I Vow to Thee

06:23

Kinsella

The report of a body found in an isolated Oxfordshire village was passed along the chain and Detective Inspector Maria Kinsella of Thames Valley Police was assigned to the investigation. Before she had left Kidlington HQ, she’d called in the Scene of Crime Investigations Team and some extra support from the local force.

As her police-issue BMW i6 sped up the M40, she reflected on the call. ‘Elderly lady found shot in her bed this morning when her milkman noticed her door left open and received no reply to his calls. The 999 call was placed by Peter Shull in the neighbouring village as no reception at the scene. No further details known at present.’

She ran her hand through her shoulder-length flame-red hair before glancing at herself in the rear-view mirror. You look knackered, she said to herself.

She hammered down the outside lane, blue lights flashing and siren blaring, yet it still took nearly a minute for the Mercedes to move out the way. ‘Idiot.’ She scowled at the driver as she passed, not that he looked across or apologised. They never did.

Kinsella had been a DI for two and a half years. At 38 she was considered one of the top detectives in her jurisdiction. She’d only been a DS for two years before her promotion, partly due to the death of her old boss, DI Wingate, who was taken by a sudden stroke before his time.

Moving with her husband to Summertown in North Oxford, she’d been ready to leave the force and focus on raising a family. But six years on her children remained naught but wisps of hope in her nightmare marriage to her hedge fund manager husband. Kinsella shook herself in her seat. That was the past; her future was just beginning.

She took a deep breath, held it for four seconds and released. Then another. She felt her body begin to relax. She had once been told stress was a hormone or enzyme or something that the body found impossible to hold on to when you focus on your breathing. She wasn’t sure it was true, but it worked nonetheless.

She blinked, her eyelids heavy as though weighted. She twisted her head, hoping that somehow this would help shake off the deep desire to sleep, but still the fog lay over her, inviting her to drift off. She put the car in self-drive mode, released the steering wheel, rubbed her eyes and stretched out as best she could in the cramped car. A long groan escaped her lips. She would sleep well tonight. She would go home, shower… no… a bath! Why not? She had the water stored. She would bathe, have a small dinner, stretch out diagonally in her king-size bed and sleep for a week.

She was struck by the realisation that it was her bed now, not theirs. How long had that been the case? Her husband stayed in London most of the time and although she was now used to the arrangement, it had taken a lot for her to stop hating him. There had been more than one night of tears and too many bottles of wine. More than one morning waking on the kitchen floor, her head throbbing and gut churning. All those tears just so he could bed “her”. It wasn’t fair.

They barely talked these days. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him when she’d spent those weeks away on the Church retreats. Why should she? Over two years she’d spent eight weeks in Scotland and he’d not even called, let alone noticed her absence. She could probably have stayed at the camp for months, and had wanted to in fact, and he’d probably not even come home. She wished she had stayed. It was so calm up there. So far from the torture of everyday life. So much to focus on that was bigger than her. She rubbed her eyes again and flicked the car back into manual-driver mode. There was no point dwelling on it. The camps had ended six months ago and wouldn’t return. Now there was just the late-night TV, the takeout and the 3.00 am bedtime. Last night had been different, though. Last night she had not slept a wink.

She reached for the coffee cup beside her and took a sip; still too hot. She grumbled quietly to herself, Need coffee. Need caffeine. The car headlights flashed again at the obstinate Ford Focus in her path. Idiots, she thought, again, as the car swerved into the middle lane and out of her path.

Like clockwork, her thoughts turned back to her husband. She had known about his affair for the past three years. Silvia Hutton, the luscious Director of HMC Bank with the legs and breasts of an Amazonian Goddess and the easy charm of a talk show host. And don’t forget to mention a former model and Oxbridge graduate.

“Lips like a suction cup” had been the overheard comment from her husband’s colleagues. She’d met her at some Christmas bash the year before and had been almost amused by how awkward they had been together. She remembered asking if she and her husband had to work closely together? And if Silvia worked under him? Kinsella remembered the perverse joy she felt as his cheeks turned scarlet when Silvia had answered yes. Kinsella couldn’t resist adding, ‘Well, make sure he doesn’t ride you too hard to get what he wants from you!’ Silvia had laughed, but her eyes had skittered like a young bird and she’d made excuses to scurry off.

