him.’
‘The picture of the boy on TV tonight may help,’ Thackeray said, trying to inject some optimism into the proceedings to boost the team’s obviously flagging morale. ‘There’s no doubt people take more notice of a case if children are involved.’ He ignored the tightening of his own stomach as he contemplated the recurring image of Gordon Christie’s dead wife and daughter and the likelihood that his son had already met a similar fate.
‘Val,’ he said. ‘Anything on next-of-kin?’
‘Nothing, guv,’ DC Val Ridley said. ‘Kevin found nothing to indicate any relations at the house – no addressbook, no mobile phone, though that’s not necessarily significant because reception in Staveley’s notoriously poor. We’ve turned nothing up on any of the computer bases we’ve got access too. No one questioned in the village has recalled any mention of grandparents or aunts and uncles. They really do seem to have been a completely isolated family and the father seems to have done everything he could to keep them that way. And he’s been self-employed, running his own business, so there’s no old employment records. Apart from odd references to living abroad, possibly in Spain, they might have dropped into Staveley from another planet for all we’ve been able to find out about them. I’m waiting for the itemised bills for the fixed phone as we speak. That may give us some clues.’
‘No one can be that invisible,’ Thackeray said.
‘Unless…’ Kevin Mower paused, as if reluctant to finish the sentence. Thackeray looked at him, waiting.
‘Unless he’s hiding from someone or something. Or being hidden. It might be worth checking with our own people. He could be on a witness protection scheme of some sort.’
‘With a wife and three children?’ Thackeray’s tone was sceptical, verging on the dismissive. ‘That’s not normal procedure. It’s too dangerous for the family. You can’t keep kids locked up in safe houses.’
‘So maybe he was trying to protect his wife and three children on his own account,’ Mower suggested. ‘We’ve never strayed far from the assumption that Christie himself was the gunman up till now. But what if he wasn’t? What if he was the target?’
The meeting fell silent as they took this idea on board.
‘What have we got from forensics on the bullets?’ Thackeray asked eventually.
‘Nothing yet, except the calibre,’ Mower said.
‘Well, give them a kick up the backside and say we need to know everything there is to know about that gun,’ Thackeray said. ‘If it’s on record anywhere I want to know about it first thing in the morning. I never like the assumption that any crime is “just a domestic”. A domestic victim is just as dead as any other and just as deserving of justice if we can provide it. And this domestic is beginning to look distinctly odd in any case. I don’t like the smell of it one little bit. I think it’s time to redouble our efforts, don’t you?’
Chapter Five
DC Val Ridley took a detour into the intensive care ward at Bradfield Infirmary on her way into work the next morning, as she had ever since Emma Christie had been brought in two days earlier. One of the nurses on duty at the desk smiled at her vaguely as she came in.
‘Any change?’ Val asked. The nurse shrugged, glancing at the small form in a large bed, wires and tubes attached to more machinery than any lay person could comprehend.
‘She was a bit restless in the night,’ the nurse said. ‘I was just writing up her notes for the day shift. It could be a good sign, or it could be nothing.’ Val nodded her thanks and approached the bed. As far as she could see the pale face on a delicate stalk of a neck, eyes closed, chest barely moving with each assisted breath, looked no different from the way it had looked the day before. What hair was left after the doctors had cut it away was limp and lifeless, so blonde it was almost colourless, the rest of her head
‘The picture of the boy on TV tonight may help,’ Thackeray said, trying to inject some optimism into the proceedings to boost the team’s obviously flagging morale. ‘There’s no doubt people take more notice of a case if children are involved.’ He ignored the tightening of his own stomach as he contemplated the recurring image of Gordon Christie’s dead wife and daughter and the likelihood that his son had already met a similar fate.
‘Val,’ he said. ‘Anything on next-of-kin?’
‘Nothing, guv,’ DC Val Ridley said. ‘Kevin found nothing to indicate any relations at the house – no addressbook, no mobile phone, though that’s not necessarily significant because reception in Staveley’s notoriously poor. We’ve turned nothing up on any of the computer bases we’ve got access too. No one questioned in the village has recalled any mention of grandparents or aunts and uncles. They really do seem to have been a completely isolated family and the father seems to have done everything he could to keep them that way. And he’s been self-employed, running his own business, so there’s no old employment records. Apart from odd references to living abroad, possibly in Spain, they might have dropped into Staveley from another planet for all we’ve been able to find out about them. I’m waiting for the itemised bills for the fixed phone as we speak. That may give us some clues.’
‘No one can be that invisible,’ Thackeray said.
‘Unless…’ Kevin Mower paused, as if reluctant to finish the sentence. Thackeray looked at him, waiting.
‘Unless he’s hiding from someone or something. Or being hidden. It might be worth checking with our own people. He could be on a witness protection scheme of some sort.’
‘With a wife and three children?’ Thackeray’s tone was sceptical, verging on the dismissive. ‘That’s not normal procedure. It’s too dangerous for the family. You can’t keep kids locked up in safe houses.’
‘So maybe he was trying to protect his wife and three children on his own account,’ Mower suggested. ‘We’ve never strayed far from the assumption that Christie himself was the gunman up till now. But what if he wasn’t? What if he was the target?’
The meeting fell silent as they took this idea on board.
‘What have we got from forensics on the bullets?’ Thackeray asked eventually.
‘Nothing yet, except the calibre,’ Mower said.
‘Well, give them a kick up the backside and say we need to know everything there is to know about that gun,’ Thackeray said. ‘If it’s on record anywhere I want to know about it first thing in the morning. I never like the assumption that any crime is “just a domestic”. A domestic victim is just as dead as any other and just as deserving of justice if we can provide it. And this domestic is beginning to look distinctly odd in any case. I don’t like the smell of it one little bit. I think it’s time to redouble our efforts, don’t you?’
Chapter Five
DC Val Ridley took a detour into the intensive care ward at Bradfield Infirmary on her way into work the next morning, as she had ever since Emma Christie had been brought in two days earlier. One of the nurses on duty at the desk smiled at her vaguely as she came in.
‘Any change?’ Val asked. The nurse shrugged, glancing at the small form in a large bed, wires and tubes attached to more machinery than any lay person could comprehend.
‘She was a bit restless in the night,’ the nurse said. ‘I was just writing up her notes for the day shift. It could be a good sign, or it could be nothing.’ Val nodded her thanks and approached the bed. As far as she could see the pale face on a delicate stalk of a neck, eyes closed, chest barely moving with each assisted breath, looked no different from the way it had looked the day before. What hair was left after the doctors had cut it away was limp and lifeless, so blonde it was almost colourless, the rest of her head
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