thirteen-year-old to deal with.

Her look was a shield against the kind of perverts and predators she’d encountered already but Ferreira knew it would never work. Not completely. Because men like that would see through it, see that she was already damaged and know they could damage her more.

‘Caitlin, I’m Mel.’ She stuck her hand out and the girl shook it warily, giving her the briefest second of eye contact from behind her fringe. ‘I’m investigating Dawn and Holly’s deaths.’

Caitlin looked at Mrs Fraser, who squeezed her arm and smiled encouragingly.

‘Why don’t we all sit down,’ Talbot suggested. He gestured towards a grey fabric sofa and two armchairs, arranged around a low coffee table, and they took their places, Caitlin sitting close to Mrs Fraser on the sofa, Ferreira and Talbot taking the chairs.

‘Has Julia told you what happened?’ Ferreira asked.

Caitlin nodded. ‘Dawn was murdered. She thinks it was one of her boyfriends.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘Dawn wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t let herself get bullied by a bloke.’

Mrs Fraser started to say something and Ferreira cut her off with a look.

‘Some blokes do what they want, though,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t matter how smart or strong Dawn was.’

Caitlin shrank slightly where she sat.

Change tack, Ferreira thought, quick.

‘Did you go round to Dawn’s house very often?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘You must have known Holly before she had her accident.’ Caitlin nodded again, still closed off, eyes averted. ‘What was she like?’

‘Nice. Really sporty.’

‘Were you two friends?’

‘I don’t like sport.’ She blinked but didn’t brush her hair away. ‘Me and Dawn were friends. When Holly and her dad went off for the weekend doing stuff me and Julia went round to see Dawn. She was funny. You could talk to her.’

‘About what?’

Caitlin drew her hands up into the cuffs of her sweatshirt. Another uncomfortable topic.

‘Anything.’

Mrs Fraser was watching Caitlin very carefully and Ferreira noticed how she mirrored every expression that crossed the girl’s face. Either she was deeply empathic or a natural mimic, a skill which would be useful for dealing with vulnerable kids, good for earning their trust, making them believe you genuinely cared.

‘How about Nathan?’ she asked. ‘How did he get on with Dawn?’

Caitlin folded her arms over her middle. ‘Why do you wanna know?’

‘We need to talk to everyone who was close to Dawn and Holly to see if they might know anything. If they saw anyone hanging around the house.’ Ferreira tried to dip into her eye line but the girl was staring at her lap. ‘Holly’s dad mentioned that Nathan and her were friendly. Is that right?’