She was married at the time too, of course. Some European banker. Gerard? Donald? Could be Hugo even? He spent as much time in Manchester and Berlin as Kinsella’s husband did in London. Kinsella knew Silvia had left him about a year ago, the divorce finalised just last month. Would her husband ever ask her for the same? Or was he happy with his second life? Leaving her to play the part of dutiful wife whenever he needed. No, the part of the dutiful Mrs-waiting-patiently-indoors while he ravaged his way around Europe with the beautiful warrior princess looking like something out of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.

Kinsella wasn’t fine with it, of course, but it wasn’t going to change anytime soon, and divorce was, for her at least, out of the question. She’d learned to live with the truth, just as she had learned to live with the realisation that she had wedded a man she no longer loved. Had she ever? Or had infatuation with the tall, athletic, charming banker clouded her judgement? She was no longer certain. Either way there was nothing she could do about it now, although she prayed she wouldn’t have long to wait for it to all be over.

No more. Don’t let him occupy your mind, you don’t need him to feel whole, you’re stronger than him. She focused her mind on the road before her. She was done with him. For now at least.

Turning off the motorway, Kinsella sped down the increasingly narrow roads toward the inevitable revelations. It was another 20 minutes before she arrived in Lesser Worburston. The house was on the very edge of the village. No more than 30 yards from a large sign that bid visitors welcome.

Two constables were busying themselves with cordoning off an area around the house. Another two were hammering on the front door of a large white stone house two doors up from her, while a final two stood watching her park, clearly eager to give her news. To her right, a youth vaped great clouds of righteous pineapple while leaning against his car with phone in hand; to her left an ambulance crew tended to a terrified fat man in a white coat. The milkman, she guessed. He looked as though half the life had been squeezed out of him.

Getting out, she arched her back trying to wake tired muscles before walking over to the two officers waiting for her. Be present, she told herself. Don’t let your tiredness show. ‘DI Kinsella.’ She flashed her badge, ‘What do we have here?’

‘PC Abboud, Ma’am, that’s PC Davis.’ His accent was pure Birmingham.

‘What’s your first name, Abboud?’

‘Omar, Ma’am.’ He stood so rigidly to attention Kinsella wondered if he’d strain something.

‘Omar it is then.’ She gave him a half-smile, trying to keep things friendly. ‘What happened?’

Omar’s reply was as though he were reading the recipe for beans on toast. ‘Myris Grantham, Ma’am, 65-years-old, found in her bed. She’s been shot.’

‘The singer?’ she said, sounding surprised and looking past Abboud to his colleague.

‘Yes, Ma’am. She was found by the milkman.’ Omar’s arm shot out as though on a piston. ‘He’s the one with a blanket over him over there, Ma’am – Donald Chiefly. He arrived this morning to drop off her usual bottle and found the door wide open. Said he tried calling out to her but got no reply, so he ventured inside and found her upstairs. He’s been sick in there and he’s not doing too well, Ma’am.

Not my concern, Kinsella thought.

Abboud continued. ‘The call was placed by the young man hovering over there.’ He pointed at the man vaping youth. ‘Peter Shull, 21, driving through the village on his way to work and discovered the milkman sitting in the middle of the road. No reception here so he drove over to Greater Worburston.’

‘Okay. Was this a robbery?’ she asked, watching the bird’s flitter between the rows of small trees. Their song drifting over to her on the breeze.

Davis replied, eager to be involved. ‘Doesn’t look that way, Ma’am, nothing looks disturbed. She’s upstairs. It’s…’ He paled slightly, an involuntary shake of the head. ‘It’s not nice up there.’

‘First shooting?’ She could see how shaken he was. Poor kid. He didn’t look more than 25.

Davis shook his head. ‘Second, Ma’am. But this one’s different, she’s just a little old lady. The last one was when I was stationed in Leeds. Young bloke, you know… it’s different.’

