Bleed for Me by Michael Robotham Page B

stand, which is reflecting a white square of light on to the bed, highlighting the smal blue flowers stitched into the sheets.
    I look at myself reflected in the mirror and can also see the door behind me. Stepping over the body, I partial y close the door and stand behind it. Glancing towards the mirror, I can see Cray reflected in the open doorway.
    Her eyes meet mine.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘This is where they stood. The mirror told them when Ray Hegarty was in the doorway.’
    ‘But there’s hardly any room.’
    ‘The door was half-closed.’
    ‘Someone smal .’
    ‘Maybe.’
    Almost immediately I remember Sienna’s face bleached by the beam of the torch. There was something in her eyes . . . a terrible knowledge.
    Louis Preston emerges from the bathroom, looking like a surgeon preparing to operate.
    ‘There are traces of blood in the S-bend of the sink.’
    ‘Somebody cleaned up.’
    ‘Forensic awareness is such an important life skil ,’ says Preston. ‘I blame it on American cop shows. They’re like “how-to” guides. How to clean up a crime scene, how to dispose of the weapon, how to get away with murder . . .’
    Cray winks at me. ‘What’s wrong, Preston, did some smart defence lawyer punch a pretty little hole in your procedures?’
    ‘I got no beef with defence lawyers. Some of my best friends are bottom feeders. It’s the juries I can’t abide. Unless they see fingerprints, fibres, or DNA, they’l never convict. They want the proverbial smoking gun, but sometimes there aren’t any forensic clues. The scene is cleaned up or washed by rain or contaminated by third parties. We’re scientists, not magicians.’
    Preston scratches his nose and looks at his index finger as though he finds it fascinating.
    Meanwhile, I wander across the landing to the bathroom. A wicker laundry basket is tucked beneath the sink. The toilet seat is down. The shelves above the sink are neatly arranged with toothpaste, toothbrushes (three of them), liquid soap and mouthwash. The hand-towel beside the sink is neatly folded and hung over the railing.
    ‘They tidied the place,’ I say out loud.
    Cray appears behind me.
    ‘Make any sense?’
    ‘Not much.’
    ‘Did Ray Hegarty make many enemies in the job?’
    ‘We al make enemies.’
    It’s not an answer.
    ‘Any skeletons?’
    Her voice hardens. ‘He was a good copper. Straight.’
    A different SOCO appears at the base of the stairs. Cal s to Preston. ‘I found a stash of porn in the shed. You want me to bag it?’
    ‘What sort of porn?’ asks the pathologist.
    ‘Magazines, DVDs ...’
    ‘Anything unusual?’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Rape scenes, violent fantasies, anything involving children.’
    Cray stiffens in protest. Already she wants to safeguard Ray Hegarty’s reputation. A murder investigation is a circus of possibilities, where the spotlight is so fierce it reveals every blemish and flaw. The victim is also placed on trial and sometimes they die al over again in the courtroom - portrayed as being somehow responsible and slandered as viciously as they were stabbed or strangled or shot.
    Cray won’t let that happen. Not this time. Not to her friend.

    Outside, the crowd has thinned out. A few remaining teenagers are loitering on the far side of the lane, kicking aimlessly at dead leaves. A young man swigs from a lurid can. His dark hair has blond streaks cut in a ragged curtain that doesn’t so much frame his face as provide him somewhere to hide.
    My eyes rush to judgement. He looks familiar. Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve seen too much of the world and now it is starting to repeat itself.
    Then I remember where I’ve seen him. Sienna Hegarty kissed his cheek and climbed into his car. The youth is stil staring at me. A fringe of hair is flicked from his eyes. He turns away and begins walking quickly.
    I yel out to him and he runs, jinking between bystanders and parked cars.
    Cray is stil inside with Preston. I yel to the uniforms guarding the gate