Dead at First Sight

29 Tuesday 2 October

PC Holly Little, nicknamed the Pocket Rocket because of her small stature and cluttered kit of gadgets and protection that made her look like a walking machine, was partnered on B-Section with John Alldridge, a six-foot-four, eighteen-stone rugby forward, fondly known as the Gentle Giant. They were two hours into their shift, cruising around the city of Brighton and Hove, hunting as they called it. Windswept rain lashed down, which meant most of the city’s scrotes would be tucked away inside their lairs, staying dry. Good old PC Rain doing its stuff. Although it made for a boring morning for the two Response officers itching for some action.

All they’d had was a call to a domestic at the eastern end of the city in Kemp Town, which they had just left. Two gay women were slugging it out, but by the time they’d arrived at the scene there were already three other cars — with crews as bored as they were — in attendance.

‘Bloody Q,’ Alldridge said to his colleague, who was driving.

No police officer ever said the word ‘quiet’ intentionally. It was a jinx. They were heading along the seafront, passing Brighton Palace Pier to their left and the angry grey sea around it.

‘Back to base and grab a coffee?’ Holly suggested.

Just as Alldridge said, ‘Good plan,’ the driver of a beaten-up Astra heading past in the opposite direction suddenly drew Holly’s attention. ‘That looked like Leetham Greene!’ she said. ‘Little shitbag’s got a ban. I nicked him for driving while disqualified just a couple of months ago!’

Looking swiftly over his shoulder, John Alldridge clocked the registration and tapped it into the computer. Moments later it came up as registered to Leetham Greene, flagged as untaxed and uninsured. ‘Spin her round,’ he said, leaning forward and switching on the blues and twos.

A taxi coming in the opposite direction obligingly slowed and flashed its headlights. As Holly made a sharp U-turn and accelerated, the voice of a female controller came through the radio. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five?’

‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five,’ Alldridge answered.

Holly rapidly caught up a two-lane bottleneck of traffic at the roundabout in front of the pier. The rogue Astra was some cars in front. No one could move out of the way so she switched off the siren, leaving the blue lights flashing.

‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five, we’ve had a couple of calls about the same address, in Somerhill Avenue. A concerned daughter called us from Australia about her widowed mother. She’s not been able to contact her since the weekend, says she’s not responding to calls, texts, emails or Facebook. We’ve also had a report of a yapping dog at the same address, from a neighbour. Are you free to attend? Grade Two.’

John answered. ‘Yes, yes.’

He turned to his colleague. ‘See which way Greene, went?’ She shook her head.

‘Let him go, we’d better attend at Somerhill.’

Grade Two was not an emergency, which meant, to Holly’s disappointment, it wouldn’t be a blue-light run.

‘What do we know about the occupant?’ John asked the call handler.

‘Owner is a Mrs Driver, first name Susan. She lives alone with a Yorkshire terrier called Buster. Her neighbour says she’s concerned because she’s been round a few times, knocking on the door and getting no reply, other than the dog going nuts. The dog has barked off and on for three days, which is very unusual. She’s phoned Mrs Driver, also, and she’s not picking up.’

‘We’re on our way.’ John leaned forward to punch the address into the satnav.

‘It’s OK,’ his partner said. ‘I know the area.’ She made a left into Old Steine and another left into North Street up towards the Clock Tower, and then on, uphill, to the Seven Dials. She shot John a glance. ‘G5?’

‘Sounds likely.’

Holly wrinkled her nose. ‘Not my favourite.’

‘At least it’s not summer. Went to one a couple of years ago, a seafront flat where an old lady had put a Sainsbury’s bag over her head — and been there three months before anyone noticed she was missing. Called in by a neighbour who said there was a funny smell. I thought she was still alive when I went in the door — that she was moving — then I realized it was her body covered in maggots.’

‘Yech! I attended one, an old man, dead for a month, locked in a room with his cat. The cat had eaten half his face.’

‘Says it all about cats, doesn’t it?’