‘She’s not that old constable, remember your ageism training.’ She shot him a look, and he nodded his understanding.

Kinsella considered the house. The stonework looked weathered in the morning light. The pointing needed doing. Signs of damp in the corners where the roof met the wall. The thin front garden, all overgrown bushes and leggy plants. A giant foxglove stood tall and proud in the centre of some stinging nettles, its princess pink flowers moving gently in the breeze. Looks like someone hadn’t time or inclination to tend it properly for quite a while, she thought.

She was nodding as she took it all in. ‘Okay. Well, no one else goes in till SOCO have had a look. They’re on their way. Any witnesses?’

‘Don’t know, Ma’am. Neighbours aren’t talking to us,’ Abboud replied.

She swivelled her head slowly to look at the two constables. ‘What do you mean, the neighbours aren’t talking to you?’

Davis looked awkward. ‘We’ve knocked on doors Ma’am, but no one has answered yet.’

Kinsella made a show of looking incredulous. ‘Right, well, you two take those four,’ she pointed at the four constables now huddled in a group pretending not to be listening, ‘…and keep trying. Bang on doors, wake them up. Someone must have seen or heard something.’ Kinsella checked her watch. ‘Someone should be awake by now. Anyone with kids for starters.’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ they said in unison, both eager to be helpful, and they trotted off to collect their colleagues.

As she plucked a dead rose from an overgrown bush, she called after them, ‘Check the back doors as well.’

Kinsella watched Abboud and Davis walk purposefully over to the grand house next door. A double-fronted Georgian affair with bay windows and ivy creeping over the door frame. Future possibilities floated through her mind. Could I buy one on my own? Retire to a place like that maybe? I could using his life insurance. Also, I’ll get a fair bit for the house…

PC Abboud was hammering a door knocker as though trying to gain access to hell. The sharp, metallic crack echoing off houses and up the desolate street. No response.

The houses on the right were all large, stately buildings. The type with a drawing room or parlours. Larders, dining rooms and grand pianos. One was of grey stone with an impressive red slate roof. Next to it was a redbrick manor with impressive rose-filled front gardens surrounded by a small wrought iron fence. No solar panels on the roof for you, she thought, Can’t ruin the look of your beautiful homes to save the planet. Her house might be large, but they hadn’t been able to avoid the mandatory addition of solar. Somehow this village seemed to have been missed off a list when the Mandatory Solar Power Directive 2025 was put out. Was it because a Civil Servant lived here? Surely not.

The houses on the left were smaller and a mishmash of styles. Although all a reasonable size, they varied between the 1960s ‘let’s-stick-plastic-under-the-window-for-some-God-awful-reason’ bungalows to the 1990s middle-income three beds designed to look unique but with exact replicas in a thousand towns and villages across the country. These all had solar panels and the obligatory sonic composter attached to the side. All had cars on the driveway. All had their curtains closed. A cat sat cleaning its paw on a garden wall paying no heed to the commotion caused by the officers banging on doors. Its long pink tongue flicked between its outstretched paws. No dirt on him.

‘Omar, check the windows. See if you can see in anywhere,’ she called.

Abboud moved around from the red manor’s front door and looked through the first bay window, cupping his hands to his face. Across the road his colleagues were banging on doors and calling out, hoping to attract the attention of the occupants.

Would I be bored in a village? Living life at two miles an hour? Baking cakes for the school fete and going to coffee mornings? She shook her head. Dreams, that’s what they were. You don’t make Superintendent in a village. Kinsella was driven out of her ponderings by the arrival of the Scene of Crime Officers, their van bumping up against the verge as they parked. A heavyset woman in her mid-forties exited the driver’s side.

‘Sally, good to see you.’ Kinsella smiled and shook the SOCO lead’s hand.

Sally smiled back in return. ‘DI Kinsella, bit early isn’t it? You look tired, love.’

Kinsella cursed inwardly. She needed to do better at hiding it. ‘Yeah, I am a bit I suppose. Did they fill you in?’ Her voice was slightly beyond breezy, but Sally didn’t seem to notice.

