Angel of Death by Ben Cheetham

daughter must have been sitting when she got it in the head,’ said Amy.
    Jim grunted cautious agreement. ‘Where’s the other body?’
    Ruth headed into the hall, brushing aside a furl of soggy, smoke-grimed wallpaper. The second body was even more badly burnt than the first. The eyeballs had melted, and the flesh had blistered and cracked away, providing glimpses of the bones beneath. The head rested at an unnatural angle, like a broken corn stalk. ‘Jesus,’ murmured Jim, putting the back of his hand to his mouth.
    ‘Not even he could bring this guy back from the dead,’ said Ruth. ‘His neck’s broken at the base of the skull.’
    ‘Was that the cause of death?’
    ‘It would have been more than enough to kill him, but we won’t know for sure until the post-mortem.’
    Jim glanced up at what was left of the landing bannister. ‘Do you think he fell from up there?’
    ‘Again, I can’t say for sure. But his injuries are consistent with the injuries he would’ve sustained if his head was stretched upwards and backwards as a result of hitting the floor chin first from that kind of height.’ Ruth beckoned for the detectives to follow her upstairs, warning, ‘Tread lightly. We’re not supposed to be up here. The fire’s damaged the joists. We’re waiting for the firemen to set up floor supports.’ On reaching the landing, she pointed at the floor. ‘That’s where the shotgun was found.’
    ‘What sort of condition is it in?’ asked Jim.
    ‘The wooden stock was badly burnt. The rest is undamaged.’
    ‘Any chance of recovering prints?’
    ‘There’s every chance. Fingerprints can survive a pretty severe exposure to fire and water.’ Ruth pointed at a doorframe. ‘Take a look at this, Jim. I almost missed this because of the fire damage, but if you look closely you can see that the wood’s been splintered by the impact of shotgun pellets.’
    ‘And the damage is at roughly shoulder height,’ Amy added.
    The floor creaked ominously as Jim entered the bedroom, which was palely illuminated by the exterior floodlights. ‘Careful, Jim,’ cautioned Ruth. ‘No one’s been in there yet.’
    Jim’s gaze travelled the fire-gutted room, taking in the collapsed four-poster bed and the rows of singed clothes visible through the door of the walk-in wardrobe. Testing the floor with each step to make sure it would bear his weight, he edged into the wardrobe. He peered inside the safe, whose interior had been shielded from the worst ravages of the fire by its thick metal door. His eyebrows drew together.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Amy.
    ‘A safe.’
    ‘Anything in it?’
    ‘A few thousand quid.’
    ‘Well I’d say that seals it. This isn’t a robbery gone wrong.’
    ‘Looks that way.’ Jim briefly closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. When he was younger, being around death used to make him feel alive in some perverse way. Now it just gave him a kind of weary, empty headache. Resisting a strong urge to head outside for a cigarette, he said, ‘OK, so what’s the scenario? Mark comes to the bedroom, where his father’s lying in wait for him. The mother and daughter have presumably already been shot. Which begs the question, why shoot Mark up here?’
    ‘Maybe Stephen didn’t want him to panic at the sight of the bodies?’ suggested Amy.
    ‘Maybe,’ Jim agreed tentatively. He made as if aiming a shotgun. ‘Bang. Mark gets it in the shoulder. His father approaches him to finish the job. Mark manages to grab the gun. The two of them struggle. Mark’s shot in the leg.’ Returning to the landing, Jim dropped onto his haunches and ran his fingers over the floor until he found what he was looking for. Taking out a Swiss Army penknife, he dug at the parquet tiles, dislodging a shotgun pellet. He stood up and handed it to Ruth. ‘Father and son struggle some more. Father falls over the bannister. Mark goes downstairs and drags his sister outside.’
    ‘Sounds about right.’
    ‘But that doesn’t