Tags:
Fiction,
Suspense,
Psychological,
Psychological fiction,
Thrillers,
Action & Adventure,
Suspense fiction,
Legal Stories,
Fathers and daughters,
Psychologists,
Police - Crimes Against
near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow. ’
Cray looks at me. ‘Who wrote that?’
‘Oscar Wilde.’
‘Some of those Micks could write.’
Orange fluorescent evidence markers are spaced intermittently on the stairs, distinguishing blood spots. A camera flashes upstairs, sending a pulse of light through the railings.
I turn and study the front door. No burglar alarm. Basic locks. For a security consultant, Ray Hegarty didn’t take many personal precautions.
‘Who lives next door?’
‘An old bloke, a widower.’
‘Did he hear anything?’
‘I don’t think he’s heard anything since the Coronation.’
‘Any sign of forced entry?’
‘No.’
‘Who had keys?’
‘Just the family members. There’s the other daughter, Zoe. She’s at university in Leeds. She’s driving down now with her boyfriend. And there’s Lance, who’s twenty-two. He works for a motorcycle mechanic in Bristol. Rents his own place.’
The sitting room and dining room are tasteful y furnished. Neat. Clean. There are so many things that could be disturbed - plants in pots, photographs in frames, books on shelves, cushions on the sofas - but everything seems in place.
The kitchen is tidy. A single plate rests in the sink, with a cutting board covered in breadcrumbs. Helen made a sandwich for lunch or a snack to take to work. She left a note on the fridge for Sienna tel ing her to microwave a lasagne for dinner.
Through the kitchen there is an extension that was probably a sunroom until it was turned into a bedroom. Refitted after Zoe’s attack, it has a single bed, a desk, closet and chintz curtains, as wel as a ramp leading down to the garden. The en suite bathroom has a large shower and handrails. On the dresser there is a picture of Zoe playing netbal , balanced on one leg as she passes the bal .
Walking back along the hal way, I notice the door beneath the stairs is ajar. Easing it open with my shoe, I see an overnight bag on the floor. Ray Hegarty’s overcoat hangs on a wooden peg. He came home, hung up his coat and tossed down his bag. Then what?
Something drew him upstairs. A sound. A voice.
Cray goes ahead of me, stepping over evidence markers as she climbs each step without touching the banister. The main bedroom is straight ahead. Two doors on the left lead to a bathroom and second bedroom. Sienna’s room is off to the right. Ray Hegarty lies face down on a rug beside her bed with his arms outstretched, head to one side, eyes open. Blood has soaked through the rug and run along cracks in the floorboards. His business shirt is stained by bloody handprints. Smal hands.
Sienna’s room is a mess with her clothes spil ing from drawers and draped over the end of her bed, which is unmade. Her duvet is bunched against the wal and a hair-straightening iron peeks from beneath her pil ow.
I notice a shoebox, which has been customised with photographs clipped from magazines. Someone has pul ed it from beneath the bed and opened the lid to reveal a col ection of bandages, plasters, needles and thread. It is Sienna’s cutting box and also her sewing kit.
The untidiness of the room could be teenage-induced. I have one of those at home - messy, sul en and self-absorbed - but this looks more like a quick ransacking. A search.
‘Is anything missing?’ I ask.
Cray answers. ‘Nothing obvious. We won’t know until we interview the family.’
‘Where’s Helen?’
‘At the hospital with Sienna.’
Crouching beside the body, I notice blood splatters, some large and others barely visible, sprayed as high as the ceiling. A hockey stick lies near his right hand. Lacquered to a shine, it has a towel ing grip in school colours.
I squat motionless in the centre of the room, trying to get a sense of the events. Ray Hegarty was hit from behind and fel forward. There are no signs of a struggle, no defence wounds or bruises or broken furniture.
Turning my head, I notice an oval-shaped mirror on a
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