‘Yeah, gunshot victim.’ She shook her head. ‘How old?’

‘Sixty-five.’ Kinsella informed her.

‘Sixty-five?’ Her surprise was evident in her tone. ‘Not likely to be gang-related then I take it?’

Kinsella laughed politely. ‘No signs of robbery apparently, but I was waiting for you before I went in. We don’t get many murders out here so I want to make sure we’re doing everything we can. Didn’t want to leave footprints across your scene.’

Sally nodded her thanks, her eyes moving over the outside of the building. ‘Who’s been in so far?’

Kinsella pointed at the paramedics. ‘The milkman sat there on the back of the ambulance, the two EMT and the two officers first on the scene. Oh, and probably the young lad filming us on his phone over there.’ She felt her anger rise and thrust her finger out to where the youth leaned against the bonnet of his car. ‘Oi!’ she yelled at him, ‘If one second of that film gets online, I’ll have you!’ He nearly dropped the phone in surprise before quickly putting it in his pocket, looking for all the world like a schoolboy told off by a teacher. Kinsella turned back to Sally, who was smirking at her. Kinsella smirked back. ‘Kids! Anyway, no one else as far as I know. She’s upstairs by all accounts.’

Sally Magnaught looked across at her partner ‘Get dressed Simon, we’re going to take a look.’ She looked back to Kinsella. ‘You coming?’

‘If you’ll take me?’ she smiled. Kinsella looked to where Abboud was shining his torch through a window, while Davis hammered at the door. ‘Omar, still no answer?’ she called.

His body tensing as though electricity passed through it. ‘No, Ma’am. Nor over the street or next door. Going to have a look in the garden, see what we can see.’

‘Okay, mind how you go. Don’t want to have to tell the super you’ve ruined your trousers now, do we?’

Davis cracked a smile while Abboud remained serious. ‘No, Ma’am.’

‘Keep it light,’ she said to Sally. ‘Village lady getting murdered in her bed is going to have everyone a little spooked. It’s not what you’d call your usual village crime, is it?’

Donning the white, papery protective suit of the Scene of Crime Officer, Kinsella followed Sally to the door of the cottage. Sally paused and studied it. ‘It’s not been forced,’ she said. ‘No splintered wood or anything.’ She shone a small torch on the door lock. ‘No scratch marks round the cylinder. Nothing unusual at any rate. First bet of the day: automatic lock pick. Photograph this please, Simon. The lock especially, then mark it up for removal and follow me.’ Simon nodded and pointed the camera at the door lock while Sally moved forward into the hall. ‘Nothing broken here, nothing turned over.’ She examined a delicate white occasional table near the door, running her finger over the wood and lifting a picture frame. ‘Dust would suggest nothing’s been moved.’

‘The milkman who found her, apparently he’s left a pile of vomit at the top of the stairs,’ Kinsella called to her as she stepped inside.

‘Uh-huh,’ Sally replied absently, her torch moving slowly and methodically over the floor and walls. Simon stepped past Kinsella to walk beside Sally, scanning the other side of the narrow hallway.

Kinsella followed, taking in the space. The hall, with flaking yellow paint and dusty pictures, had three doors leading off it. To her left what appeared to be a living room preserved from the 1990s. A stained wood dresser took up most of one side of the room. Old black and white photos of relations long-dead sat beside more recent pictures of an attractive woman in her twenties on stage wearing little clothing. Mottled pink wallpaper peeling at the corners and damp stains showing through the gaps gave the room a musty doll’s house feel. A once-yellow sofa long past its prime gradually fell apart in the middle of the room. Faded pink roses, blurred by sun and years, spread over its surface between the stuffing poking through moth-eaten holes.

An orangey brown wingback chair, complete with cigarette burns and water stains, sat in the corner, a new DAB radio beside it. Funny how something so familiar can seem so out of place, she thought. Digital tech in an analogue room.