‘I’d like to think my cheeky cat, Madam Woo, wouldn’t eat me,’ she replied. ‘Probably best not to give them the chance.’

In front of them, a tiny Honda with what looked like two old ducks in it halted at the roundabout. And stayed halted. A taxi came round; a van; a car; a lorry; then a long, long gap before another car and then another interminable gap. The Honda did not move.

‘What are you waiting for? Go!’ Holly yelled through the screen. ‘For God’s sake!’

John chuckled at her impatience. Another car came round.

Holly hammered on the steering wheel in frustration. ‘GO!’

Finally the little car pulled forward, straight into the path of a BMW which blasted its horn, narrowly missing the back end of the Honda.

A couple of minutes later they drove slowly along Somerhill Avenue, looking at the house numbers.

‘Nice street,’ Holly Little said. ‘Lovely park opposite. I think I could live here.’

‘All you need is a rich old uncle to die and leave you a couple of million quid and you’d be sorted.’

‘Or win the Lottery,’ she replied.

‘I wouldn’t bank on that buying you anything much. I almost won it once.’

‘You did?’

‘Well, sort of — five matches. Same day that half of England had the same numbers. I ended up with a few hundred quid. Seven hundred and eighty-five, to be precise.’

‘Bummer.’

‘That wasn’t actually the word I used, but you’re on the right track.’ Then he pointed through the windscreen. ‘There!’

They pulled up outside a handsome, red-brick Victorian house in good condition. There was a short, neat front garden with a tarmac drive up to what was previously an integral garage that had, at some time, been converted to a room. As they got out they could hear yapping.

They hurried through the rain up to the shelter of the entrance porch. John rang the smart, in-period, bell push. They could both hear, clearly, the loud ring from the interior of the house. The yapping became frenzied.

He knelt down, opened the letter box and peered in. The floor was littered with newspapers and mail. He pressed his nose in and sniffed, instantly recoiling.

The one smell all police officers could instantly recognize. And loathed.

The two officers looked at each other. They’d been partnered up for long enough to know each other’s body language. And Holly Little was reading his loud and clear.

They walked down the side of the house, past the bins, and into a very well-kept urban garden that could do with the grass cutting. There were patio doors leading out from a conservatory at the rear. John rapped on the window. The dog came racing through, putting its paws up against the glass, near demented.

‘Think we should call for a dog unit?’ he asked.

‘You wuss!’

They went back round to the front. John hurried over to the car, removed the heavy battering ram and lugged it up to the imposing front door. ‘You happy about this?’ he asked her. ‘We’re not contravening any of the new bloody privacy laws? We don’t need to get a warrant?’

‘Would it make you feel better?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Let’s go round the back and do the patio doors — less expensive to repair.’

They hurried round. He swung the ram at the door, shattering it, then again, punching a big enough hole for them to crawl through. The dog snarled at them and then ran out into the garden. Laying the ram down, John called out, futilely, he reckoned, ‘Mrs Driver? Hello! This is the police! Hello!’

The dog came running back in. Holly Little tried to stroke it, but it shot past and ran up the stairs.

The smell was even stronger now they were inside the house. The distinctive, putrid, cloying smell of decaying human flesh and blood. There was no smell on earth more horrible to either officer.

‘Mrs Driver!’ Holly called out, with little expectation of a response. ‘Hello, this is the police!’

They split and dutifully checked out the ground-floor rooms. There were stains of dog wee on the white carpet, and several dried dog messes. Then they looked in the separate garage. It contained a modern Mini and a silver classic Mercedes 500SL, from the 1980s. No sign of anyone.

Then they ventured upstairs. The dog was frantically yapping and pawing at a closed door. John turned the handle and tried to open it, but it would barely budge. He pushed hard against it, opening it just a few inches, the stench even stronger now. Then he threw all of his considerable weight against it and it opened wide. He burst through, stumbling across the room, closely followed by Holly.

An instant later a pair of stockinged legs, high in the air, one foot wearing a velvet slipper, the other bare, struck him in the face.