She turned to the room on the right, glancing down the hall and past the stairs to the door that lead to the kitchen. The dining room held a scuffed circular table big enough for eight. Four padded chairs, gradually releasing their stuffing onto the burned and threadbare carpet. A bureau, which must have once been expensive but now was pretty much worthless, and glass cabinet filled with crystal decanters containing various shades of brown liquid were all else the room had to offer. She noted that all the crystalware was chipped and stained.

A large portrait hung on the far wall surrounded by the flaking lime green paint. Kinsella moved toward it, taking it in. A striking man and the same beautiful woman as in the living room, now on a festival stage and picked out in two spotlights. The raised arms of a crowd intruded along the bottom of the photo while the couple themselves held each other close, an eternal look of longing passing between them. Myris Grantham in all her pop star glory. This would have been before the rumoured drugs, the abuse, the failed marriages. This was her in her prime.

‘DI Kinsella,’ Sally’s massive voice boomed from upstairs.

‘Coming.’ She turned from the picture and walked back into the hall to ascend the stairs. She avoided the gift left by the milkman and stepped into the bedroom beside Sally. Simon already had his camera to his eye and was photographing the scene in minute detail.

Kinsella took her first look at Myris Grantham and sucked her breath in through her teeth. It was as though someone had painted a bright red fan around her while she slept. A near-perfect semi-circle encompassed her as though she were trying to grow wings.

‘This wasn’t murder,’ Sally said solemnly. ‘This was an execution.’ Kinsella exhaled as Sally walked slowly around the bed to point at the blood and skull fragments sprayed over the pillows. ‘By the looks of it, they lifted her and placed the gun against her forehead – see the splatter angle?’ Her thick finger pointed at the extent of the gore. ‘If she’d been killed lying in bed it wouldn’t be under her, it wouldn’t have fanned out like that. I’m guessing they came in here, one lifted her off the bed and the other shot her at point-blank range. There’s an indentation around the entry wound that suggests a silencer. Whoever did this had planned it. They wanted to make a scene, but not be heard.’

‘They?’ Kinsella was interested to hear the theory.

Sally nodded, staring at the naked corpse. ‘Yep, I’m guessing.’ She sniffed, ‘One to lift her and hold her, the other to shoot her. Though someone could do it alone, I suppose. She doesn’t look too heavy.’ She sniffed again. ‘Angle of the blood splatter suggests the shooter were standing on the right-hand side of the bed.’

‘Type of weapon?’

Sally shook her head. ‘Too early to tell.’ She moved over to a small hole in the wall and peered in. ‘Bullet is in there, but we’ll have to run ballistics on it. Any idea why she was killed?’

‘None yet. She was a singer in the eighties and nineties, famous and infamous by all accounts. Downstairs doesn’t seem to have been ransacked, or up here. Doesn’t seem like she had much worth taking anyway. Royalties would’ve dried up years ago.’ Kinsella ran her finger over the corpse’s ear. ‘Was she abused in any way?’

Sally bent down closer to the body. ‘Doesn’t look like it at first glance, but I’ll have to examine her when we’ve photographed everything. I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks.’ Kinsella walked out of the room and across the brown-carpeted landing. She opened the door to the room opposite and switched on the light. A spare bedroom. Double queen-size neatly made with too many scatter cushions. What was the point in those? All you did was put them on the floor before you got into bed. A couple of generic-looking pictures and a chest of drawers that, like the rest of the house, was gradually decaying to dust. And now she will too, Kinsella thought. Regretting the frivolity as soon as she thought it.

‘DI Kinsella! DI Kinsella!’ Davis’s voice, loud, alarmed.

‘Yeah?’ She moved to the top of the stairs and looked down at him.

‘No one is answering anywhere on the street.’ Davis looked thoroughly confused and concerned. Abboud stood rigid beside him, still and silent.

Kinsella screwed up her face. Here we go, she thought. ‘What? Anywhere? You’ve been to every house?’

‘Yes, Ma’am. Been in the gardens too. Can’t see anyone about. It’s like they’ve all gone out,’ Davis said.

‘Right, well…’ She drummed her fingers on the banister. ‘I’ll have to have a look then.’

Outside she stripped off the protective clothing and walked with Davis and Abboud to the big Georgian house next door. ‘You’ve been in the garden, right?’ she asked.

Abboud nodded once. ‘Yes, Ma’am. No one visible anywhere.’ He had yet to show any true emotion. Was he capable of doing so?

The four other officers came over to join them. ‘No one answering anywhere, Ma’am. It’s like they’re all hiding from us.’

Kinsella slammed her fist into the door three times. ‘Police, open up!’ she called.

No answer.

She took a couple of steps back and looked up at the windows. Not a curtain twitched. She moved on to the next house and planted her face against the pane, her hands cupping her face against the glare. It only took her a second to see it. ‘Omar,’ she said, quietly. He moved to her. ‘What do you see on the floor behind the door there?’ She moved aside to allow him to look in.

He mimicked her pose and scanned the room. ‘Looks like a dog, Ma’am,’ he said.

‘Yes, it does.’ She scratched her eyebrow. ‘So why isn’t it moving or barking?’

Abboud straightened up and looked at her for direction. ‘Don’t know, Ma’am.’

Kinsella whistled. The dog didn’t move. Abboud banged on the glass. The dog didn’t move.

‘I think it’s dead Ma’am’, he said. The other officers were crowding in to look.

‘Do any of you have a ram in your car?’

‘I do. PC Patrick, Ma’am,’ said the officer, jogging off to retrieve it.

‘Your plan, Ma’am?’ Abboud asked. Kinsella noted that his iris were almost black. So much so the definition was lost between them and the pupil. It made her feel momentarily cold.

Kinsella addressed the group, noting how energised they all seemed. ‘We have a murder victim in the house down there, a dead dog in this house and no one is answering their doors or moving about. My plan is to open this door and find out what killed the dog.’

‘Should we wait for a warrant?’ asked one of the constables.

‘You can, but I’m going in here to see what killed that dog.’ Kinsella was looking up at the top floor windows. ‘No sign of life, and what appears to be a dead dog led me to believe a crime has been or is currently being committed on these premises. Any objections?’ They shook their heads. ‘You, what’s your name?’

‘PC Bradley, Ma’am.’

‘Get on the radio Bradley. Inform HQ of the situation. I don’t want this coming back to bite me.’

‘No signal, Ma’am. We’ve not been able to raise anyone.’

‘Have you tried all over the village?’

‘We’ve walked up and down it, Ma’am.’ He looked sheepish. He’s just a kid too, Kinsella thought.

‘Right, well, we’ll breach here and you’ll have to drive somewhere with reception, where’d the kid get it? Greater Worburston? Once you get a signal radio this in from there.’

PC Patrick returned carrying the short cylindrical police-issue ram as Bradley sprinted off to his car. Kinsella stood aside as Patrick stepped forward and slammed the door lock with it. The white paint chipped and the door shook, but it held. Panting, a look of confused annoyance on his face, Patrick hit it again and the door flew inward a few inches before bouncing back.

Kinsella pointed to Abboud. ‘You first,’ she said. ‘Try not to touch anything.’ Abboud nodded and stepped toward the door. He had to force the body of the dog to gain access, leaving a smear of blood in its wake. Kinsella, PC Davis and a now sweating PC Patrick entered behind him.

They were in the living room of a two-up, two-down terrace, nicely presented with modern furniture and features. Davis bent down to the dog, lifting its head. ‘Jesus!’ He exclaimed, jumping back. ‘It’s been shot in the head!’

There was silence for a moment. All four stood staring at the dark hole where the dog’s eye had once been.

PC Patrick turned to Kinsella. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said quietly.

Kinsella roused herself. ‘Davis, go check upstairs, will you?’ Davis nodded while looking confused, and walked away upstairs. ‘Abboud, can you check the kitchen for me?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ He snapped his heels and marched through to the kitchen. Kinsella turned to look at the room. Nothing in there must have been older than a year. Clean lines and sharp corners, minimal furniture. It looked like an Ikea house. Like someone had lifted one of the display homes straight out of the shop and plonked it here. Not bad, but too much for her.

‘Fuck me!’ Davis’s voice wobbled from upstairs. ‘Jesus, Ma’am! Jesus! We’ve got another two up here.’

Kinsella braced herself. ‘What do you mean, another two what?’ she called up the stairs.

‘Fuck me!’ He was panicking now. She could hear it in his voice. ‘I can’t…’

‘Davis, what is it?’ The sound of retching was followed by PC Davis falling backwards at the top of the stairs. He cleared his throat, ‘There’s a man and woman here, in bed. They’ve… they’ve been shot. Same as before.’

Abboud had come back quickly from the kitchen at the sound of PC Davis’s raised voice. Now he stared at her, making Kinsella’s skin crawl beneath his dark, emotionless eyes. She moved first, with PC Patrick following close behind her. At the top of the stairs was a thin landing and small PVC-framed window. Davis leaned heavily against the wall, his face ashen and his breathing heavy.

She placed a hand on Davis’ shoulder. His face pale and sweaty, eyes searching her face for an answer she couldn’t give him. ‘Keep it together,’ she coaxed him. ‘Stay strong.’

Stepping past him into the bedroom, she readied herself for what she must see. The man and woman were lying next to each other, hands resting together. She had been shot once. A small red hole in between her eyes, her head on the pillow, the once white fabric now a deep crimson. He had two wounds, one in his neck and the other in his cheek. There was blood on the sheet, on the pillows, duvet and floor.

Kinsella studied the details of the scene. ‘He’d been awake. Someone fired too quickly and hit him with a nonfatal shot in the cheek so had to shoot again. He’d have bled out,’ she said. ‘She’d died in her sleep. She was killed first, and he’d woken to the noise, disturbing the attacker and managing to get up from the bed.’ A picture of the living room flashed in her mind and she knew the hardest part was still to come. ‘Patrick.’ She spoke quietly, a slight tremor to her voice.

‘Ma’am.’ He stood in the doorway behind her, unconsciously shaking his head.

‘Downstairs, by the door, there were kid’s shoes…’

‘Ma’am?’ Uncomprehending. He was going into shock; he’d not seen this before.

‘A child.’ Her voice hardening. ‘A child, Patrick. Where is the child?’

He shook his head again, bewildered. ‘Don’t know, Ma’am.’ She could see the distress etched into his face. Would it ever leave him?

Her eyes moved to the closed door of the room opposite. The paint was eggshell, but the door was so covered in stickers and drawings it could’ve been anything. She stepped quickly to it and grasped the knob. The small chalkboard attached to the door read “Jennifer” in cursive script. Davis had recovered enough to join her and was currently glancing nervously over her shoulder at the door. She could smell the breakfast mushroom and eggs on him.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door wide open. Jennifer looked to be asleep in her bed. Her tiny body curled around a large sparkly stuffed unicorn, head buried in the pillows and long hair hiding her face.

Davis let his breath out loudly. ‘Thank God! She’s okay.’

Kinsella took two steps forward and pulled gently at the toy with trembling fingers. Jennifer’s arm fell limply away. Kinsella pulled again, wrenching it free of the girl. A noise like a dying cat escaped Davis’ lips. She no longer had a face. It had been replaced by brain matter, splintered bone and a well of blood.

Patrick turned away, his hand over his mouth, Davis collapsed and Abboud ran up to join them. He crouched in front of Davis. ‘Phil, Phil, you okay?’ he asked. The clearly genuine concern was still hidden behind the monotone voice.

Davis just pointed. Abboud turned and saw the girl. Kinsella still stood in the open doorway, the stuffed unicorn dangling in her hand. Jennifer’s blood dripping from it onto the landing carpet. ‘Break open the other houses, Omar.’ She hadn’t turned to face him, but there were tears in her eyes. ‘Patrick?’ She turned to the young PC who stood looking unwell on the landing and said, ‘Drive to Greater Worburston after Bradley. Call everyone. And I mean everyone. Get them all here.’